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- Dec 14, 2016
That would give HR Giger nightmares. Beautiful.
🦊 Furry Furry Art Freak Show - From ungodly eyesores to nauseating masterpieces
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- Sep 29, 2018
You mean Red? I can sort of see why - the legs have that spider-like look to them, though it reminds me more of Siam from Silent Hill: Homecoming.
FIFY.
- Joined
- Oct 2, 2019
probably one of the few posts I make to this thread, instead of it being art it is actually a story. A very terrifying story if you are wondering, this did almost make me fucking vomit and cry. You cannot see the story without being logged in, so there is no point in archiving the link
www.furaffinity.net
The comments to this story is far worse
Deathwish by Mairari
Have been wanting to do something dark lately, here's the results of those efforts. Starring xkwebster as the gainer and blushysnoo ...
Deathwish
Webster had had dark fantasies for as long as he could remember.
He was a gainer. That part he was sure of. Sometimes he could suppress the darkest parts of it, but he couldn't deny all of it. Even when he wasn't actively gaining weight, he still fantasized about eating himself to enormous sizes. Getting too big to move, too big to do anything. Always eating, always growing. Fat was the only thing that consistently, always got him off.
He had never been skinny in his life, and growing up fat wasn't easy. He had been teased in locker rooms, chastised by adults for his weight, been unable to fit into school desks. Gaining weight was in his nature. Even if he wasn't a gainer, getting fat would be as easy for him as breathing. He never had to try. He always felt as though he was holding back the tide of sudden, violent weight gain. As though all he had to do was simply let go and the pounds would fly on dangerously fast. It excited and terrified him in equal measure. Despite the constant shame he'd always felt over his weight, his size turned him on immensely. It left Web with some deep, complicated emotions around his weight, and these had matured into intense, powerful, dark kinks.
Though he had occasionally found similar-minded people online, it was too intense to bring up with the occasional feeding hookups he managed in person. And he was mostly content with the usual routine: they fed him, he ate as much as he could handle, they got off together. Fine. Easy. Web went back to awkwardly maintaining his 300+ size in reality and dreaming about being an immobile blob on its last legs in fantasy.
His dark streak would occasionally come out in the heat of mutual pleasure, in between kisses and gropes, and Webster would beg them tell him about how they were going to fuck him up. Destroy his body. They tried sometimes, but it was invariably less hot than he'd imagined.
Web would go on occasional gainer benders, fueled by intense chats with distant feeders. These inevitably died down as the chats faded away, usually leaving him a little bit embarrassed about the new, permanent ten or fifteen pounds of fat he'd packed on. Things would stagnate, he'd get distracted by work or games, and the cycle would repeat itself. When he met Sam, he was already well over 350lb and was entirely unprepared for how things were going to change.
The wolfdog was 21 years old, a few years younger than Web. He was slim, on the shorter side and, most importantly, cute as hell. Despite his innocent exterior and playful demeanor, Sam was -really- good at talking about how fat he wanted Webster. At their first meetup, they bought large bags packed full of greasy burgers that Web greedily scarfed down. While the goat was face first in grease, Sam diligently rubbed the slowly bloating belly in front of him. The pup's teasing got a little bit more intense as the night drew on, and he got more comfortable with the fat goat. It was looking like a fun (if not particularly memorable) night, when the playful, fearless mutt tested the waters by rubbing Web's belly and ramping his teasing up a few notches.
"What a fucking pig you are, Web. You eat like you've got a death wish, fatass."
The words sent the goat's libido into overdrive. He moaned through a mouthful of fries and forced himself to eat faster, despite how full he was. Sam's teasing struck his heart: Web desperately wanted to eat like he had a death wish. He wanted to be that self-destructive, that far gone in his gluttony. He forced himself to binge toward that goal, licking the grease and salt off his paws and stuffing his face until every swallow brought on a pang of nausea.
Sam's bulge throbbed through his pink boxer-briefs at the outrageous show of gluttony he'd triggered; the idea that his words could turn this hot, fat gainer into a reckless glutton was intoxicating. "I guess you liked that."
The goat's cheeks turned red. "I.. yeah. I know it's weird, but when.. when you say stuff like.." Though the fantasies had been living in his head for years, he struggled to say the actual words.
Sam didn't have any hesitancy. "Stuff like, I want to watch you eat yourself to death? I want to help fill your heart with grease, to stretch your hide past its limit, to wreck you with fat?"
The goat's dick, already half-swallowed up by fat, moistened the fabric of his boxers with pre-cum. Sam's words sent hormones and adrenaline raging through his overstuffed body. Lust overtook his his mind. He reached down to jerk himself off, but Sam's paw grabbed his and placed it on his belly. The mutt then nestled his toned body against Webster's chubby, rolling side, wrapped his digits around Webster's dick, and started to slowly pump as he spoke.
The wolfdog was quite aware of how good he was with words, and with his cute face and round ass, he knew how to utilize his assets to get what he wanted out of weak-willed gainers. His voice was soft, but his tone was confident. "I'm going to make you the fattest version of yourself imaginable, goatpig. I'm going to push your body to its limits, and then I'm going to push it further. Nothing is going to stop me from helping you get enormous. We're going to bloat your stomach out until it's impossible to get you full. I'm going to control your diet and limit it to the worst foods in existence. We're going to fill your body up with grease and fat, corrupting you from the inside out. No matter how unhealthy you look on the outside, you're going to be even worse inside."
He kept pumping, and Webster rubbed his fat tits with one paw. He was so full and overstimulated, it wasn't going to take much to make him cum.
With no pushback from the goat, Sam just got darker and darker. "You're going to be a ticking time bomb, Web. A disaster waiting to happen. It doesn't matter how, but your life is going to end before you're thirty. With you weighing over a thousand pounds of lard. With your clogged heart soaked in lard. With your stomach bloated into a monstrous caricature of what it should be. With blood unnaturally thick with sugar and grease. With your hide stretched to its limit, barely able to contain the sheer amount of fat within. And that's all you're going to be. Bloated, swollen fat cells, and the broken machine to bloat them even more. Tell.."
Mind-sentence, Web's cock finally exploded. His hips thrust as he shot hot cum through Sam's paw, all over his belly and fatpad. The mutt nursed him through it, coaxing all of the cum he could out of the goat's heavy, overstimulated nuts. "Good boy. Cum for me, show me how much you want this. Good boy.."
When the orgasm finally died down, the goat was beyond spent. He lay there, whimpering, and Sam just watched him catch his breath as he idly played with his own hard cock. The grin on his face was toothy, wide, and undeniably evil. "Seems like I hit some buttons."
Webster's cheeks turned a little red, but Sam's penetration into his dark fantasies was as liberating as it was embarrassing. "You have no idea."
"I might have a clue. You came about a liter there, big guy."
"Oof.. thank you, that was so good. Give me a minute, I'll return the favor.."
"No, sit there and relax. Soak it in. Let's not pretend this is some normal tit-for-tat hookup. I'll let you know when and how you can return the favor, and it'll almost certainly involve food." Sam grinned. "Seem reasonable?"
Webster huffed loudly. "Y..yes. Thank you."
"You're welcome, pig."
---
As Sam predicted, it was not a regular hookup. They met up later that week, and then on the weekend. It wasn't long before they were kind of actually dating. They saw movies, went to buffets, hit up restaurants. Low impact activities where food was prevalent. They kept ending up back at Webster's place with a bag full of food and a whole lot of intense, brutally dark dirty talk. Sam never even really tried for traditional sex; it was all food and teasing and rubs and grinding himself into fat. Webster fucking loved it. He felt the walls he'd built up between his normal life, his gainer identity, and his darkest fantasies all begin to crumble. It was scary and freeing. He felt as though he could say anything to Sam. Not only would he not be judged, but everything would be reciprocated.
As those dark fantasies were indulged over and over, however, they grew in power. He could not cum unless he was imagining himself in the last minutes of his existence, heart strained, skin stretched, stomach churning, inordinately fat. He could not stop thinking about the choices needed to get there, the strain it would put on his body. Having Sam by his side, forcefeeding him when his body tried to reject calories. Eating things dangerously bad for him, risking his life just to pile more useless pounds of lard onto his body.
He wanted to get huge. Recklessly huge. He wanted to devote his whole life to it. He wanted to quit his job and see how fast he could ruin his body. To completely destroy his future. To finally and completely submit to the self-destruction that he'd been dreaming about since he was old enough to jack off. The more he met up with Sam, the more of himself he revealed, and the darker the mutt's teasing got, the more he couldn't stay away.
Some part of him wanted to stop. The old, uneasy alliance he'd had with his fantasies wasn't satisfying, but at least it allowed him to live something of a normal life. He could have friends, speak with family. What would he say to them otherwise? What would they think? He'd already been eating way more lately, and was actively putting on a ton of weight. Things were already starting to change.
He finally came to a decision after he and Sam had been seeing each other regularly for a few months. He couldn't bring himself to stop seeing the cute, evil mutt, and despite how much his worries and fears about the future plagued him, the intense hookups continued. Although he was nervous, Web decided he'd put the question to Sam and let him inevitably break things off.
It took a little while for Web to gather the courage, but he finally brought it up one night when they were both together. There was still a huffing in his voice as he spoke. "Hey, we gotta talk, Sam."
The mutt was still cleaning the cum out of his fur. "Sounds serious. What's on your mind?"
"Listen, this is fun, but.. you're really good at this. I've put on like twenty pounds so far."
Sam chuckled. "Well, thanks. You're really good at getting fat."
Webster's cheeks reddened. "I know. That's kind of part of it. I'm not just turned on by getting fatter, but I also gain weight really easy. It's just in my nature. Kind of a dangerous combo. I've never tried to go full-speed gaining, but I know the fat's gonna pile on fast. It scares me, but I'm also really into it. And doing it with you just makes me want it more. You know what I'm saying?"
Sam nodded. "I get it. But I don't have to push all the way, Web. I can slow down if you feel like you're getting too big. You're still gonna be hot."
"No, I.." The goat closed his eyes. "I don't wanna stop. That's what I'm trying to say. The thought of you wrecking me with food is all I can think about, Sam. And I know it'll happen if I let it. So, I want you to do it to me."
"Do what?"
"I want you to feed me to death, Sam. I want you to do this to me. I can't stop thinking about it. You're so hot, and you're so good at bringing out the darkest, hottest parts of my fantasies. You bring out the worst in me. I know you're into it too. The idea of me getting that big.. it turns you on, right?"
Sam was quiet for a moment. "I can't deny it does, but.."
"Just let me finish. I want it really bad, Sam. I know it's bad for me. I know I shouldn't. But I've always been fat, and I was bullied in school for my weight. I'm fucked up because of it. I know that. But that doesn't change how badly I want to eat myself to death. Nothing else turns me on like that thought. It's always been in the back of my mind, but ever since I met you, all I can think about is sacrificing everything to be a wheezing heart attack waiting to happen. A mountain of useless fat. I want to be pitied. A desperate sack of lard that's so addicted to food, they can't do anything but eat anymore. When you're around, that's all I want."
His dick was hard again just talking about it. "I want my body to fall apart as you stuff food into me. I wanna be the fattest thing you've ever seen. I want to wonder if my heart is going to give out first, or my stretched-out skin is going to tear from being too fat. And I want it to happen as FAST as possible. I want to eat myself to death. And the only thing standing thing between me and that future right now is you."
Sam looked over at Webster's fat body, almost as turned on by hearing Webster's desperate confession. "Me?"
"I can't do it alone. Say no, and we'll stop seeing each other, and we can both go back to living normal lives. I'd be okay with that, Sam. Really. A big part of me is counting on you turning me down." He took a deep breath. "Or, we can do this. I don't know how long it'll take, but I think we can do it in a few years tops. Two years left to live.. fuck, just thinking about it. But it'll take a lot of effort from both of us. More toward the end, of course. But I don't care about anything about getting fatter. Whatever needs to be done. Whatever you want to feed me. How far you want to push me. Just constant, rapid weight gain until my body can't take it anymore. But it's a commitment from you. I know."
Sam bit his lip. "It is a commitment. But if we do this, I'm gonna make it out the other end unscathed, Webster. You're not."
"I know. You don't understand how bad I want it. Sure, if I was older, maybe my hormones would settle down and I'd get over it, but I don't want that, Sam. I don't want to get older. I don't want to settle down. I don't want to be reasonable, I don't want love, I don't want anything but to get huge."
"You don't want love? That doesn't sound.. healthy. Are you sure this is okay? I feel like you can't be in your right mind to actually want this."
"None of this is healthy, Sam. And I know it's fucked up, that's what I'm saying. But NOTHING fucking turns me on this much. Nothing. I don't want to be normal. I don't want to live a long, happy life. I want my fat-soaked life to be cut short fast and hard by grease and lard. I want your attention, but I don't want you to love me. I want to be your project. Your gainer. A trashbag full of lard that you can tease, fuck, and stuff until it inevitably explodes. I want you to date others. Don't get attached to me. Move on fast. Just be there with food and make sure I never stop getting fatter."
The mutt looked away. "Fuck, Webster. If you want me to just straight up say no, I'm not going to. Maybe I need to think about it a little, but.. you're right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Knowing you never want any limits, that nothing is ever going to stop you from getting fatter.. it's incredibly hot. And how I'm just going to walk away from it, leaving your 1000+ body behind me while I look for more superchubs to fatten up.."
He leaned over and rubbed Webster's fat belly. "I think I might be in. I can't say I know exactly what I'm signing up for, but I think I'm ready to.. to feed you to death, lardass."
Webster bit his lip. "Really?" He was gleeful and terrified watching his hope of a normal life dissipate. "You think so?"
"I think so. This is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me in my life. My mind is racing. Yeah, I think I do want to do it." He huffed. "And we should start now. I have some butter in the fridge."
The goat's eyes widened. "Butter?"
"Solid, saturated fat. Yeah, that's a good start. We're going to have to go cheap and fattening to do this to you. It's gonna take a lot of calories. But I wanna see the limits of what your body can take. Let's start with butter. You need to get used to eating it sooner, rather than later. It's only gonna get worse from here."
"Are you.. You're sure you're not going to change your mind?"
"I need to think about it a little more, but I don't think so. If you're willing to fatten yourself as ruthlessly as you claim, I think I'm in. And when I commit, Webster, I commit for real. You don't need to worry about me; just how long that body of yours is gonna last."
The goat bit back a moan. "So.. Butter?"
The lean pup hopped up. "Butter."
---
Webster was right in that the weight came on quickly. Sam was more math-oriented than the goat, and he took an active role in planning his daily calorie intake. They began meeting up daily, though no longer for movies or pleasant walks. They made changes to the Web's diet that would terrify any normal person. While the goat had a broad palate and enjoyed a wide variety of foods, they eliminated everything that wasn't calorie-dense and fattening from his diet. If a vegetable wasn't deep-fried and covered in salt, he wasn't allowed to have it. He was limited to fast food for nearly every meal, and Sam would reinforce this by randomly-timed extra deliveries of fast food whenever he could manage.
Water was eliminated in most cases as well. Heavy cream replaced most of the liquid he drank with the remainder being high-caffeine, high-sugar soda. He bought thick gainer shakes and Sam maintained a slowly-increasing quota for how many he had to consume daily. Once a week, he was allotted a ‘cheat meal' of something not-particularly high calorie, like sushi. The remaining days were just a nonstop barrage of burgers, chicken nuggets, and bacon ranch cheese fries. What nutritionists might call poison.
They settled on the very ambitious goal of five pounds a week. That was more than 20 pounds a month, and 260 pounds a year. It was March, and if Web managed to hit that goal every week, he'd be up 180 pounds, to over 580 by the end of the year. He fantasized about this number: 580 pounds seemed like an incredible amount of weight. The goat knew he'd be struggling to keep up with his size and his job at that size, especially as his health and mobility waned. And if he kept it up another year, he'd be 840 by the end of that one. A third year? Over 1100 pounds.
Even 840 was enough to make him wonder if he'd reach it. 1100 seemed like a gamble. Any more than was surely certain doom. Web would MAYBE last three years, then. He was 23 now, and he wouldn't make it to 27 years old. He'd be lucky to see his 26th birthday. And Sam, turning 21 soon, would easily enjoy another happy, healthy 50 years. Webster could, too, if he wasn't so fucked up.
But he was.
To reach that goal, he needed to eat a minimum of 2500 calories a day more than he burned. And that was assuming he perfectly digested every calorie. They calculated his base metabolic rate around 3500 calories a day, which means he needed to eat a bare minimum of 6000 calories a day, an amount that would drift upwards with every pound gained and every slow, heavy step taken. He eliminated as much physical activity as possible. He wore a watch to track his steps and try to limit the number to under 500 on the days he worked, and under 100 on his days off. It monitored his heart rate and blood pressure as well, and the data was uploaded for future comparisons.
From the very start, every decision that Webster made revolved around him making the worst possible choice. How could he use this to get himself even fatter? Become more sedentary? His calorie goals rolled around in his head as he imagined himself as these sizes. The idea that he was actively on the road to his own imminent self-destruction was the hottest thing he could dream. Sam got him off talking about all of the things that he'd never get to experience. The things he'd be too fat to do. Too unhealthy to do. That would happen after his heart had given out.
He had committed to gaining five pounds every week. It was foolish to think that his body would survive to 1400 or 1500 pounds. These truths added up to the simple fact that he had an expiration date. And it was not far off.
Despite that, it was not easy to hit 5lb/week regularly. His body WAS very good at storing fat, and he WAS eating nearly 7000 calories a day. He was eating until he was painfully full with every meal; eating until he wanted to throw up. Sam was grinding up against his bloated belly as he forced gainer shakes down Web's throat until he could barely breathe. Not letting him get off without consuming entire sticks of butter. Binge eating when he was alone and being forcefed into a painful, whimpering wreck when the wolfdog was there. Still, there was some biological imperative for self-preservation left within his body and some calories passed through him undigested. He gained an average of 3.0 pounds a week at first, which brought him to 407 after two months.
A gain of 27 pounds in two months was impressive, but it was not the 45lb they'd hoped for. The changes to his diet left Webster feeling terrible. As effective as it was to packing on lard, all of the non-nutritious garbage he'd been stuffing down for weeks left him constantly belching, bloated, and with indigestion and poor sleep. But the new pounds of unhealthy goatfat he saw in the mirror were worth it and the climbing numbers got him off. New stretch marks on his bronze-tinted love handles and arms highlighted his progress; the thickening of his creamy white inner-thigh rolls to an increasingly ungainly, awkward size. Just these two months had already left an indelible mark on his body.
Web's persistence had paid off in more than one way. His appetite and capacity for food was only growing with each gigantic meal. He found himself able to handle larger and larger quantities of fast food without feeling ill. He even began to crave it, and his moderately-portioned cheat meals left him feeling incredibly unsatisfied. He grew used to the nausea and stomachaches and Sam took advantage of this, encouraging him to eat ever-more ridiculous amounts of junk food in a single sitting. The goat was eating himself so full he could barely breathe, until he was a useless, helpless food balloon. He was altering his body into something much less healthy, with terrible habits and cravings it couldn't ignored. His addiction to food grew more serious with every greasy mouthful.
He hit the five pound goal for the first time in the second week of May. 412 pounds. It was still a struggle to force that much food into his body, but at least he proved it could be done. They celebrated the milestone by going out to eat at an upscale restaurant together, a rare treat since they were generally optimizing calories per dollar. A sweaty, out of shape Web ordered plate after plate of food as a slim, well-dressed, flirty Sam did most of the talking. He waddled out feeling absolutely huge.
At the beginning of June, he was 420 even. The summer heat was a lot of him to handle and he rarely went outside. He ordered food delivery to his door. His cheat meal was eliminated, his calorie count was updated upward. Sam used Web's credit card to buy groceries and would sometimes surprise the goat with fast food snacks. He had placed a lot of trust in the mutt, but Web knew that if he was really serious about immobilizing himself under a thousand pounds of lard, he was going to end up dependent on Sam. If he was a liar or a thief, it'd be better that he took money and ran now, instead of when he was too far gone to do anything about it.
Sam had access to Web's savings, though he contributed his own funds to the endeavour as well. His savings should be enough. They could always dip into his meager retirement fund if it wasn't, as he wouldn't be using it. But if was going to chicken out from this endeavour, time was running out.
Web's diet only got worse the bigger he got. As he closed in on 500 in October, he found his breath was constantly short. He had put on almost a hundred pounds of fat in seven months. The toll that both the extra fat and his terrible diet had taken on his body was immediately obvious. There were new stretch marks all on his sides and his widening fat ass. His fur had grown greasy and matted, there were bags under his eyes. His body did not have time to adapt to the new weight it was forced to carry, and even small amounts of activity exhausted him and strained his flabby muscles. Showering was becoming more and more difficult, and though they still lived apart, he would occasionally ask for Sam's help in scrubbing him down really well.
His breathing was the real issue. He had resisted getting both a CPAP and an asthma nebulizer to help him breathe easier. Webster wanted to feel the weight of his choices at all times, feel his body struggling to keep up with his appetite. Feel the strain that all that lard was putting his body under. But choking in his sleep every night was a difficult pill to swallow, especially when it left him too tired to function. And while he liked the idea of constantly needing to chug down sugary, caffeine-heavy energy drinks just to stay conscious, it was just getting to the point where even massive doses of caffeine weren't cutting it. The choice was between seeing a doctor and using illicit, dangerous, addictive stimulants to get through the day. An actual close choice, but Sam convinced him to get a consult.
The doctor didn't have any idea how quickly he gained, but seeing a 23 year old weighing a quarter of a ton was some cause for alarm. They ordered blood work and vitals, both of which were just as bad as they might have feared. His resting heart rate was 118, his blood pressure was 142/94, his cholesterol was nearly 300mg/dL. His baseline oxygen saturation was low at 92%, his A1C was 6.3%. All of these were worrying and the doctor let him know it. Web left the room with prescriptions for medicines to reduce his blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar, as well as for the CPAP and asthma inhaler.
They spoke and decided to ignore the blood pressure and cholesterol meds: these would only help on a timeframe longer than he was going to live for. They picked up the blood sugar meds, as preventing himself from going into diabetic shock seemed useful. Same for the CPAP and nebulizer.
As they were sitting in the wolfdog's car outside the pharmacy, he looked over at the bloated, fat, unhealthy goat. Webster's belly filled up his lap, his cheeks were puffed and red, and every roll wobbled and shook with each breath. He was sweating hard, even in early September, and even with the AC blasting.
His feeder instincts were temporarily overwhelmed by a rare moment of empathy. "I just have to stop and ask you, Web." The mutt hesitated. "Your body's really taking a hit. You're sure you want to keep going, right?"
"Yeah, just -huff- give me a second to catch my breath. I'll come in with you."
"No, I mean.. you're sure you want to keep getting fatter? Continuing on this path. We both knew what we were getting into, but.."
Webster very suddenly got quiet. "Are you having second thoughts?" Sam opened his mouth, but the goat interrupted him. "Be completely honest."
The mutt sighed. "I don't know, Webster. Honestly? No. I'm not having second thoughts. It's more like the idea that I should be having them. That I should care about how badly you're doing, how this diet is destroying you. That I should.. I don't know. Be empathetic. Try to stop you. At least not encourage this."
He continued. "But I don't want to, you know? It's just really fucking hot. I kind of want you to confess to me that YOU want to stop, because I think that would take the guilt off my shoulders. I'm helping you kill yourself with food. And I should care, but.. we're not romantic. We talk about numbers and charts, weigh you, make plans together. Get off together. I don't consider you my boyfriend, you know? When I see some massive, huge fatass on the internet talking about how they're still gaining weight and getting fatter, do I plead with them to stop? No. I want them to keep going. I want to see how much fat they can take. I want them to get as huge as humanly possible for my benefit. I feel that way with you.
"It should be different in person. I mean, I know you. I know your personality. I should care more. I guess I'm just asking you if you want an out. To slow down or stop. To get a little healthier. Anything, really. Because the shrinking part of me that cares about my soul wants you to stop. And the part of me that wants to nut on a thousand pounds of barely-living goat wants you to keep going. And going to pick up these medicines, after hearing the details about how bad your health really is, seems like a good time to ask."
The goat closed his eyes for a long time, so long that Sam thought he might have fallen asleep. But he finally spoke in a forced calm voice. "I guess we're in the same boat. Does some part of me want you to bail? Did some part of me want you to empty my savings account and run for the hills, leaving me broke but alive? Yeah. I can't think about what I'm doing to myself too hard, Sam. Too many emotions. Too much of my brain begs me to stop. I just want to focus on eating and getting fatter. No thinking, no feeling, no nothing. Just food and mindless pleasure. All I care about is intense my orgasms are when I think about how bad off I'm getting. That's all I want to deal with.
"So no. I can't tell you I want to stop. I'm not going to be the one that stops this train. Your soul, my life are both going to be causalities of my appetite. I want to keep going. I want to destroy my body, bury every part of me under so much fat I can never escape. If I never met you, would I be doing this to myself? No, probably not. But we did meet. And we unlocked these desires in each other, things that would have probably always stayed under the surface otherwise. Things that no rational person would do to themselves. I don't want to stop."
Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay, Web. Then let me get you the drugs we need to make you even bigger."
---
Web did not visit his family for the holidays that year, and they had no idea that he'd gained so much weight. The goat didn't want to deal with it. They complained and tried to video call him, but he made excuses. He only had to hold them off long enough, after all. Sam did spend a few days with his parents, who nudged him about finding a partner. The mutt laughed it off, truthfully explained he hadn't had many serious dates lately, and entirely omitted any mention of Webster.
The goat was averaging about 4.9 lb/wk by the end of the year, and with a good final push just hit 560 by New Years. He'd gained a total of 180 pounds since March and he was feeling every unhealthy, wobbling pound of lard. His pounding heart hemorrhaged calories just to keep his body alive, but he'd stretched and bloated out his stomach to hold way more food than it could ever use. When he really pushed himself hard, his stomach would expand to a ridiculous size and his soft, wobbling, stretch-marked belly would blimp outward into a firm sphere of lard. Fat pressed tight against his thin, stretch-marked skin by the insane amount of food he could fit inside of him. The fact that he could go from so soft, heavy, and wobbly to taut, full and round was always and forever taken advantage of by Sam, who very much enjoyed pushing his body to the limit.
It was really the incredible changes to Web's body that invigorated Sam, and how hungry the goat was for even more. The new rolls of fat, the stretching of his skin, his exponential appetite, even his heavy breathing. He used the goat's body to get himself off whenever they were together, pressing his dick between two sweaty rolls of fat as he stuffed his wheezing face full of junk food. Grinding up against his bloated, taut gut and listening to him force out tiny little desperate belches. It was intoxicating to push him to his limit without needing to worry about how Web would feel about it. The goat was there to get fatter by any means necessary.
But after winter break, there was no way around it: Webster could simply not keep working. He was just too fat, too unable to do the basic tasks his job required of him. They'd spoken to him too many times over the past few months, co-workers trying to figure out what was going on with his gain, managers offering therapy or counseling, taking a page from the drug-addiction corporate handbook and trying to develop a plan to get him back on his feet. But they were exasperated with his endless gain and dwindling performance, and they eventually offered him a small bonus to finally just quit. He accepted.
Without a job, he had nothing to fill his day but sitting on his growing butt and eating. It suited him well. He'd given up on any hobbies he used to have when he started this endeavour and felt no need to fill his remaining days with learning a new skill or game. He watched mindless television and played easy video games, slept whenever he felt tired, and stuffed his face with animal lard, cheeseburgers, gainer shake, and candy.
Web hit 600 pounds jut before the first anniversary of this gaining experiment, and was only about 30 pounds behind schedule. Sam took a few days off of work, and together they celebrated in five consecutive days of pure, unabashed gluttony. Webster moved as little as humanly possible and only left bed to use the bathroom. He was averaging about 8000 calories a day before this, and did not go under 10,000 a single day that Sam was there. Though each meal involved the mutt using Web's thick, heavy, wobbling rolls to cum, the goat was often left on the edge. Actually getting off left his heart racing as it struggled to force saturated-fat soaked blood through cholesterol-slick veins and arteries.
In fact, in a single year, he'd had to completely revamp his entire process of getting himself to cum. He could still reach, but it wasn't easy and it was exhausting. His fatpad had entirely swallowed up his dick when he was soft, and his stretched balls were always competing for space with his sagging, awkwardly lard-swollen thigh rolls. His fatpad was thirty pounds of blubbery, sweaty, stretch-marked lard that made pawing his dick off much harder. Even getting hard wasn't as easy as it used to be, as blood needed to be diverted through narrowing vessels to his buried dick. Though he was as horny as ever thinking about what he'd done to himself (moreso now that his avenue of release was impeded), he was able to act on the urge less often.
No part of him was left unimpaired by the insane weight gain. Everything was more difficult. Everything was tiring. Even without Sam's constant brutal, horny teasing in his ear, Web's whole life was a constant reminder of how incredibly unhealthy his ridiculously fast weight gain had been. Even his house was filled with things that he could not do, things he was too fat for. There was not an article of clothing in his closet that he could fit into. He was too wide for his recliner. His couch had cracked. Trash was piled by the door. Everything was a mess.
The corruption of his body and living space was matched by the corruption of his mind. Nothing could get him off except the thought of his own impending demise. It was the only thing he thought about when he was horny. It was the only thing that Sam teased him with. There was no respite, no kinky side-quests, no exploration. His goal was to eat himself to death, and it was reinforced with every mouthful of greasy food, every exhilaratingly cruel word the mutt spoke to him. When it came to his dick, there was nothing but eating himself to death.
"God, you're such a fucking disaster, you know that, goatblob? Every one of those sagging, fat rolls is a testament to how fucked up you are. Every wheeze, every palpitation, every pound. You're killing yourself one burger at a time. What is it like to look at the future and know that you're not going to see 30? 28? That you're destroying every organ in that fat-soaked blubbery body of yours? Wrecking your future with every bite? And it's all just because something broke inside of you and now it's the only thing that can get you off?"
Sam pumped Web's buried little dick gently with two digits as he teased his growing gainer. His thighs straddled out of the goat's huge thighs as he lay there, the mutt's big cock sliding in between some combination of his underbelly, thigh rolls, and fat pad. Web moaned for him to continue.
"Watching trailers for movies that you are probably never going to see? Wondering if you're gonna finally burst before that game you want comes out? Or keel over from a coronary before next spring? This could easily be the last March you ever see, lardass. If you keep gaining like this, you'll be 850, 875 by your next anniversary? That's not a weight that many people can survive at. At least not for very long, and definitely not with how badly you've been trashing your body. And you still want to keep gaining like this, don't you, lardass?"
"Fuck.. yes.." Every word was accompanied by a painful wheeze.
"You're never going to get married. Never going to feel true love, never going to have a family. All you have left is fat, you huge fuck. Mountains of wobbling rolls. Unhealthy, stretch-marked love handles. A giant, sweaty fat ass you can barely keep clean. Two sagging tits. You're giving up everything just for more fucking fat. To be horrifyingly, disgustingly fat. No one is going to understand how this happened to you when they see your half-ton corpse laying there, face smothered in grease and half a sandwich in your bloated paw. Knowing you were barely 350 just a couple years ago."
"That's what you're fucking doing to yourself. Killing yourself with food before you've got a chance to achieve anything. Throwing away your life because your fucked-up brain conflates food with pleasure. And you still want to keep going, don't you?"
Sam was still pumping, and he knew very well how to edge the goat. "Yes.. I'm so fucked up.. I'm wrecking myself.."
"Tell me and I'll let you cum."
"I'm.." He wheezed and grunted. His stomach gurgled as it struggled to digest. His fat rolls smacked against each other. "I'm eating myself to death." He belched loudly. "And I don't want to stop."
His confession made the wolfdog cum buckets, shooting seed all on the underside of Web's belly. It dripped down into the deep, sweaty crevices of the goat's crotch. This triggered the goat's own buried dick to spurt useless, unhealthy cum into Sam's paw. Soon, the only thing that the goat would be able to breed would be his own fatpad. As he laid there, his grease-soaked heart pounding in his fat chest, struggling to catch his breath, receding dick oozing the last few drops of jizz onto his fat, he let his mind go blank with bliss. The urge to reflect and think critically about his choices was strongest in his post-coital moments, but the empty-headed euphoria of calories headed this off.
He was going to get huge, no matter what his brain or his heart said.
---
Webster continued to gain at a dangerous pace, averaging around 5.2lb/wk in the months after that first anniversary. By the end of April, he was already at 650. Through May, he re-devoted himself to truly monumental amounts of consumption, and averaged over 10,000 calories a day and 6.1 pounds a week. He was 675 by the end of that month, and closing in on 700 at the start of the month after. He did not care about anything except how much food his stomach could hold and how much lard he could pack on his desperately struggling body.
Though Sam retained his old apartment, he essentially moved in with his gainer. The goat simply could not function without help. Help getting out of bed, help washing himself, help moving his body through doorways, help getting food, help reaching for oxygen. His muscles could not keep up with the amount of fat on his body; he was crushing himself underneath the weight of his own indulgence. Every inch of his body was ripe with stretch marks, some fading slight, some angrily red. His fur was thinning around the curviest parts of his fat belly, where his skin could simply not keep up with the lard underneath it. And where his fur was thick, it was dull, flat, and greasy.
His ass had billowed out behind him spectacularly, and were now no less than two king-sized, cellulite-swollen, wobbling bags of fat that took up a sofa cushion each. His thighs had spread spectacularly wide, and the little thigh-rolls that bulged out against his fat-pad were now two very large, somewhat asymmetrical bags of lard. His calves were bloated and weak, his feetpaws had doubled in width and constantly ached. All of him constantly ached. All of him was constantly exhausted.
His numbers kept getting worse. Sam began to take some online classes in basic medical knowledge just to make things easier. He learned all about the organs, and how they were destroyed by monumental obesity. He studied arrthymias, heart disease, heart attack, heart failure, diabetes, kidney disease, fatty liver, blood clots. Anything that might strike Webster down. Though the goat was determined to eat himself to death, if there was something quick and preventable he could do in order to wring another hundred or hundred fifty pounds out of his gainer's failing body, he would.
Eventually, Sam managed to procure a counterfeit certification and proof that he was Webster's home care nurse. He learned to do blood draws and send them to labs. He purchased a defibrillator, an IV, and breathing equipment from a medical supplier. He was even able to get some prescription medication and taught himself how to administer via syringe or IV. YouTube was a great help. It wasn't very long before the confident mutt felt comfortable attempting to handle Web's medical requirements.
Besides, the only actual consequence to a medical error would be Sam not getting to see how truly enormous Webster could get.
Even as he continued to grow and become reliant on his feeder, Webster took comfort in watching Sam flirt and go on dates with much smaller gainers that knew nothing about the goat. Webster was Sam's and Sam's alone. But it helped him to know that Sam would not suffer over the goat's inevitable demise. He would get as much use out of him as possible, and then simply move on to the next one. Enough orgasms in his rolls, food stuffed down his face, enough belly wobbles, enough teasing. That's all he wanted to be used for, and knowing Sam was going to simply move on to the next gainer pleased him.
While they didn't know about him, he knew a little about them. Web knew when Sam was going on dates, and showed him pictures of the much smaller gainers he was going out with. Gainers that were his size when they started, or even a little more. Gainers with big fantasies that were enamored when Sam took them back to his barren apartment and ruthlessly fed them. These gainers had no idea what the cute, young, flirty guy they were meeting with was an unfeeling, no-limits feeder with first-hand experience stuffing someone to the edge.
Web was practice for the young wolfdog. Sam would live another fifty years; he wouldn't last twelve months. It got him hard to wonder if he would be the only one Sam found that was actually willing to go this far. If he would feed anyone else into immobility, or to death. Would they be into it? Would he simply use the skills he'd perfected on Web to coerce and manipulate gainers into getting too fat for their own good?
He imagined Sam at 40 or 50 years old, finding veritable clones of Web in their twenties. Corrupting them, teasing them, bringing out the worst in them. Covincing them that they WANTED this for themselves as well. How many pounds would Sam put on fat fucks? How many would he make housebound? How many would he permanently corrupt with bad-ending gainer kinks? How many would he actually bad end?
And he was the first. The lost cause. The origin story to future serial-fattener Sam. He begged the mutt to talk about other gainers when he buried his digits in his sweaty, slimy fatpad and got him off. He wanted to hear about how small they were. How big Sam wanted to get them. How he'd get them even fatter than Webster was.
---
The medical knowledge came in handy when Webster finally had his first heart attack at age 24. It was the beginning of October and he was weighing in at a very heavy 788 pounds. He'd finished 12,000 calories the day before and was feeling like absolute fucking shit. Even more than usual. Every breath was a struggle, and though he had the classic symptoms of pressure on his chest and a numb right arm, it did not occur to him that he was actually having one at first.
"What?!" Webster couldn't catch his breath and could feel his heart pounding in his ears. "Are you sure?"
"I sure think so. You've got all the symptoms. I see decreased heart sounds on the left side of the heart, but the ST segment doesn't seem to be elevated, so I think it's not completely blocked. It still looks like a heart attack. I mean, your blood pressure is still over 170/130 and your O2 sats are barely at 90. We must have caught it early, though."
Sam talked about him so clinically that it made him horny, despite the pain surging through his chest. "Is that it? Did I actually fucking eat myself to death?" He wheezed loudly and sucked on an oxygen mask to catch his breath. "I'm not even 800 yet!"
"No, not yet. You've still got a ways to go. Aspirin first, and then I think.. uhh.. like, 200mg of an ACE inhibitor? I have Enalapril somewhere. Let me check my notes. It should help bust up the clot."
The goat lay there in bed, wheezing and trying to cope with the pressure in his chest as Sam casually read through a composition notebook. "Ah, found it! Oh man, it was 20mg, not 200. Glad I checked that, or you'd really be dead."
He said it so fucking casually. His fears overwhelmed him, and for the first time, Web freaked out hard. The pain was truly a lot. He heard himself begging for his life. "You're.. you're sure I shouldn't go to the hospital, right?"
The mutt's grin turned wide and toothy. "NOW who's thinking about self-preservation! No, you're not going to the hospital. You're either going to get through this, or you're not. Isn't that what you want?"
"I.. It hurts so much and I.."
The mutt grabbed at Webster's crotch and started tugging at his lard-crushed balls and buried dick. "You're going to make it through, or you're not, you hog. You can't back out now. All you can do is accept the consequences of every fattening fucking thing you've done over the last year."
As always, the mutt's words made him. All the goat could do was moan through the pain. "Oh fuck.. Yes.. You're so right."
"I know I'm right. And I'm not going to administer this shit either until you cum. You deserve to feel the first orgasm of your short, fat life that happens during a heart attack. Familiarize yourself with what it feels like to cum as your heart is pounding to a halt. As your body begins to fail. As your life fades away. You'll make it through this time - probably - but who knows about next time?"
"You.. huff.. think I'll survive?"
"80% odds lardass. And it goes down every minute I don't fill you up with drugs. So think your horniest thoughts and focus on that pain in your chest as I pump this useless, buried dick of yours. Think about the permanent damage this is causing to your body, even if you get through it. Think about the fact that you've gained 400 pounds in a year and a half. Think about how helpless you've become. How you're out of a job and will never work again. How there's a 20% chance you won't live to see next week, that you'll be on some coroner's slab. Their disgusted faces as they dig through mountains of unhealthy, yellow fat tissue to reach your oversized, wrecked heart, scarred liver, and wrecked lungs. That could be your body next week, lardass.
"Yeah, you're getting hard now, aren't you? God, you're so fucked up, Webster. What fucking happened in that brain of yours to make you want this so bad, huh? Look at what a wreck you are. You've probably broken records with how fast you've gained. How unhealthy every pound has been. With the damage you've done to your body so quickly. It's just a matter of time and weight now. Are you gonna hit 1000 pounds? Your birthday is in what, two weeks? Are you even going to see 25? You have to realize you are NEVER going to see 26, now. Even if you tried to stop today, I don't think you'd see two more birthdays. You're too far gone, Web. Too addicted to food. Too much damage to your body.
"I can see you struggling. Maybe you need a little more incentive to get off before your heart stops, huh?" Sam had been stroking his own cock as he talked and, without much ceremony, pressed the head of his dick into the fat little divot that Webster's desperate, semi-hard cockhead poked out of, and he came. Shot after shot of his healthy, white, hot, virile seed drenched the goat's unhealthy dick. Despite the pain in his chest, the goat moaned again and finally came himself, shooting his thick, off-yellow, impotent jizz onto his own fat rolls.
Sam wiped his paws off on Webster's fat belly and stuck four aspirin into the goat's mouth. He attached the IV (after missing the vein a couple of times) and started the goat on a drip of life-saving medicine. Slowly, the heart monitor returned to normal and the pain began to recede.
"Lucky this time, fatass. Who knows about next time."
---
There were, unfortunately, a few lasting impacts from Webster's first heart attack. Sam got him taking more pills on a regular basis. He was even more easily tired than he used to be, and even sitting up could wind him. And for the two weeks afterward, he could barely keep any food down at all. Webster was at 781 when the heart attack happened, and dropped to 774 the next week, and 770 the week after. It was only on his 25th birthday that he managed a day with a calorie level above 7,500 and that was only with relentless encouraging. His chest still ached, he just ate through the pain.
But, honestly, now that he had had a heart attack, the reality of his situation had sunk in. His end wasn't years away anymore, it was months of weeks. Any day could be his last, and he was not going to go out without trying to get as fat as possible. He couldn't go back. There was permanent damage to every part of his body. He forced food down day after day, chugging gainer shake and stuffing his face with pizza, calling on Sam to go out in the early morning to get burgers and dipping them in mayo. As long as it was unhealthy.
He got back to his old calorie levels quickly and hit 800 before the end of November. Even compared to before, Webster ate like he had a death wish. He was on a clock now more than ever, and he was determined to pack on as much lard as possible. His stomach could barely keep up with his appetite. It learned to stretch with the amount of food it held. Even with as much fat as there was under his skin, when he really, really ate, his stomach would get tight as a drum. His thin, stretch-marked skin could barely hold the amount of food and chub quivering underneath its surface. When Sam dragged his digits along its tight surface, he had to be sure his claws wouldn't tear anything.
And every time Webster packed away a ridiculous amount of food, the problem would only get worse. His stomach would stretch out further, his skin would struggle to cope with the sudden expansion of circumference, and even more fat would pile on. Sam encouraged this, and often wondered aloud whether Webster would blow his heart or his stomach first. It wasn't even hyperbole.
With the new medication, he avoided any more heart attacks in the short term. His family was desperate to contact him for the holidays again, but he ignored them. He was 841 pounds at the end of the year, and averaging over 12,000 calories a day and a brutal 7.4lb/wk through December. This next year would be almost certainly his last. If he kept his pace, he'd be 1100 pounds by his 26th birthday and nearly 1200 by the end of the year. Those were weights almost by definition incompatible with his continued existence. Especially with his current health.
By mid-February he was functionally immobile. He would struggle to even move in the months before that, unable to take more than a few steps without palpitations and bracing pain in his feet, knees, and back. His body moved so awkwardly that he hardly knew HOW to be ambulatory. And one day, it simply became easier to stop trying. He would spend the rest of his short, blubbery life in a bariatric bed he was slowly filling up like a trash bag hooked up to a lard hose. He was too fat to play games, too fat to read. All he could do is sit back, eat, and watch television. Only with voice activation could he even reliably change the channel.
Their second anniversary was fast approaching, and he was closing in on 900 at the same time. Sam hooked him up to a feeding tank and started to use hoses to augment his gain. Web's poor stomach was on the very verge of bursting for days on end. More than once did Sam think that the goat overdid it and he'd finally burst, an ocean of lard pouring out from his ripped, broken hide and taking his cholesterol-clogged organs with it. But the goat just barely made it through, and they celebrated it with more food. He was 902.5 pounds.
Only a week after that, he had his second heart attack. It was more serious than the first and involved a full clot to an important artery. Sam could only give Webster a clot-busting drug that thinned his blood significantly and hope for the best. In a real hospital, he would have been sent up to surgery, but under Sam's care, the goat only gasped and wheezed from his permanent, bed-bound position as his dick was ruthlessly jerked off. Told by Sam how he only had a 50% chance of surviving this one. Dumb luck if this would be the last orgasm he'd ever have. He came violently to his own imminent death but made it through anyway.
He was in a permanent hypertensive crisis from here on, with a resting heart rate of 160 and a steady blood pressure of 182/148. The lab results he got back printed everything number in bold red with DANGER on it. His body was barely able to keep itself alive anymore. And still, Webster was forcing more unhealthy fat onto his bones with every passing day.
They were determined to make it to 1000 pounds. His weigh-ins were much more difficult now that Sam had to ease his enormous body into a giant, bariatric sling and lift him up enough to be weighed, but it was worth it. It was what they cared about the most. As the number climbed up through 930, 950, 975, Webster could practically feel the pressure his body was under. His pounding heart beat, his atrophied, aching muscles, his stinging, stretched skin. Every meal pushed his body to the limit. Every chest pain was inspected closely, he was constantly hooked up to an IV and heart monitor.
And finally, in mid-June, he hit it. The first weigh-in above a thousand: 1001.8 pounds on June 21. It was week 113 that finally got him over the barrier. Two and a half years to destroy his health and get him into quadruple digits. He was a half ton of lard at 25 years old. A thousand pounds of fat. Every pound after this would just be whipped cream on the dessert of his self-destruction. He'd gained 621 pounds since they started, a full 27 pounds FATTER than his original estimate at 5 lb/wk.
They celebrated the best they could, though Webster was barely able to catch his breath. He was nothing but fat now, with a BMI of 150.3 and rolls that filled the entire bed. His bloated legs were too fat to move. His belly swelled outward far enough to smother his knees with fat. His cheeks were so fat that they muffled his speech, his double chin so thick that it impaired his breathing. His tits spilled to either side of his chest. He was unable to get truly hard anymore, and Sam found himself sliding one of his digits along the goat's soft, slick cockslit until it dribbled cum into his paw. That was sex to him now. That was the most his body could manage.
After that, his days really began to blend together. Sam used him to get himself off over and over, occasionally expending the effort required to dig all the way underneath the goat's massive gut and between his huge thighs to play with his broken, buried, lost dick. The slim wolfdog would press his tight, hard body against an avalanche of lard as he teased the barely-living goatblob about how each day could be his last. He used tubes to great effect, as it wasn't easy to keep Web full, but often spent two or three hours of nonstop handfeeding to fill his bloated gut up with so much fast food that he thought the goat might explode.
The automated food pumps and inside security cameras allowed Sam to leave long enough to go on dates. He was seeing two or three gainers, and had packed almost a hundred pounds of blubber on one of them already. They had even started coming to Web's house, and the goat had to listen to these cute chubs get railed by his hot, evil feeder mere feet away from his permanent spot on the bed. They never even knew he was there.
He had another heart attack three later in September, and his skin really did almost rip open just after Christmas. It required some very quick stitching from a very inexperienced wolfdog, but Sam managed to keep him in one piece. He was constantly on the IV, on a drip of various medications and antibiotics and painkillers. The heart monitor was always blasting an alarm, so Sam had to disable the audio. Web's body was failing from every angle.
Web's fourth and final heart attack happened just after their third anniversary, in his 26th year. He was barely conscious enough to know what was happening anymore, and most of his calories came from grease and gainer shake. Staying awake was a problem near the end, and Webster would constantly knock into and out of a deep, dead unconsciousness. Tubes kept pumping calories into his stomach and drugs into his cholesterol-clotted veins as he slept. Despite that, he was awake and eating greasy fast food when his chest began to hurt in that familiar way again. This time, worse than ever before. Everything about his body felt worse than before.
Web grunted in pain and got Sam into the room, who checked his vitals. "Yeah, it's another heart attack, lardass. A big one this time. If you wanted a real chance of surviving it, we'd have to get you into the hospital now. I'll get the clot busters into you, but I don't think you're making it."
The goat started breathing faster, sucking as much oxygen as he could into his failing lungs. "Odds?"
"Five percent. Maybe less."
That was it, then. These were his last moments on earth. He ate himself to death. He could feel every pound of his choices weighing him down. His heart giving up and taking the rest of his body with it. His breathing got faster and faster as he felt the familiar sensation of Sam's paw reaching toward his broken, soft dick. "Give it to me, pig. This is almost definitely your last orgasm. Cum. That's the only reason you did this to yourself, right? Why you murdered yourself with food and lard? Why you buried your heart in so much grease that you're feeling it fail? Enjoy it. It's the last fucking thing you're ever going to do. Cum."
The goat didn't have enough time left for foreplay of edging. Despite the cascade of failures through his body, he managed enough energy to do exactly what Sam said. The mutt tugged and squeezed one final orgasm out of his useless balls and dick. It was what he had killed himself for, and as pain began to grow deeper inside of him and his brain fogged up, he couldn't even regret it. Sam jumped on top of belly and began to violently fuck his rolls in a way he hadn't since they were afraid of tearing skin. All the goat could think about was who the mutt was going to get through next.
They looked deep into each other's eyes without saying a word, Webster in his final breathes and Sam ruthlessly slamming his hips into the goat's lard. He realized there would be no miracle, no five-percent beating the odds, a calm overcame him. Somewhere very far away, he felt his skin tear again and the mutt's brutal dick plunge directly into his fat tissue. His last thought was the hope that Sam would fill him with cum.
He did. The young wolfdog came buckets as he watched the spark go out of Webster's eyes for the last time. The heart monitors beeped loudly and then stopped. Sam had fed this giant fat fuck to death. He was responsible for the lifeless blob in front of him. He knew that the goat's skin had torn, and felt hot yellow lard and blood cover his cock as he pounded shot after shot of cum into the goat's body. It took him a long time to recover.
He turned off the medical equipment and wiped himself off, eventually, and raised the crane to get Web's final weigh-in. 1315.5 pounds.
Sam did not feel remorse or sadness when he looked over at Webster's body. This was a fat fuck that got exactly what he wanted. Web wanted to eat himself to death, and he did. What was there to feel sad about? A huge blob that finally collapsed under his own weight.
He cleaned up any incriminating trace and called the coroner: morbidly obese patient finally kicked the bucket. No one would ask any questions. Can't eat yourself that big and expect a happy ending, after all.
Sam grinned to himself. He already had three hot young gainers at his beck and call. They'd all been fooled by his innocent face and cute style; none of them had realized just how intense and dark he could really get. He'd bad end at least one of them under a thousand pounds of useless blubber. Maybe all three, if he played his cards right.
And he wouldn't feel bad for any of them either.
Webster had had dark fantasies for as long as he could remember.
He was a gainer. That part he was sure of. Sometimes he could suppress the darkest parts of it, but he couldn't deny all of it. Even when he wasn't actively gaining weight, he still fantasized about eating himself to enormous sizes. Getting too big to move, too big to do anything. Always eating, always growing. Fat was the only thing that consistently, always got him off.
He had never been skinny in his life, and growing up fat wasn't easy. He had been teased in locker rooms, chastised by adults for his weight, been unable to fit into school desks. Gaining weight was in his nature. Even if he wasn't a gainer, getting fat would be as easy for him as breathing. He never had to try. He always felt as though he was holding back the tide of sudden, violent weight gain. As though all he had to do was simply let go and the pounds would fly on dangerously fast. It excited and terrified him in equal measure. Despite the constant shame he'd always felt over his weight, his size turned him on immensely. It left Web with some deep, complicated emotions around his weight, and these had matured into intense, powerful, dark kinks.
Though he had occasionally found similar-minded people online, it was too intense to bring up with the occasional feeding hookups he managed in person. And he was mostly content with the usual routine: they fed him, he ate as much as he could handle, they got off together. Fine. Easy. Web went back to awkwardly maintaining his 300+ size in reality and dreaming about being an immobile blob on its last legs in fantasy.
His dark streak would occasionally come out in the heat of mutual pleasure, in between kisses and gropes, and Webster would beg them tell him about how they were going to fuck him up. Destroy his body. They tried sometimes, but it was invariably less hot than he'd imagined.
Web would go on occasional gainer benders, fueled by intense chats with distant feeders. These inevitably died down as the chats faded away, usually leaving him a little bit embarrassed about the new, permanent ten or fifteen pounds of fat he'd packed on. Things would stagnate, he'd get distracted by work or games, and the cycle would repeat itself. When he met Sam, he was already well over 350lb and was entirely unprepared for how things were going to change.
The wolfdog was 21 years old, a few years younger than Web. He was slim, on the shorter side and, most importantly, cute as hell. Despite his innocent exterior and playful demeanor, Sam was -really- good at talking about how fat he wanted Webster. At their first meetup, they bought large bags packed full of greasy burgers that Web greedily scarfed down. While the goat was face first in grease, Sam diligently rubbed the slowly bloating belly in front of him. The pup's teasing got a little bit more intense as the night drew on, and he got more comfortable with the fat goat. It was looking like a fun (if not particularly memorable) night, when the playful, fearless mutt tested the waters by rubbing Web's belly and ramping his teasing up a few notches.
"What a fucking pig you are, Web. You eat like you've got a death wish, fatass."
The words sent the goat's libido into overdrive. He moaned through a mouthful of fries and forced himself to eat faster, despite how full he was. Sam's teasing struck his heart: Web desperately wanted to eat like he had a death wish. He wanted to be that self-destructive, that far gone in his gluttony. He forced himself to binge toward that goal, licking the grease and salt off his paws and stuffing his face until every swallow brought on a pang of nausea.
Sam's bulge throbbed through his pink boxer-briefs at the outrageous show of gluttony he'd triggered; the idea that his words could turn this hot, fat gainer into a reckless glutton was intoxicating. "I guess you liked that."
The goat's cheeks turned red. "I.. yeah. I know it's weird, but when.. when you say stuff like.." Though the fantasies had been living in his head for years, he struggled to say the actual words.
Sam didn't have any hesitancy. "Stuff like, I want to watch you eat yourself to death? I want to help fill your heart with grease, to stretch your hide past its limit, to wreck you with fat?"
The goat's dick, already half-swallowed up by fat, moistened the fabric of his boxers with pre-cum. Sam's words sent hormones and adrenaline raging through his overstuffed body. Lust overtook his his mind. He reached down to jerk himself off, but Sam's paw grabbed his and placed it on his belly. The mutt then nestled his toned body against Webster's chubby, rolling side, wrapped his digits around Webster's dick, and started to slowly pump as he spoke.
The wolfdog was quite aware of how good he was with words, and with his cute face and round ass, he knew how to utilize his assets to get what he wanted out of weak-willed gainers. His voice was soft, but his tone was confident. "I'm going to make you the fattest version of yourself imaginable, goatpig. I'm going to push your body to its limits, and then I'm going to push it further. Nothing is going to stop me from helping you get enormous. We're going to bloat your stomach out until it's impossible to get you full. I'm going to control your diet and limit it to the worst foods in existence. We're going to fill your body up with grease and fat, corrupting you from the inside out. No matter how unhealthy you look on the outside, you're going to be even worse inside."
He kept pumping, and Webster rubbed his fat tits with one paw. He was so full and overstimulated, it wasn't going to take much to make him cum.
With no pushback from the goat, Sam just got darker and darker. "You're going to be a ticking time bomb, Web. A disaster waiting to happen. It doesn't matter how, but your life is going to end before you're thirty. With you weighing over a thousand pounds of lard. With your clogged heart soaked in lard. With your stomach bloated into a monstrous caricature of what it should be. With blood unnaturally thick with sugar and grease. With your hide stretched to its limit, barely able to contain the sheer amount of fat within. And that's all you're going to be. Bloated, swollen fat cells, and the broken machine to bloat them even more. Tell.."
Mind-sentence, Web's cock finally exploded. His hips thrust as he shot hot cum through Sam's paw, all over his belly and fatpad. The mutt nursed him through it, coaxing all of the cum he could out of the goat's heavy, overstimulated nuts. "Good boy. Cum for me, show me how much you want this. Good boy.."
When the orgasm finally died down, the goat was beyond spent. He lay there, whimpering, and Sam just watched him catch his breath as he idly played with his own hard cock. The grin on his face was toothy, wide, and undeniably evil. "Seems like I hit some buttons."
Webster's cheeks turned a little red, but Sam's penetration into his dark fantasies was as liberating as it was embarrassing. "You have no idea."
"I might have a clue. You came about a liter there, big guy."
"Oof.. thank you, that was so good. Give me a minute, I'll return the favor.."
"No, sit there and relax. Soak it in. Let's not pretend this is some normal tit-for-tat hookup. I'll let you know when and how you can return the favor, and it'll almost certainly involve food." Sam grinned. "Seem reasonable?"
Webster huffed loudly. "Y..yes. Thank you."
"You're welcome, pig."
---
As Sam predicted, it was not a regular hookup. They met up later that week, and then on the weekend. It wasn't long before they were kind of actually dating. They saw movies, went to buffets, hit up restaurants. Low impact activities where food was prevalent. They kept ending up back at Webster's place with a bag full of food and a whole lot of intense, brutally dark dirty talk. Sam never even really tried for traditional sex; it was all food and teasing and rubs and grinding himself into fat. Webster fucking loved it. He felt the walls he'd built up between his normal life, his gainer identity, and his darkest fantasies all begin to crumble. It was scary and freeing. He felt as though he could say anything to Sam. Not only would he not be judged, but everything would be reciprocated.
As those dark fantasies were indulged over and over, however, they grew in power. He could not cum unless he was imagining himself in the last minutes of his existence, heart strained, skin stretched, stomach churning, inordinately fat. He could not stop thinking about the choices needed to get there, the strain it would put on his body. Having Sam by his side, forcefeeding him when his body tried to reject calories. Eating things dangerously bad for him, risking his life just to pile more useless pounds of lard onto his body.
He wanted to get huge. Recklessly huge. He wanted to devote his whole life to it. He wanted to quit his job and see how fast he could ruin his body. To completely destroy his future. To finally and completely submit to the self-destruction that he'd been dreaming about since he was old enough to jack off. The more he met up with Sam, the more of himself he revealed, and the darker the mutt's teasing got, the more he couldn't stay away.
Some part of him wanted to stop. The old, uneasy alliance he'd had with his fantasies wasn't satisfying, but at least it allowed him to live something of a normal life. He could have friends, speak with family. What would he say to them otherwise? What would they think? He'd already been eating way more lately, and was actively putting on a ton of weight. Things were already starting to change.
He finally came to a decision after he and Sam had been seeing each other regularly for a few months. He couldn't bring himself to stop seeing the cute, evil mutt, and despite how much his worries and fears about the future plagued him, the intense hookups continued. Although he was nervous, Web decided he'd put the question to Sam and let him inevitably break things off.
It took a little while for Web to gather the courage, but he finally brought it up one night when they were both together. There was still a huffing in his voice as he spoke. "Hey, we gotta talk, Sam."
The mutt was still cleaning the cum out of his fur. "Sounds serious. What's on your mind?"
"Listen, this is fun, but.. you're really good at this. I've put on like twenty pounds so far."
Sam chuckled. "Well, thanks. You're really good at getting fat."
Webster's cheeks reddened. "I know. That's kind of part of it. I'm not just turned on by getting fatter, but I also gain weight really easy. It's just in my nature. Kind of a dangerous combo. I've never tried to go full-speed gaining, but I know the fat's gonna pile on fast. It scares me, but I'm also really into it. And doing it with you just makes me want it more. You know what I'm saying?"
Sam nodded. "I get it. But I don't have to push all the way, Web. I can slow down if you feel like you're getting too big. You're still gonna be hot."
"No, I.." The goat closed his eyes. "I don't wanna stop. That's what I'm trying to say. The thought of you wrecking me with food is all I can think about, Sam. And I know it'll happen if I let it. So, I want you to do it to me."
"Do what?"
"I want you to feed me to death, Sam. I want you to do this to me. I can't stop thinking about it. You're so hot, and you're so good at bringing out the darkest, hottest parts of my fantasies. You bring out the worst in me. I know you're into it too. The idea of me getting that big.. it turns you on, right?"
Sam was quiet for a moment. "I can't deny it does, but.."
"Just let me finish. I want it really bad, Sam. I know it's bad for me. I know I shouldn't. But I've always been fat, and I was bullied in school for my weight. I'm fucked up because of it. I know that. But that doesn't change how badly I want to eat myself to death. Nothing else turns me on like that thought. It's always been in the back of my mind, but ever since I met you, all I can think about is sacrificing everything to be a wheezing heart attack waiting to happen. A mountain of useless fat. I want to be pitied. A desperate sack of lard that's so addicted to food, they can't do anything but eat anymore. When you're around, that's all I want."
His dick was hard again just talking about it. "I want my body to fall apart as you stuff food into me. I wanna be the fattest thing you've ever seen. I want to wonder if my heart is going to give out first, or my stretched-out skin is going to tear from being too fat. And I want it to happen as FAST as possible. I want to eat myself to death. And the only thing standing thing between me and that future right now is you."
Sam looked over at Webster's fat body, almost as turned on by hearing Webster's desperate confession. "Me?"
"I can't do it alone. Say no, and we'll stop seeing each other, and we can both go back to living normal lives. I'd be okay with that, Sam. Really. A big part of me is counting on you turning me down." He took a deep breath. "Or, we can do this. I don't know how long it'll take, but I think we can do it in a few years tops. Two years left to live.. fuck, just thinking about it. But it'll take a lot of effort from both of us. More toward the end, of course. But I don't care about anything about getting fatter. Whatever needs to be done. Whatever you want to feed me. How far you want to push me. Just constant, rapid weight gain until my body can't take it anymore. But it's a commitment from you. I know."
Sam bit his lip. "It is a commitment. But if we do this, I'm gonna make it out the other end unscathed, Webster. You're not."
"I know. You don't understand how bad I want it. Sure, if I was older, maybe my hormones would settle down and I'd get over it, but I don't want that, Sam. I don't want to get older. I don't want to settle down. I don't want to be reasonable, I don't want love, I don't want anything but to get huge."
"You don't want love? That doesn't sound.. healthy. Are you sure this is okay? I feel like you can't be in your right mind to actually want this."
"None of this is healthy, Sam. And I know it's fucked up, that's what I'm saying. But NOTHING fucking turns me on this much. Nothing. I don't want to be normal. I don't want to live a long, happy life. I want my fat-soaked life to be cut short fast and hard by grease and lard. I want your attention, but I don't want you to love me. I want to be your project. Your gainer. A trashbag full of lard that you can tease, fuck, and stuff until it inevitably explodes. I want you to date others. Don't get attached to me. Move on fast. Just be there with food and make sure I never stop getting fatter."
The mutt looked away. "Fuck, Webster. If you want me to just straight up say no, I'm not going to. Maybe I need to think about it a little, but.. you're right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Knowing you never want any limits, that nothing is ever going to stop you from getting fatter.. it's incredibly hot. And how I'm just going to walk away from it, leaving your 1000+ body behind me while I look for more superchubs to fatten up.."
He leaned over and rubbed Webster's fat belly. "I think I might be in. I can't say I know exactly what I'm signing up for, but I think I'm ready to.. to feed you to death, lardass."
Webster bit his lip. "Really?" He was gleeful and terrified watching his hope of a normal life dissipate. "You think so?"
"I think so. This is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me in my life. My mind is racing. Yeah, I think I do want to do it." He huffed. "And we should start now. I have some butter in the fridge."
The goat's eyes widened. "Butter?"
"Solid, saturated fat. Yeah, that's a good start. We're going to have to go cheap and fattening to do this to you. It's gonna take a lot of calories. But I wanna see the limits of what your body can take. Let's start with butter. You need to get used to eating it sooner, rather than later. It's only gonna get worse from here."
"Are you.. You're sure you're not going to change your mind?"
"I need to think about it a little more, but I don't think so. If you're willing to fatten yourself as ruthlessly as you claim, I think I'm in. And when I commit, Webster, I commit for real. You don't need to worry about me; just how long that body of yours is gonna last."
The goat bit back a moan. "So.. Butter?"
The lean pup hopped up. "Butter."
---
Webster was right in that the weight came on quickly. Sam was more math-oriented than the goat, and he took an active role in planning his daily calorie intake. They began meeting up daily, though no longer for movies or pleasant walks. They made changes to the Web's diet that would terrify any normal person. While the goat had a broad palate and enjoyed a wide variety of foods, they eliminated everything that wasn't calorie-dense and fattening from his diet. If a vegetable wasn't deep-fried and covered in salt, he wasn't allowed to have it. He was limited to fast food for nearly every meal, and Sam would reinforce this by randomly-timed extra deliveries of fast food whenever he could manage.
Water was eliminated in most cases as well. Heavy cream replaced most of the liquid he drank with the remainder being high-caffeine, high-sugar soda. He bought thick gainer shakes and Sam maintained a slowly-increasing quota for how many he had to consume daily. Once a week, he was allotted a ‘cheat meal' of something not-particularly high calorie, like sushi. The remaining days were just a nonstop barrage of burgers, chicken nuggets, and bacon ranch cheese fries. What nutritionists might call poison.
They settled on the very ambitious goal of five pounds a week. That was more than 20 pounds a month, and 260 pounds a year. It was March, and if Web managed to hit that goal every week, he'd be up 180 pounds, to over 580 by the end of the year. He fantasized about this number: 580 pounds seemed like an incredible amount of weight. The goat knew he'd be struggling to keep up with his size and his job at that size, especially as his health and mobility waned. And if he kept it up another year, he'd be 840 by the end of that one. A third year? Over 1100 pounds.
Even 840 was enough to make him wonder if he'd reach it. 1100 seemed like a gamble. Any more than was surely certain doom. Web would MAYBE last three years, then. He was 23 now, and he wouldn't make it to 27 years old. He'd be lucky to see his 26th birthday. And Sam, turning 21 soon, would easily enjoy another happy, healthy 50 years. Webster could, too, if he wasn't so fucked up.
But he was.
To reach that goal, he needed to eat a minimum of 2500 calories a day more than he burned. And that was assuming he perfectly digested every calorie. They calculated his base metabolic rate around 3500 calories a day, which means he needed to eat a bare minimum of 6000 calories a day, an amount that would drift upwards with every pound gained and every slow, heavy step taken. He eliminated as much physical activity as possible. He wore a watch to track his steps and try to limit the number to under 500 on the days he worked, and under 100 on his days off. It monitored his heart rate and blood pressure as well, and the data was uploaded for future comparisons.
From the very start, every decision that Webster made revolved around him making the worst possible choice. How could he use this to get himself even fatter? Become more sedentary? His calorie goals rolled around in his head as he imagined himself as these sizes. The idea that he was actively on the road to his own imminent self-destruction was the hottest thing he could dream. Sam got him off talking about all of the things that he'd never get to experience. The things he'd be too fat to do. Too unhealthy to do. That would happen after his heart had given out.
He had committed to gaining five pounds every week. It was foolish to think that his body would survive to 1400 or 1500 pounds. These truths added up to the simple fact that he had an expiration date. And it was not far off.
Despite that, it was not easy to hit 5lb/week regularly. His body WAS very good at storing fat, and he WAS eating nearly 7000 calories a day. He was eating until he was painfully full with every meal; eating until he wanted to throw up. Sam was grinding up against his bloated belly as he forced gainer shakes down Web's throat until he could barely breathe. Not letting him get off without consuming entire sticks of butter. Binge eating when he was alone and being forcefed into a painful, whimpering wreck when the wolfdog was there. Still, there was some biological imperative for self-preservation left within his body and some calories passed through him undigested. He gained an average of 3.0 pounds a week at first, which brought him to 407 after two months.
A gain of 27 pounds in two months was impressive, but it was not the 45lb they'd hoped for. The changes to his diet left Webster feeling terrible. As effective as it was to packing on lard, all of the non-nutritious garbage he'd been stuffing down for weeks left him constantly belching, bloated, and with indigestion and poor sleep. But the new pounds of unhealthy goatfat he saw in the mirror were worth it and the climbing numbers got him off. New stretch marks on his bronze-tinted love handles and arms highlighted his progress; the thickening of his creamy white inner-thigh rolls to an increasingly ungainly, awkward size. Just these two months had already left an indelible mark on his body.
Web's persistence had paid off in more than one way. His appetite and capacity for food was only growing with each gigantic meal. He found himself able to handle larger and larger quantities of fast food without feeling ill. He even began to crave it, and his moderately-portioned cheat meals left him feeling incredibly unsatisfied. He grew used to the nausea and stomachaches and Sam took advantage of this, encouraging him to eat ever-more ridiculous amounts of junk food in a single sitting. The goat was eating himself so full he could barely breathe, until he was a useless, helpless food balloon. He was altering his body into something much less healthy, with terrible habits and cravings it couldn't ignored. His addiction to food grew more serious with every greasy mouthful.
He hit the five pound goal for the first time in the second week of May. 412 pounds. It was still a struggle to force that much food into his body, but at least he proved it could be done. They celebrated the milestone by going out to eat at an upscale restaurant together, a rare treat since they were generally optimizing calories per dollar. A sweaty, out of shape Web ordered plate after plate of food as a slim, well-dressed, flirty Sam did most of the talking. He waddled out feeling absolutely huge.
At the beginning of June, he was 420 even. The summer heat was a lot of him to handle and he rarely went outside. He ordered food delivery to his door. His cheat meal was eliminated, his calorie count was updated upward. Sam used Web's credit card to buy groceries and would sometimes surprise the goat with fast food snacks. He had placed a lot of trust in the mutt, but Web knew that if he was really serious about immobilizing himself under a thousand pounds of lard, he was going to end up dependent on Sam. If he was a liar or a thief, it'd be better that he took money and ran now, instead of when he was too far gone to do anything about it.
Sam had access to Web's savings, though he contributed his own funds to the endeavour as well. His savings should be enough. They could always dip into his meager retirement fund if it wasn't, as he wouldn't be using it. But if was going to chicken out from this endeavour, time was running out.
Web's diet only got worse the bigger he got. As he closed in on 500 in October, he found his breath was constantly short. He had put on almost a hundred pounds of fat in seven months. The toll that both the extra fat and his terrible diet had taken on his body was immediately obvious. There were new stretch marks all on his sides and his widening fat ass. His fur had grown greasy and matted, there were bags under his eyes. His body did not have time to adapt to the new weight it was forced to carry, and even small amounts of activity exhausted him and strained his flabby muscles. Showering was becoming more and more difficult, and though they still lived apart, he would occasionally ask for Sam's help in scrubbing him down really well.
His breathing was the real issue. He had resisted getting both a CPAP and an asthma nebulizer to help him breathe easier. Webster wanted to feel the weight of his choices at all times, feel his body struggling to keep up with his appetite. Feel the strain that all that lard was putting his body under. But choking in his sleep every night was a difficult pill to swallow, especially when it left him too tired to function. And while he liked the idea of constantly needing to chug down sugary, caffeine-heavy energy drinks just to stay conscious, it was just getting to the point where even massive doses of caffeine weren't cutting it. The choice was between seeing a doctor and using illicit, dangerous, addictive stimulants to get through the day. An actual close choice, but Sam convinced him to get a consult.
The doctor didn't have any idea how quickly he gained, but seeing a 23 year old weighing a quarter of a ton was some cause for alarm. They ordered blood work and vitals, both of which were just as bad as they might have feared. His resting heart rate was 118, his blood pressure was 142/94, his cholesterol was nearly 300mg/dL. His baseline oxygen saturation was low at 92%, his A1C was 6.3%. All of these were worrying and the doctor let him know it. Web left the room with prescriptions for medicines to reduce his blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar, as well as for the CPAP and asthma inhaler.
They spoke and decided to ignore the blood pressure and cholesterol meds: these would only help on a timeframe longer than he was going to live for. They picked up the blood sugar meds, as preventing himself from going into diabetic shock seemed useful. Same for the CPAP and nebulizer.
As they were sitting in the wolfdog's car outside the pharmacy, he looked over at the bloated, fat, unhealthy goat. Webster's belly filled up his lap, his cheeks were puffed and red, and every roll wobbled and shook with each breath. He was sweating hard, even in early September, and even with the AC blasting.
His feeder instincts were temporarily overwhelmed by a rare moment of empathy. "I just have to stop and ask you, Web." The mutt hesitated. "Your body's really taking a hit. You're sure you want to keep going, right?"
"Yeah, just -huff- give me a second to catch my breath. I'll come in with you."
"No, I mean.. you're sure you want to keep getting fatter? Continuing on this path. We both knew what we were getting into, but.."
Webster very suddenly got quiet. "Are you having second thoughts?" Sam opened his mouth, but the goat interrupted him. "Be completely honest."
The mutt sighed. "I don't know, Webster. Honestly? No. I'm not having second thoughts. It's more like the idea that I should be having them. That I should care about how badly you're doing, how this diet is destroying you. That I should.. I don't know. Be empathetic. Try to stop you. At least not encourage this."
He continued. "But I don't want to, you know? It's just really fucking hot. I kind of want you to confess to me that YOU want to stop, because I think that would take the guilt off my shoulders. I'm helping you kill yourself with food. And I should care, but.. we're not romantic. We talk about numbers and charts, weigh you, make plans together. Get off together. I don't consider you my boyfriend, you know? When I see some massive, huge fatass on the internet talking about how they're still gaining weight and getting fatter, do I plead with them to stop? No. I want them to keep going. I want to see how much fat they can take. I want them to get as huge as humanly possible for my benefit. I feel that way with you.
"It should be different in person. I mean, I know you. I know your personality. I should care more. I guess I'm just asking you if you want an out. To slow down or stop. To get a little healthier. Anything, really. Because the shrinking part of me that cares about my soul wants you to stop. And the part of me that wants to nut on a thousand pounds of barely-living goat wants you to keep going. And going to pick up these medicines, after hearing the details about how bad your health really is, seems like a good time to ask."
The goat closed his eyes for a long time, so long that Sam thought he might have fallen asleep. But he finally spoke in a forced calm voice. "I guess we're in the same boat. Does some part of me want you to bail? Did some part of me want you to empty my savings account and run for the hills, leaving me broke but alive? Yeah. I can't think about what I'm doing to myself too hard, Sam. Too many emotions. Too much of my brain begs me to stop. I just want to focus on eating and getting fatter. No thinking, no feeling, no nothing. Just food and mindless pleasure. All I care about is intense my orgasms are when I think about how bad off I'm getting. That's all I want to deal with.
"So no. I can't tell you I want to stop. I'm not going to be the one that stops this train. Your soul, my life are both going to be causalities of my appetite. I want to keep going. I want to destroy my body, bury every part of me under so much fat I can never escape. If I never met you, would I be doing this to myself? No, probably not. But we did meet. And we unlocked these desires in each other, things that would have probably always stayed under the surface otherwise. Things that no rational person would do to themselves. I don't want to stop."
Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay, Web. Then let me get you the drugs we need to make you even bigger."
---
Web did not visit his family for the holidays that year, and they had no idea that he'd gained so much weight. The goat didn't want to deal with it. They complained and tried to video call him, but he made excuses. He only had to hold them off long enough, after all. Sam did spend a few days with his parents, who nudged him about finding a partner. The mutt laughed it off, truthfully explained he hadn't had many serious dates lately, and entirely omitted any mention of Webster.
The goat was averaging about 4.9 lb/wk by the end of the year, and with a good final push just hit 560 by New Years. He'd gained a total of 180 pounds since March and he was feeling every unhealthy, wobbling pound of lard. His pounding heart hemorrhaged calories just to keep his body alive, but he'd stretched and bloated out his stomach to hold way more food than it could ever use. When he really pushed himself hard, his stomach would expand to a ridiculous size and his soft, wobbling, stretch-marked belly would blimp outward into a firm sphere of lard. Fat pressed tight against his thin, stretch-marked skin by the insane amount of food he could fit inside of him. The fact that he could go from so soft, heavy, and wobbly to taut, full and round was always and forever taken advantage of by Sam, who very much enjoyed pushing his body to the limit.
It was really the incredible changes to Web's body that invigorated Sam, and how hungry the goat was for even more. The new rolls of fat, the stretching of his skin, his exponential appetite, even his heavy breathing. He used the goat's body to get himself off whenever they were together, pressing his dick between two sweaty rolls of fat as he stuffed his wheezing face full of junk food. Grinding up against his bloated, taut gut and listening to him force out tiny little desperate belches. It was intoxicating to push him to his limit without needing to worry about how Web would feel about it. The goat was there to get fatter by any means necessary.
But after winter break, there was no way around it: Webster could simply not keep working. He was just too fat, too unable to do the basic tasks his job required of him. They'd spoken to him too many times over the past few months, co-workers trying to figure out what was going on with his gain, managers offering therapy or counseling, taking a page from the drug-addiction corporate handbook and trying to develop a plan to get him back on his feet. But they were exasperated with his endless gain and dwindling performance, and they eventually offered him a small bonus to finally just quit. He accepted.
Without a job, he had nothing to fill his day but sitting on his growing butt and eating. It suited him well. He'd given up on any hobbies he used to have when he started this endeavour and felt no need to fill his remaining days with learning a new skill or game. He watched mindless television and played easy video games, slept whenever he felt tired, and stuffed his face with animal lard, cheeseburgers, gainer shake, and candy.
Web hit 600 pounds jut before the first anniversary of this gaining experiment, and was only about 30 pounds behind schedule. Sam took a few days off of work, and together they celebrated in five consecutive days of pure, unabashed gluttony. Webster moved as little as humanly possible and only left bed to use the bathroom. He was averaging about 8000 calories a day before this, and did not go under 10,000 a single day that Sam was there. Though each meal involved the mutt using Web's thick, heavy, wobbling rolls to cum, the goat was often left on the edge. Actually getting off left his heart racing as it struggled to force saturated-fat soaked blood through cholesterol-slick veins and arteries.
In fact, in a single year, he'd had to completely revamp his entire process of getting himself to cum. He could still reach, but it wasn't easy and it was exhausting. His fatpad had entirely swallowed up his dick when he was soft, and his stretched balls were always competing for space with his sagging, awkwardly lard-swollen thigh rolls. His fatpad was thirty pounds of blubbery, sweaty, stretch-marked lard that made pawing his dick off much harder. Even getting hard wasn't as easy as it used to be, as blood needed to be diverted through narrowing vessels to his buried dick. Though he was as horny as ever thinking about what he'd done to himself (moreso now that his avenue of release was impeded), he was able to act on the urge less often.
No part of him was left unimpaired by the insane weight gain. Everything was more difficult. Everything was tiring. Even without Sam's constant brutal, horny teasing in his ear, Web's whole life was a constant reminder of how incredibly unhealthy his ridiculously fast weight gain had been. Even his house was filled with things that he could not do, things he was too fat for. There was not an article of clothing in his closet that he could fit into. He was too wide for his recliner. His couch had cracked. Trash was piled by the door. Everything was a mess.
The corruption of his body and living space was matched by the corruption of his mind. Nothing could get him off except the thought of his own impending demise. It was the only thing he thought about when he was horny. It was the only thing that Sam teased him with. There was no respite, no kinky side-quests, no exploration. His goal was to eat himself to death, and it was reinforced with every mouthful of greasy food, every exhilaratingly cruel word the mutt spoke to him. When it came to his dick, there was nothing but eating himself to death.
"God, you're such a fucking disaster, you know that, goatblob? Every one of those sagging, fat rolls is a testament to how fucked up you are. Every wheeze, every palpitation, every pound. You're killing yourself one burger at a time. What is it like to look at the future and know that you're not going to see 30? 28? That you're destroying every organ in that fat-soaked blubbery body of yours? Wrecking your future with every bite? And it's all just because something broke inside of you and now it's the only thing that can get you off?"
Sam pumped Web's buried little dick gently with two digits as he teased his growing gainer. His thighs straddled out of the goat's huge thighs as he lay there, the mutt's big cock sliding in between some combination of his underbelly, thigh rolls, and fat pad. Web moaned for him to continue.
"Watching trailers for movies that you are probably never going to see? Wondering if you're gonna finally burst before that game you want comes out? Or keel over from a coronary before next spring? This could easily be the last March you ever see, lardass. If you keep gaining like this, you'll be 850, 875 by your next anniversary? That's not a weight that many people can survive at. At least not for very long, and definitely not with how badly you've been trashing your body. And you still want to keep gaining like this, don't you, lardass?"
"Fuck.. yes.." Every word was accompanied by a painful wheeze.
"You're never going to get married. Never going to feel true love, never going to have a family. All you have left is fat, you huge fuck. Mountains of wobbling rolls. Unhealthy, stretch-marked love handles. A giant, sweaty fat ass you can barely keep clean. Two sagging tits. You're giving up everything just for more fucking fat. To be horrifyingly, disgustingly fat. No one is going to understand how this happened to you when they see your half-ton corpse laying there, face smothered in grease and half a sandwich in your bloated paw. Knowing you were barely 350 just a couple years ago."
"That's what you're fucking doing to yourself. Killing yourself with food before you've got a chance to achieve anything. Throwing away your life because your fucked-up brain conflates food with pleasure. And you still want to keep going, don't you?"
Sam was still pumping, and he knew very well how to edge the goat. "Yes.. I'm so fucked up.. I'm wrecking myself.."
"Tell me and I'll let you cum."
"I'm.." He wheezed and grunted. His stomach gurgled as it struggled to digest. His fat rolls smacked against each other. "I'm eating myself to death." He belched loudly. "And I don't want to stop."
His confession made the wolfdog cum buckets, shooting seed all on the underside of Web's belly. It dripped down into the deep, sweaty crevices of the goat's crotch. This triggered the goat's own buried dick to spurt useless, unhealthy cum into Sam's paw. Soon, the only thing that the goat would be able to breed would be his own fatpad. As he laid there, his grease-soaked heart pounding in his fat chest, struggling to catch his breath, receding dick oozing the last few drops of jizz onto his fat, he let his mind go blank with bliss. The urge to reflect and think critically about his choices was strongest in his post-coital moments, but the empty-headed euphoria of calories headed this off.
He was going to get huge, no matter what his brain or his heart said.
---
Webster continued to gain at a dangerous pace, averaging around 5.2lb/wk in the months after that first anniversary. By the end of April, he was already at 650. Through May, he re-devoted himself to truly monumental amounts of consumption, and averaged over 10,000 calories a day and 6.1 pounds a week. He was 675 by the end of that month, and closing in on 700 at the start of the month after. He did not care about anything except how much food his stomach could hold and how much lard he could pack on his desperately struggling body.
Though Sam retained his old apartment, he essentially moved in with his gainer. The goat simply could not function without help. Help getting out of bed, help washing himself, help moving his body through doorways, help getting food, help reaching for oxygen. His muscles could not keep up with the amount of fat on his body; he was crushing himself underneath the weight of his own indulgence. Every inch of his body was ripe with stretch marks, some fading slight, some angrily red. His fur was thinning around the curviest parts of his fat belly, where his skin could simply not keep up with the lard underneath it. And where his fur was thick, it was dull, flat, and greasy.
His ass had billowed out behind him spectacularly, and were now no less than two king-sized, cellulite-swollen, wobbling bags of fat that took up a sofa cushion each. His thighs had spread spectacularly wide, and the little thigh-rolls that bulged out against his fat-pad were now two very large, somewhat asymmetrical bags of lard. His calves were bloated and weak, his feetpaws had doubled in width and constantly ached. All of him constantly ached. All of him was constantly exhausted.
His numbers kept getting worse. Sam began to take some online classes in basic medical knowledge just to make things easier. He learned all about the organs, and how they were destroyed by monumental obesity. He studied arrthymias, heart disease, heart attack, heart failure, diabetes, kidney disease, fatty liver, blood clots. Anything that might strike Webster down. Though the goat was determined to eat himself to death, if there was something quick and preventable he could do in order to wring another hundred or hundred fifty pounds out of his gainer's failing body, he would.
Eventually, Sam managed to procure a counterfeit certification and proof that he was Webster's home care nurse. He learned to do blood draws and send them to labs. He purchased a defibrillator, an IV, and breathing equipment from a medical supplier. He was even able to get some prescription medication and taught himself how to administer via syringe or IV. YouTube was a great help. It wasn't very long before the confident mutt felt comfortable attempting to handle Web's medical requirements.
Besides, the only actual consequence to a medical error would be Sam not getting to see how truly enormous Webster could get.
Even as he continued to grow and become reliant on his feeder, Webster took comfort in watching Sam flirt and go on dates with much smaller gainers that knew nothing about the goat. Webster was Sam's and Sam's alone. But it helped him to know that Sam would not suffer over the goat's inevitable demise. He would get as much use out of him as possible, and then simply move on to the next one. Enough orgasms in his rolls, food stuffed down his face, enough belly wobbles, enough teasing. That's all he wanted to be used for, and knowing Sam was going to simply move on to the next gainer pleased him.
While they didn't know about him, he knew a little about them. Web knew when Sam was going on dates, and showed him pictures of the much smaller gainers he was going out with. Gainers that were his size when they started, or even a little more. Gainers with big fantasies that were enamored when Sam took them back to his barren apartment and ruthlessly fed them. These gainers had no idea what the cute, young, flirty guy they were meeting with was an unfeeling, no-limits feeder with first-hand experience stuffing someone to the edge.
Web was practice for the young wolfdog. Sam would live another fifty years; he wouldn't last twelve months. It got him hard to wonder if he would be the only one Sam found that was actually willing to go this far. If he would feed anyone else into immobility, or to death. Would they be into it? Would he simply use the skills he'd perfected on Web to coerce and manipulate gainers into getting too fat for their own good?
He imagined Sam at 40 or 50 years old, finding veritable clones of Web in their twenties. Corrupting them, teasing them, bringing out the worst in them. Covincing them that they WANTED this for themselves as well. How many pounds would Sam put on fat fucks? How many would he make housebound? How many would he permanently corrupt with bad-ending gainer kinks? How many would he actually bad end?
And he was the first. The lost cause. The origin story to future serial-fattener Sam. He begged the mutt to talk about other gainers when he buried his digits in his sweaty, slimy fatpad and got him off. He wanted to hear about how small they were. How big Sam wanted to get them. How he'd get them even fatter than Webster was.
---
The medical knowledge came in handy when Webster finally had his first heart attack at age 24. It was the beginning of October and he was weighing in at a very heavy 788 pounds. He'd finished 12,000 calories the day before and was feeling like absolute fucking shit. Even more than usual. Every breath was a struggle, and though he had the classic symptoms of pressure on his chest and a numb right arm, it did not occur to him that he was actually having one at first.
"What?!" Webster couldn't catch his breath and could feel his heart pounding in his ears. "Are you sure?"
"I sure think so. You've got all the symptoms. I see decreased heart sounds on the left side of the heart, but the ST segment doesn't seem to be elevated, so I think it's not completely blocked. It still looks like a heart attack. I mean, your blood pressure is still over 170/130 and your O2 sats are barely at 90. We must have caught it early, though."
Sam talked about him so clinically that it made him horny, despite the pain surging through his chest. "Is that it? Did I actually fucking eat myself to death?" He wheezed loudly and sucked on an oxygen mask to catch his breath. "I'm not even 800 yet!"
"No, not yet. You've still got a ways to go. Aspirin first, and then I think.. uhh.. like, 200mg of an ACE inhibitor? I have Enalapril somewhere. Let me check my notes. It should help bust up the clot."
The goat lay there in bed, wheezing and trying to cope with the pressure in his chest as Sam casually read through a composition notebook. "Ah, found it! Oh man, it was 20mg, not 200. Glad I checked that, or you'd really be dead."
He said it so fucking casually. His fears overwhelmed him, and for the first time, Web freaked out hard. The pain was truly a lot. He heard himself begging for his life. "You're.. you're sure I shouldn't go to the hospital, right?"
The mutt's grin turned wide and toothy. "NOW who's thinking about self-preservation! No, you're not going to the hospital. You're either going to get through this, or you're not. Isn't that what you want?"
"I.. It hurts so much and I.."
The mutt grabbed at Webster's crotch and started tugging at his lard-crushed balls and buried dick. "You're going to make it through, or you're not, you hog. You can't back out now. All you can do is accept the consequences of every fattening fucking thing you've done over the last year."
As always, the mutt's words made him. All the goat could do was moan through the pain. "Oh fuck.. Yes.. You're so right."
"I know I'm right. And I'm not going to administer this shit either until you cum. You deserve to feel the first orgasm of your short, fat life that happens during a heart attack. Familiarize yourself with what it feels like to cum as your heart is pounding to a halt. As your body begins to fail. As your life fades away. You'll make it through this time - probably - but who knows about next time?"
"You.. huff.. think I'll survive?"
"80% odds lardass. And it goes down every minute I don't fill you up with drugs. So think your horniest thoughts and focus on that pain in your chest as I pump this useless, buried dick of yours. Think about the permanent damage this is causing to your body, even if you get through it. Think about the fact that you've gained 400 pounds in a year and a half. Think about how helpless you've become. How you're out of a job and will never work again. How there's a 20% chance you won't live to see next week, that you'll be on some coroner's slab. Their disgusted faces as they dig through mountains of unhealthy, yellow fat tissue to reach your oversized, wrecked heart, scarred liver, and wrecked lungs. That could be your body next week, lardass.
"Yeah, you're getting hard now, aren't you? God, you're so fucked up, Webster. What fucking happened in that brain of yours to make you want this so bad, huh? Look at what a wreck you are. You've probably broken records with how fast you've gained. How unhealthy every pound has been. With the damage you've done to your body so quickly. It's just a matter of time and weight now. Are you gonna hit 1000 pounds? Your birthday is in what, two weeks? Are you even going to see 25? You have to realize you are NEVER going to see 26, now. Even if you tried to stop today, I don't think you'd see two more birthdays. You're too far gone, Web. Too addicted to food. Too much damage to your body.
"I can see you struggling. Maybe you need a little more incentive to get off before your heart stops, huh?" Sam had been stroking his own cock as he talked and, without much ceremony, pressed the head of his dick into the fat little divot that Webster's desperate, semi-hard cockhead poked out of, and he came. Shot after shot of his healthy, white, hot, virile seed drenched the goat's unhealthy dick. Despite the pain in his chest, the goat moaned again and finally came himself, shooting his thick, off-yellow, impotent jizz onto his own fat rolls.
Sam wiped his paws off on Webster's fat belly and stuck four aspirin into the goat's mouth. He attached the IV (after missing the vein a couple of times) and started the goat on a drip of life-saving medicine. Slowly, the heart monitor returned to normal and the pain began to recede.
"Lucky this time, fatass. Who knows about next time."
---
There were, unfortunately, a few lasting impacts from Webster's first heart attack. Sam got him taking more pills on a regular basis. He was even more easily tired than he used to be, and even sitting up could wind him. And for the two weeks afterward, he could barely keep any food down at all. Webster was at 781 when the heart attack happened, and dropped to 774 the next week, and 770 the week after. It was only on his 25th birthday that he managed a day with a calorie level above 7,500 and that was only with relentless encouraging. His chest still ached, he just ate through the pain.
But, honestly, now that he had had a heart attack, the reality of his situation had sunk in. His end wasn't years away anymore, it was months of weeks. Any day could be his last, and he was not going to go out without trying to get as fat as possible. He couldn't go back. There was permanent damage to every part of his body. He forced food down day after day, chugging gainer shake and stuffing his face with pizza, calling on Sam to go out in the early morning to get burgers and dipping them in mayo. As long as it was unhealthy.
He got back to his old calorie levels quickly and hit 800 before the end of November. Even compared to before, Webster ate like he had a death wish. He was on a clock now more than ever, and he was determined to pack on as much lard as possible. His stomach could barely keep up with his appetite. It learned to stretch with the amount of food it held. Even with as much fat as there was under his skin, when he really, really ate, his stomach would get tight as a drum. His thin, stretch-marked skin could barely hold the amount of food and chub quivering underneath its surface. When Sam dragged his digits along its tight surface, he had to be sure his claws wouldn't tear anything.
And every time Webster packed away a ridiculous amount of food, the problem would only get worse. His stomach would stretch out further, his skin would struggle to cope with the sudden expansion of circumference, and even more fat would pile on. Sam encouraged this, and often wondered aloud whether Webster would blow his heart or his stomach first. It wasn't even hyperbole.
With the new medication, he avoided any more heart attacks in the short term. His family was desperate to contact him for the holidays again, but he ignored them. He was 841 pounds at the end of the year, and averaging over 12,000 calories a day and a brutal 7.4lb/wk through December. This next year would be almost certainly his last. If he kept his pace, he'd be 1100 pounds by his 26th birthday and nearly 1200 by the end of the year. Those were weights almost by definition incompatible with his continued existence. Especially with his current health.
By mid-February he was functionally immobile. He would struggle to even move in the months before that, unable to take more than a few steps without palpitations and bracing pain in his feet, knees, and back. His body moved so awkwardly that he hardly knew HOW to be ambulatory. And one day, it simply became easier to stop trying. He would spend the rest of his short, blubbery life in a bariatric bed he was slowly filling up like a trash bag hooked up to a lard hose. He was too fat to play games, too fat to read. All he could do is sit back, eat, and watch television. Only with voice activation could he even reliably change the channel.
Their second anniversary was fast approaching, and he was closing in on 900 at the same time. Sam hooked him up to a feeding tank and started to use hoses to augment his gain. Web's poor stomach was on the very verge of bursting for days on end. More than once did Sam think that the goat overdid it and he'd finally burst, an ocean of lard pouring out from his ripped, broken hide and taking his cholesterol-clogged organs with it. But the goat just barely made it through, and they celebrated it with more food. He was 902.5 pounds.
Only a week after that, he had his second heart attack. It was more serious than the first and involved a full clot to an important artery. Sam could only give Webster a clot-busting drug that thinned his blood significantly and hope for the best. In a real hospital, he would have been sent up to surgery, but under Sam's care, the goat only gasped and wheezed from his permanent, bed-bound position as his dick was ruthlessly jerked off. Told by Sam how he only had a 50% chance of surviving this one. Dumb luck if this would be the last orgasm he'd ever have. He came violently to his own imminent death but made it through anyway.
He was in a permanent hypertensive crisis from here on, with a resting heart rate of 160 and a steady blood pressure of 182/148. The lab results he got back printed everything number in bold red with DANGER on it. His body was barely able to keep itself alive anymore. And still, Webster was forcing more unhealthy fat onto his bones with every passing day.
They were determined to make it to 1000 pounds. His weigh-ins were much more difficult now that Sam had to ease his enormous body into a giant, bariatric sling and lift him up enough to be weighed, but it was worth it. It was what they cared about the most. As the number climbed up through 930, 950, 975, Webster could practically feel the pressure his body was under. His pounding heart beat, his atrophied, aching muscles, his stinging, stretched skin. Every meal pushed his body to the limit. Every chest pain was inspected closely, he was constantly hooked up to an IV and heart monitor.
And finally, in mid-June, he hit it. The first weigh-in above a thousand: 1001.8 pounds on June 21. It was week 113 that finally got him over the barrier. Two and a half years to destroy his health and get him into quadruple digits. He was a half ton of lard at 25 years old. A thousand pounds of fat. Every pound after this would just be whipped cream on the dessert of his self-destruction. He'd gained 621 pounds since they started, a full 27 pounds FATTER than his original estimate at 5 lb/wk.
They celebrated the best they could, though Webster was barely able to catch his breath. He was nothing but fat now, with a BMI of 150.3 and rolls that filled the entire bed. His bloated legs were too fat to move. His belly swelled outward far enough to smother his knees with fat. His cheeks were so fat that they muffled his speech, his double chin so thick that it impaired his breathing. His tits spilled to either side of his chest. He was unable to get truly hard anymore, and Sam found himself sliding one of his digits along the goat's soft, slick cockslit until it dribbled cum into his paw. That was sex to him now. That was the most his body could manage.
After that, his days really began to blend together. Sam used him to get himself off over and over, occasionally expending the effort required to dig all the way underneath the goat's massive gut and between his huge thighs to play with his broken, buried, lost dick. The slim wolfdog would press his tight, hard body against an avalanche of lard as he teased the barely-living goatblob about how each day could be his last. He used tubes to great effect, as it wasn't easy to keep Web full, but often spent two or three hours of nonstop handfeeding to fill his bloated gut up with so much fast food that he thought the goat might explode.
The automated food pumps and inside security cameras allowed Sam to leave long enough to go on dates. He was seeing two or three gainers, and had packed almost a hundred pounds of blubber on one of them already. They had even started coming to Web's house, and the goat had to listen to these cute chubs get railed by his hot, evil feeder mere feet away from his permanent spot on the bed. They never even knew he was there.
He had another heart attack three later in September, and his skin really did almost rip open just after Christmas. It required some very quick stitching from a very inexperienced wolfdog, but Sam managed to keep him in one piece. He was constantly on the IV, on a drip of various medications and antibiotics and painkillers. The heart monitor was always blasting an alarm, so Sam had to disable the audio. Web's body was failing from every angle.
Web's fourth and final heart attack happened just after their third anniversary, in his 26th year. He was barely conscious enough to know what was happening anymore, and most of his calories came from grease and gainer shake. Staying awake was a problem near the end, and Webster would constantly knock into and out of a deep, dead unconsciousness. Tubes kept pumping calories into his stomach and drugs into his cholesterol-clotted veins as he slept. Despite that, he was awake and eating greasy fast food when his chest began to hurt in that familiar way again. This time, worse than ever before. Everything about his body felt worse than before.
Web grunted in pain and got Sam into the room, who checked his vitals. "Yeah, it's another heart attack, lardass. A big one this time. If you wanted a real chance of surviving it, we'd have to get you into the hospital now. I'll get the clot busters into you, but I don't think you're making it."
The goat started breathing faster, sucking as much oxygen as he could into his failing lungs. "Odds?"
"Five percent. Maybe less."
That was it, then. These were his last moments on earth. He ate himself to death. He could feel every pound of his choices weighing him down. His heart giving up and taking the rest of his body with it. His breathing got faster and faster as he felt the familiar sensation of Sam's paw reaching toward his broken, soft dick. "Give it to me, pig. This is almost definitely your last orgasm. Cum. That's the only reason you did this to yourself, right? Why you murdered yourself with food and lard? Why you buried your heart in so much grease that you're feeling it fail? Enjoy it. It's the last fucking thing you're ever going to do. Cum."
The goat didn't have enough time left for foreplay of edging. Despite the cascade of failures through his body, he managed enough energy to do exactly what Sam said. The mutt tugged and squeezed one final orgasm out of his useless balls and dick. It was what he had killed himself for, and as pain began to grow deeper inside of him and his brain fogged up, he couldn't even regret it. Sam jumped on top of belly and began to violently fuck his rolls in a way he hadn't since they were afraid of tearing skin. All the goat could think about was who the mutt was going to get through next.
They looked deep into each other's eyes without saying a word, Webster in his final breathes and Sam ruthlessly slamming his hips into the goat's lard. He realized there would be no miracle, no five-percent beating the odds, a calm overcame him. Somewhere very far away, he felt his skin tear again and the mutt's brutal dick plunge directly into his fat tissue. His last thought was the hope that Sam would fill him with cum.
He did. The young wolfdog came buckets as he watched the spark go out of Webster's eyes for the last time. The heart monitors beeped loudly and then stopped. Sam had fed this giant fat fuck to death. He was responsible for the lifeless blob in front of him. He knew that the goat's skin had torn, and felt hot yellow lard and blood cover his cock as he pounded shot after shot of cum into the goat's body. It took him a long time to recover.
He turned off the medical equipment and wiped himself off, eventually, and raised the crane to get Web's final weigh-in. 1315.5 pounds.
Sam did not feel remorse or sadness when he looked over at Webster's body. This was a fat fuck that got exactly what he wanted. Web wanted to eat himself to death, and he did. What was there to feel sad about? A huge blob that finally collapsed under his own weight.
He cleaned up any incriminating trace and called the coroner: morbidly obese patient finally kicked the bucket. No one would ask any questions. Can't eat yourself that big and expect a happy ending, after all.
Sam grinned to himself. He already had three hot young gainers at his beck and call. They'd all been fooled by his innocent face and cute style; none of them had realized just how intense and dark he could really get. He'd bad end at least one of them under a thousand pounds of useless blubber. Maybe all three, if he played his cards right.
And he wouldn't feel bad for any of them either.
The comments to this story is far worse
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2018
If Patrick Bateman was an architectprobably one of the few posts I make to this thread, instead of it being art it is actually a story. A very terrifying story if you are wondering, this did almost make me fucking vomit and cry. You cannot see the story without being logged in, so there is no point in archiving the link
Deathwish by Mairari
Have been wanting to do something dark lately, here's the results of those efforts. Starring xkwebster as the gainer and blushysnoo ...
Deathwish
Webster had had dark fantasies for as long as he could remember.
He was a gainer. That part he was sure of. Sometimes he could suppress the darkest parts of it, but he couldn't deny all of it. Even when he wasn't actively gaining weight, he still fantasized about eating himself to enormous sizes. Getting too big to move, too big to do anything. Always eating, always growing. Fat was the only thing that consistently, always got him off.
He had never been skinny in his life, and growing up fat wasn't easy. He had been teased in locker rooms, chastised by adults for his weight, been unable to fit into school desks. Gaining weight was in his nature. Even if he wasn't a gainer, getting fat would be as easy for him as breathing. He never had to try. He always felt as though he was holding back the tide of sudden, violent weight gain. As though all he had to do was simply let go and the pounds would fly on dangerously fast. It excited and terrified him in equal measure. Despite the constant shame he'd always felt over his weight, his size turned him on immensely. It left Web with some deep, complicated emotions around his weight, and these had matured into intense, powerful, dark kinks.
Though he had occasionally found similar-minded people online, it was too intense to bring up with the occasional feeding hookups he managed in person. And he was mostly content with the usual routine: they fed him, he ate as much as he could handle, they got off together. Fine. Easy. Web went back to awkwardly maintaining his 300+ size in reality and dreaming about being an immobile blob on its last legs in fantasy.
His dark streak would occasionally come out in the heat of mutual pleasure, in between kisses and gropes, and Webster would beg them tell him about how they were going to fuck him up. Destroy his body. They tried sometimes, but it was invariably less hot than he'd imagined.
Web would go on occasional gainer benders, fueled by intense chats with distant feeders. These inevitably died down as the chats faded away, usually leaving him a little bit embarrassed about the new, permanent ten or fifteen pounds of fat he'd packed on. Things would stagnate, he'd get distracted by work or games, and the cycle would repeat itself. When he met Sam, he was already well over 350lb and was entirely unprepared for how things were going to change.
The wolfdog was 21 years old, a few years younger than Web. He was slim, on the shorter side and, most importantly, cute as hell. Despite his innocent exterior and playful demeanor, Sam was -really- good at talking about how fat he wanted Webster. At their first meetup, they bought large bags packed full of greasy burgers that Web greedily scarfed down. While the goat was face first in grease, Sam diligently rubbed the slowly bloating belly in front of him. The pup's teasing got a little bit more intense as the night drew on, and he got more comfortable with the fat goat. It was looking like a fun (if not particularly memorable) night, when the playful, fearless mutt tested the waters by rubbing Web's belly and ramping his teasing up a few notches.
"What a fucking pig you are, Web. You eat like you've got a death wish, fatass."
The words sent the goat's libido into overdrive. He moaned through a mouthful of fries and forced himself to eat faster, despite how full he was. Sam's teasing struck his heart: Web desperately wanted to eat like he had a death wish. He wanted to be that self-destructive, that far gone in his gluttony. He forced himself to binge toward that goal, licking the grease and salt off his paws and stuffing his face until every swallow brought on a pang of nausea.
Sam's bulge throbbed through his pink boxer-briefs at the outrageous show of gluttony he'd triggered; the idea that his words could turn this hot, fat gainer into a reckless glutton was intoxicating. "I guess you liked that."
The goat's cheeks turned red. "I.. yeah. I know it's weird, but when.. when you say stuff like.." Though the fantasies had been living in his head for years, he struggled to say the actual words.
Sam didn't have any hesitancy. "Stuff like, I want to watch you eat yourself to death? I want to help fill your heart with grease, to stretch your hide past its limit, to wreck you with fat?"
The goat's dick, already half-swallowed up by fat, moistened the fabric of his boxers with pre-cum. Sam's words sent hormones and adrenaline raging through his overstuffed body. Lust overtook his his mind. He reached down to jerk himself off, but Sam's paw grabbed his and placed it on his belly. The mutt then nestled his toned body against Webster's chubby, rolling side, wrapped his digits around Webster's dick, and started to slowly pump as he spoke.
The wolfdog was quite aware of how good he was with words, and with his cute face and round ass, he knew how to utilize his assets to get what he wanted out of weak-willed gainers. His voice was soft, but his tone was confident. "I'm going to make you the fattest version of yourself imaginable, goatpig. I'm going to push your body to its limits, and then I'm going to push it further. Nothing is going to stop me from helping you get enormous. We're going to bloat your stomach out until it's impossible to get you full. I'm going to control your diet and limit it to the worst foods in existence. We're going to fill your body up with grease and fat, corrupting you from the inside out. No matter how unhealthy you look on the outside, you're going to be even worse inside."
He kept pumping, and Webster rubbed his fat tits with one paw. He was so full and overstimulated, it wasn't going to take much to make him cum.
With no pushback from the goat, Sam just got darker and darker. "You're going to be a ticking time bomb, Web. A disaster waiting to happen. It doesn't matter how, but your life is going to end before you're thirty. With you weighing over a thousand pounds of lard. With your clogged heart soaked in lard. With your stomach bloated into a monstrous caricature of what it should be. With blood unnaturally thick with sugar and grease. With your hide stretched to its limit, barely able to contain the sheer amount of fat within. And that's all you're going to be. Bloated, swollen fat cells, and the broken machine to bloat them even more. Tell.."
Mind-sentence, Web's cock finally exploded. His hips thrust as he shot hot cum through Sam's paw, all over his belly and fatpad. The mutt nursed him through it, coaxing all of the cum he could out of the goat's heavy, overstimulated nuts. "Good boy. Cum for me, show me how much you want this. Good boy.."
When the orgasm finally died down, the goat was beyond spent. He lay there, whimpering, and Sam just watched him catch his breath as he idly played with his own hard cock. The grin on his face was toothy, wide, and undeniably evil. "Seems like I hit some buttons."
Webster's cheeks turned a little red, but Sam's penetration into his dark fantasies was as liberating as it was embarrassing. "You have no idea."
"I might have a clue. You came about a liter there, big guy."
"Oof.. thank you, that was so good. Give me a minute, I'll return the favor.."
"No, sit there and relax. Soak it in. Let's not pretend this is some normal tit-for-tat hookup. I'll let you know when and how you can return the favor, and it'll almost certainly involve food." Sam grinned. "Seem reasonable?"
Webster huffed loudly. "Y..yes. Thank you."
"You're welcome, pig."
---
As Sam predicted, it was not a regular hookup. They met up later that week, and then on the weekend. It wasn't long before they were kind of actually dating. They saw movies, went to buffets, hit up restaurants. Low impact activities where food was prevalent. They kept ending up back at Webster's place with a bag full of food and a whole lot of intense, brutally dark dirty talk. Sam never even really tried for traditional sex; it was all food and teasing and rubs and grinding himself into fat. Webster fucking loved it. He felt the walls he'd built up between his normal life, his gainer identity, and his darkest fantasies all begin to crumble. It was scary and freeing. He felt as though he could say anything to Sam. Not only would he not be judged, but everything would be reciprocated.
As those dark fantasies were indulged over and over, however, they grew in power. He could not cum unless he was imagining himself in the last minutes of his existence, heart strained, skin stretched, stomach churning, inordinately fat. He could not stop thinking about the choices needed to get there, the strain it would put on his body. Having Sam by his side, forcefeeding him when his body tried to reject calories. Eating things dangerously bad for him, risking his life just to pile more useless pounds of lard onto his body.
He wanted to get huge. Recklessly huge. He wanted to devote his whole life to it. He wanted to quit his job and see how fast he could ruin his body. To completely destroy his future. To finally and completely submit to the self-destruction that he'd been dreaming about since he was old enough to jack off. The more he met up with Sam, the more of himself he revealed, and the darker the mutt's teasing got, the more he couldn't stay away.
Some part of him wanted to stop. The old, uneasy alliance he'd had with his fantasies wasn't satisfying, but at least it allowed him to live something of a normal life. He could have friends, speak with family. What would he say to them otherwise? What would they think? He'd already been eating way more lately, and was actively putting on a ton of weight. Things were already starting to change.
He finally came to a decision after he and Sam had been seeing each other regularly for a few months. He couldn't bring himself to stop seeing the cute, evil mutt, and despite how much his worries and fears about the future plagued him, the intense hookups continued. Although he was nervous, Web decided he'd put the question to Sam and let him inevitably break things off.
It took a little while for Web to gather the courage, but he finally brought it up one night when they were both together. There was still a huffing in his voice as he spoke. "Hey, we gotta talk, Sam."
The mutt was still cleaning the cum out of his fur. "Sounds serious. What's on your mind?"
"Listen, this is fun, but.. you're really good at this. I've put on like twenty pounds so far."
Sam chuckled. "Well, thanks. You're really good at getting fat."
Webster's cheeks reddened. "I know. That's kind of part of it. I'm not just turned on by getting fatter, but I also gain weight really easy. It's just in my nature. Kind of a dangerous combo. I've never tried to go full-speed gaining, but I know the fat's gonna pile on fast. It scares me, but I'm also really into it. And doing it with you just makes me want it more. You know what I'm saying?"
Sam nodded. "I get it. But I don't have to push all the way, Web. I can slow down if you feel like you're getting too big. You're still gonna be hot."
"No, I.." The goat closed his eyes. "I don't wanna stop. That's what I'm trying to say. The thought of you wrecking me with food is all I can think about, Sam. And I know it'll happen if I let it. So, I want you to do it to me."
"Do what?"
"I want you to feed me to death, Sam. I want you to do this to me. I can't stop thinking about it. You're so hot, and you're so good at bringing out the darkest, hottest parts of my fantasies. You bring out the worst in me. I know you're into it too. The idea of me getting that big.. it turns you on, right?"
Sam was quiet for a moment. "I can't deny it does, but.."
"Just let me finish. I want it really bad, Sam. I know it's bad for me. I know I shouldn't. But I've always been fat, and I was bullied in school for my weight. I'm fucked up because of it. I know that. But that doesn't change how badly I want to eat myself to death. Nothing else turns me on like that thought. It's always been in the back of my mind, but ever since I met you, all I can think about is sacrificing everything to be a wheezing heart attack waiting to happen. A mountain of useless fat. I want to be pitied. A desperate sack of lard that's so addicted to food, they can't do anything but eat anymore. When you're around, that's all I want."
His dick was hard again just talking about it. "I want my body to fall apart as you stuff food into me. I wanna be the fattest thing you've ever seen. I want to wonder if my heart is going to give out first, or my stretched-out skin is going to tear from being too fat. And I want it to happen as FAST as possible. I want to eat myself to death. And the only thing standing thing between me and that future right now is you."
Sam looked over at Webster's fat body, almost as turned on by hearing Webster's desperate confession. "Me?"
"I can't do it alone. Say no, and we'll stop seeing each other, and we can both go back to living normal lives. I'd be okay with that, Sam. Really. A big part of me is counting on you turning me down." He took a deep breath. "Or, we can do this. I don't know how long it'll take, but I think we can do it in a few years tops. Two years left to live.. fuck, just thinking about it. But it'll take a lot of effort from both of us. More toward the end, of course. But I don't care about anything about getting fatter. Whatever needs to be done. Whatever you want to feed me. How far you want to push me. Just constant, rapid weight gain until my body can't take it anymore. But it's a commitment from you. I know."
Sam bit his lip. "It is a commitment. But if we do this, I'm gonna make it out the other end unscathed, Webster. You're not."
"I know. You don't understand how bad I want it. Sure, if I was older, maybe my hormones would settle down and I'd get over it, but I don't want that, Sam. I don't want to get older. I don't want to settle down. I don't want to be reasonable, I don't want love, I don't want anything but to get huge."
"You don't want love? That doesn't sound.. healthy. Are you sure this is okay? I feel like you can't be in your right mind to actually want this."
"None of this is healthy, Sam. And I know it's fucked up, that's what I'm saying. But NOTHING fucking turns me on this much. Nothing. I don't want to be normal. I don't want to live a long, happy life. I want my fat-soaked life to be cut short fast and hard by grease and lard. I want your attention, but I don't want you to love me. I want to be your project. Your gainer. A trashbag full of lard that you can tease, fuck, and stuff until it inevitably explodes. I want you to date others. Don't get attached to me. Move on fast. Just be there with food and make sure I never stop getting fatter."
The mutt looked away. "Fuck, Webster. If you want me to just straight up say no, I'm not going to. Maybe I need to think about it a little, but.. you're right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Knowing you never want any limits, that nothing is ever going to stop you from getting fatter.. it's incredibly hot. And how I'm just going to walk away from it, leaving your 1000+ body behind me while I look for more superchubs to fatten up.."
He leaned over and rubbed Webster's fat belly. "I think I might be in. I can't say I know exactly what I'm signing up for, but I think I'm ready to.. to feed you to death, lardass."
Webster bit his lip. "Really?" He was gleeful and terrified watching his hope of a normal life dissipate. "You think so?"
"I think so. This is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me in my life. My mind is racing. Yeah, I think I do want to do it." He huffed. "And we should start now. I have some butter in the fridge."
The goat's eyes widened. "Butter?"
"Solid, saturated fat. Yeah, that's a good start. We're going to have to go cheap and fattening to do this to you. It's gonna take a lot of calories. But I wanna see the limits of what your body can take. Let's start with butter. You need to get used to eating it sooner, rather than later. It's only gonna get worse from here."
"Are you.. You're sure you're not going to change your mind?"
"I need to think about it a little more, but I don't think so. If you're willing to fatten yourself as ruthlessly as you claim, I think I'm in. And when I commit, Webster, I commit for real. You don't need to worry about me; just how long that body of yours is gonna last."
The goat bit back a moan. "So.. Butter?"
The lean pup hopped up. "Butter."
---
Webster was right in that the weight came on quickly. Sam was more math-oriented than the goat, and he took an active role in planning his daily calorie intake. They began meeting up daily, though no longer for movies or pleasant walks. They made changes to the Web's diet that would terrify any normal person. While the goat had a broad palate and enjoyed a wide variety of foods, they eliminated everything that wasn't calorie-dense and fattening from his diet. If a vegetable wasn't deep-fried and covered in salt, he wasn't allowed to have it. He was limited to fast food for nearly every meal, and Sam would reinforce this by randomly-timed extra deliveries of fast food whenever he could manage.
Water was eliminated in most cases as well. Heavy cream replaced most of the liquid he drank with the remainder being high-caffeine, high-sugar soda. He bought thick gainer shakes and Sam maintained a slowly-increasing quota for how many he had to consume daily. Once a week, he was allotted a ‘cheat meal' of something not-particularly high calorie, like sushi. The remaining days were just a nonstop barrage of burgers, chicken nuggets, and bacon ranch cheese fries. What nutritionists might call poison.
They settled on the very ambitious goal of five pounds a week. That was more than 20 pounds a month, and 260 pounds a year. It was March, and if Web managed to hit that goal every week, he'd be up 180 pounds, to over 580 by the end of the year. He fantasized about this number: 580 pounds seemed like an incredible amount of weight. The goat knew he'd be struggling to keep up with his size and his job at that size, especially as his health and mobility waned. And if he kept it up another year, he'd be 840 by the end of that one. A third year? Over 1100 pounds.
Even 840 was enough to make him wonder if he'd reach it. 1100 seemed like a gamble. Any more than was surely certain doom. Web would MAYBE last three years, then. He was 23 now, and he wouldn't make it to 27 years old. He'd be lucky to see his 26th birthday. And Sam, turning 21 soon, would easily enjoy another happy, healthy 50 years. Webster could, too, if he wasn't so fucked up.
But he was.
To reach that goal, he needed to eat a minimum of 2500 calories a day more than he burned. And that was assuming he perfectly digested every calorie. They calculated his base metabolic rate around 3500 calories a day, which means he needed to eat a bare minimum of 6000 calories a day, an amount that would drift upwards with every pound gained and every slow, heavy step taken. He eliminated as much physical activity as possible. He wore a watch to track his steps and try to limit the number to under 500 on the days he worked, and under 100 on his days off. It monitored his heart rate and blood pressure as well, and the data was uploaded for future comparisons.
From the very start, every decision that Webster made revolved around him making the worst possible choice. How could he use this to get himself even fatter? Become more sedentary? His calorie goals rolled around in his head as he imagined himself as these sizes. The idea that he was actively on the road to his own imminent self-destruction was the hottest thing he could dream. Sam got him off talking about all of the things that he'd never get to experience. The things he'd be too fat to do. Too unhealthy to do. That would happen after his heart had given out.
He had committed to gaining five pounds every week. It was foolish to think that his body would survive to 1400 or 1500 pounds. These truths added up to the simple fact that he had an expiration date. And it was not far off.
Despite that, it was not easy to hit 5lb/week regularly. His body WAS very good at storing fat, and he WAS eating nearly 7000 calories a day. He was eating until he was painfully full with every meal; eating until he wanted to throw up. Sam was grinding up against his bloated belly as he forced gainer shakes down Web's throat until he could barely breathe. Not letting him get off without consuming entire sticks of butter. Binge eating when he was alone and being forcefed into a painful, whimpering wreck when the wolfdog was there. Still, there was some biological imperative for self-preservation left within his body and some calories passed through him undigested. He gained an average of 3.0 pounds a week at first, which brought him to 407 after two months.
A gain of 27 pounds in two months was impressive, but it was not the 45lb they'd hoped for. The changes to his diet left Webster feeling terrible. As effective as it was to packing on lard, all of the non-nutritious garbage he'd been stuffing down for weeks left him constantly belching, bloated, and with indigestion and poor sleep. But the new pounds of unhealthy goatfat he saw in the mirror were worth it and the climbing numbers got him off. New stretch marks on his bronze-tinted love handles and arms highlighted his progress; the thickening of his creamy white inner-thigh rolls to an increasingly ungainly, awkward size. Just these two months had already left an indelible mark on his body.
Web's persistence had paid off in more than one way. His appetite and capacity for food was only growing with each gigantic meal. He found himself able to handle larger and larger quantities of fast food without feeling ill. He even began to crave it, and his moderately-portioned cheat meals left him feeling incredibly unsatisfied. He grew used to the nausea and stomachaches and Sam took advantage of this, encouraging him to eat ever-more ridiculous amounts of junk food in a single sitting. The goat was eating himself so full he could barely breathe, until he was a useless, helpless food balloon. He was altering his body into something much less healthy, with terrible habits and cravings it couldn't ignored. His addiction to food grew more serious with every greasy mouthful.
He hit the five pound goal for the first time in the second week of May. 412 pounds. It was still a struggle to force that much food into his body, but at least he proved it could be done. They celebrated the milestone by going out to eat at an upscale restaurant together, a rare treat since they were generally optimizing calories per dollar. A sweaty, out of shape Web ordered plate after plate of food as a slim, well-dressed, flirty Sam did most of the talking. He waddled out feeling absolutely huge.
At the beginning of June, he was 420 even. The summer heat was a lot of him to handle and he rarely went outside. He ordered food delivery to his door. His cheat meal was eliminated, his calorie count was updated upward. Sam used Web's credit card to buy groceries and would sometimes surprise the goat with fast food snacks. He had placed a lot of trust in the mutt, but Web knew that if he was really serious about immobilizing himself under a thousand pounds of lard, he was going to end up dependent on Sam. If he was a liar or a thief, it'd be better that he took money and ran now, instead of when he was too far gone to do anything about it.
Sam had access to Web's savings, though he contributed his own funds to the endeavour as well. His savings should be enough. They could always dip into his meager retirement fund if it wasn't, as he wouldn't be using it. But if was going to chicken out from this endeavour, time was running out.
Web's diet only got worse the bigger he got. As he closed in on 500 in October, he found his breath was constantly short. He had put on almost a hundred pounds of fat in seven months. The toll that both the extra fat and his terrible diet had taken on his body was immediately obvious. There were new stretch marks all on his sides and his widening fat ass. His fur had grown greasy and matted, there were bags under his eyes. His body did not have time to adapt to the new weight it was forced to carry, and even small amounts of activity exhausted him and strained his flabby muscles. Showering was becoming more and more difficult, and though they still lived apart, he would occasionally ask for Sam's help in scrubbing him down really well.
His breathing was the real issue. He had resisted getting both a CPAP and an asthma nebulizer to help him breathe easier. Webster wanted to feel the weight of his choices at all times, feel his body struggling to keep up with his appetite. Feel the strain that all that lard was putting his body under. But choking in his sleep every night was a difficult pill to swallow, especially when it left him too tired to function. And while he liked the idea of constantly needing to chug down sugary, caffeine-heavy energy drinks just to stay conscious, it was just getting to the point where even massive doses of caffeine weren't cutting it. The choice was between seeing a doctor and using illicit, dangerous, addictive stimulants to get through the day. An actual close choice, but Sam convinced him to get a consult.
The doctor didn't have any idea how quickly he gained, but seeing a 23 year old weighing a quarter of a ton was some cause for alarm. They ordered blood work and vitals, both of which were just as bad as they might have feared. His resting heart rate was 118, his blood pressure was 142/94, his cholesterol was nearly 300mg/dL. His baseline oxygen saturation was low at 92%, his A1C was 6.3%. All of these were worrying and the doctor let him know it. Web left the room with prescriptions for medicines to reduce his blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar, as well as for the CPAP and asthma inhaler.
They spoke and decided to ignore the blood pressure and cholesterol meds: these would only help on a timeframe longer than he was going to live for. They picked up the blood sugar meds, as preventing himself from going into diabetic shock seemed useful. Same for the CPAP and nebulizer.
As they were sitting in the wolfdog's car outside the pharmacy, he looked over at the bloated, fat, unhealthy goat. Webster's belly filled up his lap, his cheeks were puffed and red, and every roll wobbled and shook with each breath. He was sweating hard, even in early September, and even with the AC blasting.
His feeder instincts were temporarily overwhelmed by a rare moment of empathy. "I just have to stop and ask you, Web." The mutt hesitated. "Your body's really taking a hit. You're sure you want to keep going, right?"
"Yeah, just -huff- give me a second to catch my breath. I'll come in with you."
"No, I mean.. you're sure you want to keep getting fatter? Continuing on this path. We both knew what we were getting into, but.."
Webster very suddenly got quiet. "Are you having second thoughts?" Sam opened his mouth, but the goat interrupted him. "Be completely honest."
The mutt sighed. "I don't know, Webster. Honestly? No. I'm not having second thoughts. It's more like the idea that I should be having them. That I should care about how badly you're doing, how this diet is destroying you. That I should.. I don't know. Be empathetic. Try to stop you. At least not encourage this."
He continued. "But I don't want to, you know? It's just really fucking hot. I kind of want you to confess to me that YOU want to stop, because I think that would take the guilt off my shoulders. I'm helping you kill yourself with food. And I should care, but.. we're not romantic. We talk about numbers and charts, weigh you, make plans together. Get off together. I don't consider you my boyfriend, you know? When I see some massive, huge fatass on the internet talking about how they're still gaining weight and getting fatter, do I plead with them to stop? No. I want them to keep going. I want to see how much fat they can take. I want them to get as huge as humanly possible for my benefit. I feel that way with you.
"It should be different in person. I mean, I know you. I know your personality. I should care more. I guess I'm just asking you if you want an out. To slow down or stop. To get a little healthier. Anything, really. Because the shrinking part of me that cares about my soul wants you to stop. And the part of me that wants to nut on a thousand pounds of barely-living goat wants you to keep going. And going to pick up these medicines, after hearing the details about how bad your health really is, seems like a good time to ask."
The goat closed his eyes for a long time, so long that Sam thought he might have fallen asleep. But he finally spoke in a forced calm voice. "I guess we're in the same boat. Does some part of me want you to bail? Did some part of me want you to empty my savings account and run for the hills, leaving me broke but alive? Yeah. I can't think about what I'm doing to myself too hard, Sam. Too many emotions. Too much of my brain begs me to stop. I just want to focus on eating and getting fatter. No thinking, no feeling, no nothing. Just food and mindless pleasure. All I care about is intense my orgasms are when I think about how bad off I'm getting. That's all I want to deal with.
"So no. I can't tell you I want to stop. I'm not going to be the one that stops this train. Your soul, my life are both going to be causalities of my appetite. I want to keep going. I want to destroy my body, bury every part of me under so much fat I can never escape. If I never met you, would I be doing this to myself? No, probably not. But we did meet. And we unlocked these desires in each other, things that would have probably always stayed under the surface otherwise. Things that no rational person would do to themselves. I don't want to stop."
Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay, Web. Then let me get you the drugs we need to make you even bigger."
---
Web did not visit his family for the holidays that year, and they had no idea that he'd gained so much weight. The goat didn't want to deal with it. They complained and tried to video call him, but he made excuses. He only had to hold them off long enough, after all. Sam did spend a few days with his parents, who nudged him about finding a partner. The mutt laughed it off, truthfully explained he hadn't had many serious dates lately, and entirely omitted any mention of Webster.
The goat was averaging about 4.9 lb/wk by the end of the year, and with a good final push just hit 560 by New Years. He'd gained a total of 180 pounds since March and he was feeling every unhealthy, wobbling pound of lard. His pounding heart hemorrhaged calories just to keep his body alive, but he'd stretched and bloated out his stomach to hold way more food than it could ever use. When he really pushed himself hard, his stomach would expand to a ridiculous size and his soft, wobbling, stretch-marked belly would blimp outward into a firm sphere of lard. Fat pressed tight against his thin, stretch-marked skin by the insane amount of food he could fit inside of him. The fact that he could go from so soft, heavy, and wobbly to taut, full and round was always and forever taken advantage of by Sam, who very much enjoyed pushing his body to the limit.
It was really the incredible changes to Web's body that invigorated Sam, and how hungry the goat was for even more. The new rolls of fat, the stretching of his skin, his exponential appetite, even his heavy breathing. He used the goat's body to get himself off whenever they were together, pressing his dick between two sweaty rolls of fat as he stuffed his wheezing face full of junk food. Grinding up against his bloated, taut gut and listening to him force out tiny little desperate belches. It was intoxicating to push him to his limit without needing to worry about how Web would feel about it. The goat was there to get fatter by any means necessary.
But after winter break, there was no way around it: Webster could simply not keep working. He was just too fat, too unable to do the basic tasks his job required of him. They'd spoken to him too many times over the past few months, co-workers trying to figure out what was going on with his gain, managers offering therapy or counseling, taking a page from the drug-addiction corporate handbook and trying to develop a plan to get him back on his feet. But they were exasperated with his endless gain and dwindling performance, and they eventually offered him a small bonus to finally just quit. He accepted.
Without a job, he had nothing to fill his day but sitting on his growing butt and eating. It suited him well. He'd given up on any hobbies he used to have when he started this endeavour and felt no need to fill his remaining days with learning a new skill or game. He watched mindless television and played easy video games, slept whenever he felt tired, and stuffed his face with animal lard, cheeseburgers, gainer shake, and candy.
Web hit 600 pounds jut before the first anniversary of this gaining experiment, and was only about 30 pounds behind schedule. Sam took a few days off of work, and together they celebrated in five consecutive days of pure, unabashed gluttony. Webster moved as little as humanly possible and only left bed to use the bathroom. He was averaging about 8000 calories a day before this, and did not go under 10,000 a single day that Sam was there. Though each meal involved the mutt using Web's thick, heavy, wobbling rolls to cum, the goat was often left on the edge. Actually getting off left his heart racing as it struggled to force saturated-fat soaked blood through cholesterol-slick veins and arteries.
In fact, in a single year, he'd had to completely revamp his entire process of getting himself to cum. He could still reach, but it wasn't easy and it was exhausting. His fatpad had entirely swallowed up his dick when he was soft, and his stretched balls were always competing for space with his sagging, awkwardly lard-swollen thigh rolls. His fatpad was thirty pounds of blubbery, sweaty, stretch-marked lard that made pawing his dick off much harder. Even getting hard wasn't as easy as it used to be, as blood needed to be diverted through narrowing vessels to his buried dick. Though he was as horny as ever thinking about what he'd done to himself (moreso now that his avenue of release was impeded), he was able to act on the urge less often.
No part of him was left unimpaired by the insane weight gain. Everything was more difficult. Everything was tiring. Even without Sam's constant brutal, horny teasing in his ear, Web's whole life was a constant reminder of how incredibly unhealthy his ridiculously fast weight gain had been. Even his house was filled with things that he could not do, things he was too fat for. There was not an article of clothing in his closet that he could fit into. He was too wide for his recliner. His couch had cracked. Trash was piled by the door. Everything was a mess.
The corruption of his body and living space was matched by the corruption of his mind. Nothing could get him off except the thought of his own impending demise. It was the only thing he thought about when he was horny. It was the only thing that Sam teased him with. There was no respite, no kinky side-quests, no exploration. His goal was to eat himself to death, and it was reinforced with every mouthful of greasy food, every exhilaratingly cruel word the mutt spoke to him. When it came to his dick, there was nothing but eating himself to death.
"God, you're such a fucking disaster, you know that, goatblob? Every one of those sagging, fat rolls is a testament to how fucked up you are. Every wheeze, every palpitation, every pound. You're killing yourself one burger at a time. What is it like to look at the future and know that you're not going to see 30? 28? That you're destroying every organ in that fat-soaked blubbery body of yours? Wrecking your future with every bite? And it's all just because something broke inside of you and now it's the only thing that can get you off?"
Sam pumped Web's buried little dick gently with two digits as he teased his growing gainer. His thighs straddled out of the goat's huge thighs as he lay there, the mutt's big cock sliding in between some combination of his underbelly, thigh rolls, and fat pad. Web moaned for him to continue.
"Watching trailers for movies that you are probably never going to see? Wondering if you're gonna finally burst before that game you want comes out? Or keel over from a coronary before next spring? This could easily be the last March you ever see, lardass. If you keep gaining like this, you'll be 850, 875 by your next anniversary? That's not a weight that many people can survive at. At least not for very long, and definitely not with how badly you've been trashing your body. And you still want to keep gaining like this, don't you, lardass?"
"Fuck.. yes.." Every word was accompanied by a painful wheeze.
"You're never going to get married. Never going to feel true love, never going to have a family. All you have left is fat, you huge fuck. Mountains of wobbling rolls. Unhealthy, stretch-marked love handles. A giant, sweaty fat ass you can barely keep clean. Two sagging tits. You're giving up everything just for more fucking fat. To be horrifyingly, disgustingly fat. No one is going to understand how this happened to you when they see your half-ton corpse laying there, face smothered in grease and half a sandwich in your bloated paw. Knowing you were barely 350 just a couple years ago."
"That's what you're fucking doing to yourself. Killing yourself with food before you've got a chance to achieve anything. Throwing away your life because your fucked-up brain conflates food with pleasure. And you still want to keep going, don't you?"
Sam was still pumping, and he knew very well how to edge the goat. "Yes.. I'm so fucked up.. I'm wrecking myself.."
"Tell me and I'll let you cum."
"I'm.." He wheezed and grunted. His stomach gurgled as it struggled to digest. His fat rolls smacked against each other. "I'm eating myself to death." He belched loudly. "And I don't want to stop."
His confession made the wolfdog cum buckets, shooting seed all on the underside of Web's belly. It dripped down into the deep, sweaty crevices of the goat's crotch. This triggered the goat's own buried dick to spurt useless, unhealthy cum into Sam's paw. Soon, the only thing that the goat would be able to breed would be his own fatpad. As he laid there, his grease-soaked heart pounding in his fat chest, struggling to catch his breath, receding dick oozing the last few drops of jizz onto his fat, he let his mind go blank with bliss. The urge to reflect and think critically about his choices was strongest in his post-coital moments, but the empty-headed euphoria of calories headed this off.
He was going to get huge, no matter what his brain or his heart said.
---
Webster continued to gain at a dangerous pace, averaging around 5.2lb/wk in the months after that first anniversary. By the end of April, he was already at 650. Through May, he re-devoted himself to truly monumental amounts of consumption, and averaged over 10,000 calories a day and 6.1 pounds a week. He was 675 by the end of that month, and closing in on 700 at the start of the month after. He did not care about anything except how much food his stomach could hold and how much lard he could pack on his desperately struggling body.
Though Sam retained his old apartment, he essentially moved in with his gainer. The goat simply could not function without help. Help getting out of bed, help washing himself, help moving his body through doorways, help getting food, help reaching for oxygen. His muscles could not keep up with the amount of fat on his body; he was crushing himself underneath the weight of his own indulgence. Every inch of his body was ripe with stretch marks, some fading slight, some angrily red. His fur was thinning around the curviest parts of his fat belly, where his skin could simply not keep up with the lard underneath it. And where his fur was thick, it was dull, flat, and greasy.
His ass had billowed out behind him spectacularly, and were now no less than two king-sized, cellulite-swollen, wobbling bags of fat that took up a sofa cushion each. His thighs had spread spectacularly wide, and the little thigh-rolls that bulged out against his fat-pad were now two very large, somewhat asymmetrical bags of lard. His calves were bloated and weak, his feetpaws had doubled in width and constantly ached. All of him constantly ached. All of him was constantly exhausted.
His numbers kept getting worse. Sam began to take some online classes in basic medical knowledge just to make things easier. He learned all about the organs, and how they were destroyed by monumental obesity. He studied arrthymias, heart disease, heart attack, heart failure, diabetes, kidney disease, fatty liver, blood clots. Anything that might strike Webster down. Though the goat was determined to eat himself to death, if there was something quick and preventable he could do in order to wring another hundred or hundred fifty pounds out of his gainer's failing body, he would.
Eventually, Sam managed to procure a counterfeit certification and proof that he was Webster's home care nurse. He learned to do blood draws and send them to labs. He purchased a defibrillator, an IV, and breathing equipment from a medical supplier. He was even able to get some prescription medication and taught himself how to administer via syringe or IV. YouTube was a great help. It wasn't very long before the confident mutt felt comfortable attempting to handle Web's medical requirements.
Besides, the only actual consequence to a medical error would be Sam not getting to see how truly enormous Webster could get.
Even as he continued to grow and become reliant on his feeder, Webster took comfort in watching Sam flirt and go on dates with much smaller gainers that knew nothing about the goat. Webster was Sam's and Sam's alone. But it helped him to know that Sam would not suffer over the goat's inevitable demise. He would get as much use out of him as possible, and then simply move on to the next one. Enough orgasms in his rolls, food stuffed down his face, enough belly wobbles, enough teasing. That's all he wanted to be used for, and knowing Sam was going to simply move on to the next gainer pleased him.
While they didn't know about him, he knew a little about them. Web knew when Sam was going on dates, and showed him pictures of the much smaller gainers he was going out with. Gainers that were his size when they started, or even a little more. Gainers with big fantasies that were enamored when Sam took them back to his barren apartment and ruthlessly fed them. These gainers had no idea what the cute, young, flirty guy they were meeting with was an unfeeling, no-limits feeder with first-hand experience stuffing someone to the edge.
Web was practice for the young wolfdog. Sam would live another fifty years; he wouldn't last twelve months. It got him hard to wonder if he would be the only one Sam found that was actually willing to go this far. If he would feed anyone else into immobility, or to death. Would they be into it? Would he simply use the skills he'd perfected on Web to coerce and manipulate gainers into getting too fat for their own good?
He imagined Sam at 40 or 50 years old, finding veritable clones of Web in their twenties. Corrupting them, teasing them, bringing out the worst in them. Covincing them that they WANTED this for themselves as well. How many pounds would Sam put on fat fucks? How many would he make housebound? How many would he permanently corrupt with bad-ending gainer kinks? How many would he actually bad end?
And he was the first. The lost cause. The origin story to future serial-fattener Sam. He begged the mutt to talk about other gainers when he buried his digits in his sweaty, slimy fatpad and got him off. He wanted to hear about how small they were. How big Sam wanted to get them. How he'd get them even fatter than Webster was.
---
The medical knowledge came in handy when Webster finally had his first heart attack at age 24. It was the beginning of October and he was weighing in at a very heavy 788 pounds. He'd finished 12,000 calories the day before and was feeling like absolute fucking shit. Even more than usual. Every breath was a struggle, and though he had the classic symptoms of pressure on his chest and a numb right arm, it did not occur to him that he was actually having one at first.
"What?!" Webster couldn't catch his breath and could feel his heart pounding in his ears. "Are you sure?"
"I sure think so. You've got all the symptoms. I see decreased heart sounds on the left side of the heart, but the ST segment doesn't seem to be elevated, so I think it's not completely blocked. It still looks like a heart attack. I mean, your blood pressure is still over 170/130 and your O2 sats are barely at 90. We must have caught it early, though."
Sam talked about him so clinically that it made him horny, despite the pain surging through his chest. "Is that it? Did I actually fucking eat myself to death?" He wheezed loudly and sucked on an oxygen mask to catch his breath. "I'm not even 800 yet!"
"No, not yet. You've still got a ways to go. Aspirin first, and then I think.. uhh.. like, 200mg of an ACE inhibitor? I have Enalapril somewhere. Let me check my notes. It should help bust up the clot."
The goat lay there in bed, wheezing and trying to cope with the pressure in his chest as Sam casually read through a composition notebook. "Ah, found it! Oh man, it was 20mg, not 200. Glad I checked that, or you'd really be dead."
He said it so fucking casually. His fears overwhelmed him, and for the first time, Web freaked out hard. The pain was truly a lot. He heard himself begging for his life. "You're.. you're sure I shouldn't go to the hospital, right?"
The mutt's grin turned wide and toothy. "NOW who's thinking about self-preservation! No, you're not going to the hospital. You're either going to get through this, or you're not. Isn't that what you want?"
"I.. It hurts so much and I.."
The mutt grabbed at Webster's crotch and started tugging at his lard-crushed balls and buried dick. "You're going to make it through, or you're not, you hog. You can't back out now. All you can do is accept the consequences of every fattening fucking thing you've done over the last year."
As always, the mutt's words made him. All the goat could do was moan through the pain. "Oh fuck.. Yes.. You're so right."
"I know I'm right. And I'm not going to administer this shit either until you cum. You deserve to feel the first orgasm of your short, fat life that happens during a heart attack. Familiarize yourself with what it feels like to cum as your heart is pounding to a halt. As your body begins to fail. As your life fades away. You'll make it through this time - probably - but who knows about next time?"
"You.. huff.. think I'll survive?"
"80% odds lardass. And it goes down every minute I don't fill you up with drugs. So think your horniest thoughts and focus on that pain in your chest as I pump this useless, buried dick of yours. Think about the permanent damage this is causing to your body, even if you get through it. Think about the fact that you've gained 400 pounds in a year and a half. Think about how helpless you've become. How you're out of a job and will never work again. How there's a 20% chance you won't live to see next week, that you'll be on some coroner's slab. Their disgusted faces as they dig through mountains of unhealthy, yellow fat tissue to reach your oversized, wrecked heart, scarred liver, and wrecked lungs. That could be your body next week, lardass.
"Yeah, you're getting hard now, aren't you? God, you're so fucked up, Webster. What fucking happened in that brain of yours to make you want this so bad, huh? Look at what a wreck you are. You've probably broken records with how fast you've gained. How unhealthy every pound has been. With the damage you've done to your body so quickly. It's just a matter of time and weight now. Are you gonna hit 1000 pounds? Your birthday is in what, two weeks? Are you even going to see 25? You have to realize you are NEVER going to see 26, now. Even if you tried to stop today, I don't think you'd see two more birthdays. You're too far gone, Web. Too addicted to food. Too much damage to your body.
"I can see you struggling. Maybe you need a little more incentive to get off before your heart stops, huh?" Sam had been stroking his own cock as he talked and, without much ceremony, pressed the head of his dick into the fat little divot that Webster's desperate, semi-hard cockhead poked out of, and he came. Shot after shot of his healthy, white, hot, virile seed drenched the goat's unhealthy dick. Despite the pain in his chest, the goat moaned again and finally came himself, shooting his thick, off-yellow, impotent jizz onto his own fat rolls.
Sam wiped his paws off on Webster's fat belly and stuck four aspirin into the goat's mouth. He attached the IV (after missing the vein a couple of times) and started the goat on a drip of life-saving medicine. Slowly, the heart monitor returned to normal and the pain began to recede.
"Lucky this time, fatass. Who knows about next time."
---
There were, unfortunately, a few lasting impacts from Webster's first heart attack. Sam got him taking more pills on a regular basis. He was even more easily tired than he used to be, and even sitting up could wind him. And for the two weeks afterward, he could barely keep any food down at all. Webster was at 781 when the heart attack happened, and dropped to 774 the next week, and 770 the week after. It was only on his 25th birthday that he managed a day with a calorie level above 7,500 and that was only with relentless encouraging. His chest still ached, he just ate through the pain.
But, honestly, now that he had had a heart attack, the reality of his situation had sunk in. His end wasn't years away anymore, it was months of weeks. Any day could be his last, and he was not going to go out without trying to get as fat as possible. He couldn't go back. There was permanent damage to every part of his body. He forced food down day after day, chugging gainer shake and stuffing his face with pizza, calling on Sam to go out in the early morning to get burgers and dipping them in mayo. As long as it was unhealthy.
He got back to his old calorie levels quickly and hit 800 before the end of November. Even compared to before, Webster ate like he had a death wish. He was on a clock now more than ever, and he was determined to pack on as much lard as possible. His stomach could barely keep up with his appetite. It learned to stretch with the amount of food it held. Even with as much fat as there was under his skin, when he really, really ate, his stomach would get tight as a drum. His thin, stretch-marked skin could barely hold the amount of food and chub quivering underneath its surface. When Sam dragged his digits along its tight surface, he had to be sure his claws wouldn't tear anything.
And every time Webster packed away a ridiculous amount of food, the problem would only get worse. His stomach would stretch out further, his skin would struggle to cope with the sudden expansion of circumference, and even more fat would pile on. Sam encouraged this, and often wondered aloud whether Webster would blow his heart or his stomach first. It wasn't even hyperbole.
With the new medication, he avoided any more heart attacks in the short term. His family was desperate to contact him for the holidays again, but he ignored them. He was 841 pounds at the end of the year, and averaging over 12,000 calories a day and a brutal 7.4lb/wk through December. This next year would be almost certainly his last. If he kept his pace, he'd be 1100 pounds by his 26th birthday and nearly 1200 by the end of the year. Those were weights almost by definition incompatible with his continued existence. Especially with his current health.
By mid-February he was functionally immobile. He would struggle to even move in the months before that, unable to take more than a few steps without palpitations and bracing pain in his feet, knees, and back. His body moved so awkwardly that he hardly knew HOW to be ambulatory. And one day, it simply became easier to stop trying. He would spend the rest of his short, blubbery life in a bariatric bed he was slowly filling up like a trash bag hooked up to a lard hose. He was too fat to play games, too fat to read. All he could do is sit back, eat, and watch television. Only with voice activation could he even reliably change the channel.
Their second anniversary was fast approaching, and he was closing in on 900 at the same time. Sam hooked him up to a feeding tank and started to use hoses to augment his gain. Web's poor stomach was on the very verge of bursting for days on end. More than once did Sam think that the goat overdid it and he'd finally burst, an ocean of lard pouring out from his ripped, broken hide and taking his cholesterol-clogged organs with it. But the goat just barely made it through, and they celebrated it with more food. He was 902.5 pounds.
Only a week after that, he had his second heart attack. It was more serious than the first and involved a full clot to an important artery. Sam could only give Webster a clot-busting drug that thinned his blood significantly and hope for the best. In a real hospital, he would have been sent up to surgery, but under Sam's care, the goat only gasped and wheezed from his permanent, bed-bound position as his dick was ruthlessly jerked off. Told by Sam how he only had a 50% chance of surviving this one. Dumb luck if this would be the last orgasm he'd ever have. He came violently to his own imminent death but made it through anyway.
He was in a permanent hypertensive crisis from here on, with a resting heart rate of 160 and a steady blood pressure of 182/148. The lab results he got back printed everything number in bold red with DANGER on it. His body was barely able to keep itself alive anymore. And still, Webster was forcing more unhealthy fat onto his bones with every passing day.
They were determined to make it to 1000 pounds. His weigh-ins were much more difficult now that Sam had to ease his enormous body into a giant, bariatric sling and lift him up enough to be weighed, but it was worth it. It was what they cared about the most. As the number climbed up through 930, 950, 975, Webster could practically feel the pressure his body was under. His pounding heart beat, his atrophied, aching muscles, his stinging, stretched skin. Every meal pushed his body to the limit. Every chest pain was inspected closely, he was constantly hooked up to an IV and heart monitor.
And finally, in mid-June, he hit it. The first weigh-in above a thousand: 1001.8 pounds on June 21. It was week 113 that finally got him over the barrier. Two and a half years to destroy his health and get him into quadruple digits. He was a half ton of lard at 25 years old. A thousand pounds of fat. Every pound after this would just be whipped cream on the dessert of his self-destruction. He'd gained 621 pounds since they started, a full 27 pounds FATTER than his original estimate at 5 lb/wk.
They celebrated the best they could, though Webster was barely able to catch his breath. He was nothing but fat now, with a BMI of 150.3 and rolls that filled the entire bed. His bloated legs were too fat to move. His belly swelled outward far enough to smother his knees with fat. His cheeks were so fat that they muffled his speech, his double chin so thick that it impaired his breathing. His tits spilled to either side of his chest. He was unable to get truly hard anymore, and Sam found himself sliding one of his digits along the goat's soft, slick cockslit until it dribbled cum into his paw. That was sex to him now. That was the most his body could manage.
After that, his days really began to blend together. Sam used him to get himself off over and over, occasionally expending the effort required to dig all the way underneath the goat's massive gut and between his huge thighs to play with his broken, buried, lost dick. The slim wolfdog would press his tight, hard body against an avalanche of lard as he teased the barely-living goatblob about how each day could be his last. He used tubes to great effect, as it wasn't easy to keep Web full, but often spent two or three hours of nonstop handfeeding to fill his bloated gut up with so much fast food that he thought the goat might explode.
The automated food pumps and inside security cameras allowed Sam to leave long enough to go on dates. He was seeing two or three gainers, and had packed almost a hundred pounds of blubber on one of them already. They had even started coming to Web's house, and the goat had to listen to these cute chubs get railed by his hot, evil feeder mere feet away from his permanent spot on the bed. They never even knew he was there.
He had another heart attack three later in September, and his skin really did almost rip open just after Christmas. It required some very quick stitching from a very inexperienced wolfdog, but Sam managed to keep him in one piece. He was constantly on the IV, on a drip of various medications and antibiotics and painkillers. The heart monitor was always blasting an alarm, so Sam had to disable the audio. Web's body was failing from every angle.
Web's fourth and final heart attack happened just after their third anniversary, in his 26th year. He was barely conscious enough to know what was happening anymore, and most of his calories came from grease and gainer shake. Staying awake was a problem near the end, and Webster would constantly knock into and out of a deep, dead unconsciousness. Tubes kept pumping calories into his stomach and drugs into his cholesterol-clotted veins as he slept. Despite that, he was awake and eating greasy fast food when his chest began to hurt in that familiar way again. This time, worse than ever before. Everything about his body felt worse than before.
Web grunted in pain and got Sam into the room, who checked his vitals. "Yeah, it's another heart attack, lardass. A big one this time. If you wanted a real chance of surviving it, we'd have to get you into the hospital now. I'll get the clot busters into you, but I don't think you're making it."
The goat started breathing faster, sucking as much oxygen as he could into his failing lungs. "Odds?"
"Five percent. Maybe less."
That was it, then. These were his last moments on earth. He ate himself to death. He could feel every pound of his choices weighing him down. His heart giving up and taking the rest of his body with it. His breathing got faster and faster as he felt the familiar sensation of Sam's paw reaching toward his broken, soft dick. "Give it to me, pig. This is almost definitely your last orgasm. Cum. That's the only reason you did this to yourself, right? Why you murdered yourself with food and lard? Why you buried your heart in so much grease that you're feeling it fail? Enjoy it. It's the last fucking thing you're ever going to do. Cum."
The goat didn't have enough time left for foreplay of edging. Despite the cascade of failures through his body, he managed enough energy to do exactly what Sam said. The mutt tugged and squeezed one final orgasm out of his useless balls and dick. It was what he had killed himself for, and as pain began to grow deeper inside of him and his brain fogged up, he couldn't even regret it. Sam jumped on top of belly and began to violently fuck his rolls in a way he hadn't since they were afraid of tearing skin. All the goat could think about was who the mutt was going to get through next.
They looked deep into each other's eyes without saying a word, Webster in his final breathes and Sam ruthlessly slamming his hips into the goat's lard. He realized there would be no miracle, no five-percent beating the odds, a calm overcame him. Somewhere very far away, he felt his skin tear again and the mutt's brutal dick plunge directly into his fat tissue. His last thought was the hope that Sam would fill him with cum.
He did. The young wolfdog came buckets as he watched the spark go out of Webster's eyes for the last time. The heart monitors beeped loudly and then stopped. Sam had fed this giant fat fuck to death. He was responsible for the lifeless blob in front of him. He knew that the goat's skin had torn, and felt hot yellow lard and blood cover his cock as he pounded shot after shot of cum into the goat's body. It took him a long time to recover.
He turned off the medical equipment and wiped himself off, eventually, and raised the crane to get Web's final weigh-in. 1315.5 pounds.
Sam did not feel remorse or sadness when he looked over at Webster's body. This was a fat fuck that got exactly what he wanted. Web wanted to eat himself to death, and he did. What was there to feel sad about? A huge blob that finally collapsed under his own weight.
He cleaned up any incriminating trace and called the coroner: morbidly obese patient finally kicked the bucket. No one would ask any questions. Can't eat yourself that big and expect a happy ending, after all.
Sam grinned to himself. He already had three hot young gainers at his beck and call. They'd all been fooled by his innocent face and cute style; none of them had realized just how intense and dark he could really get. He'd bad end at least one of them under a thousand pounds of useless blubber. Maybe all three, if he played his cards right.
And he wouldn't feel bad for any of them either.
The comments to this story is far worse View attachment 2427603
- Joined
- Oct 2, 2019
if he was a retarded furry, yes.
Furx
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 6, 2021
I like it even more now, because it works as an excellent and creative stealth insult towards me, while at the same time being totally on-topic.
Hey, if I couldn't take the mick, it would be pretty stupid of me to place myself in a position where I would be sure to get some. But when people genuinely ask, I'm always happy to discuss.
Kiwi bird, eh? I'll see what I can do.
Snuff stuff is honestly a lot more common than people want to think. I think it's more rarer in furry than it is OUT of furry, because "nooo what are you doing to that cute animal"
I Blame a lot of old horror, too. Western stuff had a trope of being anti-sex. Killers jumping out on young couples romping in their cars. Other cultures like Italian stuff was overly sexualized.
I don't know if it can be blamed on any Western stuff, or any other specific stuff, really. After all, there is the whole ero guro nansensu movement that arose in 1920s prewar Japan, at a time when Japan was especially anti-Western with Japanese nationalism rising towards its peak. (This art movement ultimately morphed into guro hentai in modern times.)
Going back through history in all regions, there is a lot of classical art that mixes death and sex. Even Mayans pre-colonization had things like Ix Tab, beautiful goddess tempting men with her snares to hang themselves willingly. (This actually has turned into a romanticized suicide cult/glorification in the region in modern times.)
It seems to me that mixing eroticism and violence are pretty innate human drives. There may even be a biological basis for this. I don’t have a reference citation for this (should’ve saved it when I saw it), but I have seen a study that was done on rats with electrodes in their brains to measure activity in different sections as they were subjected to various situations. For both mating and fighting the same neurons got activated.
Both induce similar arousal and intense feelings and reactions, so I suppose it wouldn’t take much for some people, like me, to have their wires crossed a bit, and peril being thrilling in erotic way.
Add to that all the usual BDSM etc. sexuality stuff and... *shrug*
Yeah, I remember those times and sites like necrobabes.org and Dolcett's drawings circulating around. Even today outside of furry cicles men are practically always the killers and girls are the victims.
Within furry circles male victims do appear more commonly though, I suspect because sexuality distribution in general is very different from mainstream. The few reasonably reliable furry studies I've seen report about equal thirds of each straight, bi, and gay. Whereas mainstream distribution is about 90% straight, 10% non-straight.
I have seen that first hand. One of the people I mentioned having helped with their real life suicidal thoughts was just like that.
That all started with him contacting me (I didn't know him before this. He chose me because I'm famous, or, infamous, if you prefer) and actually offering me his life. That is, having me watch him hang himself live on webcam for me. Long story short, I declined, and supported and guided him over several months through the process of discovering that he didn't really want to die.
Afterwards he was very thankful for me for all I did for him by listening, advising, and guiding, despite him being a complete stranger at the start of it. He has since also received professional help and left the snuff circles, which is for the best for his mental health. Last I heard of him, he was doing all right.
Now that's using your noggin... I haven’t seen big brains myself (they must really love the Talos episode of Star Trek original series), but I have seen brain fetish stuff before. And I don’t mean as snuff, but rather, like a fully alive girl rubbing her genitals against her own removed brain. Or playing with it with her feet... I'm sure you can find these and more on e621 if you're inclined to look.
There really is a fetish for everything...
- Joined
- Apr 12, 2018
Now I'm honestly curious, do you have any kinks that you particularly dislike?
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2015
Yeah, I've seen it all before and it's sad. It's people who are pretty much just "Well, I'm going to die anyway. Maybe someone else can get something from it". I'm just glad most snuff fans, however weird to normal folk, still have their heads screwed on right to not go full Armin Meiwes on people like that. It's one of the best examples to show people who have a good wall between fantasy and reality.
One of the most common scenarios in that case is usually younger, easily manipulated women who are suicidal/depressive and cut themselves doing it on cam for someone else. I know tumblr had a trend of that for a while with girls showing off their scars. The "mm hot
" reactions give them a brief kick and it becomes addictive to try and please creeps for a sense of self fulfilment, even if they girl doesn't enjoy it herself.Sadly I've seen people who would probably also get a kick out of that and hold a death under their belt. Furry snuff groups are oddly polite compared to the non furs who love to steal peoples facebook photos and edit them to be killed and plaster them on a million sites for kicks. It's notoriously rife with revenge porn and extreme writing works where you can tell it's bordering on that line of becoming reality if there was an oppurtunity, whereas furry stuff tends to be very fantastical and exagerrated and easy to say "lol weird". Or maybe I'm just desensitized.
Only time art like that tends to really, really gross me out is when I recognize stuff from irl scenes, since it's occassionally an indicator of people who enjoy irl content. I think it's more common with pedo shit like on inkbunny, where it looks as though the anatomy was traced or heavy reffed from a real pic/video. Take Dotti for instance. I know there was a lot of kickup when people compared some of her art to content from the zoosadism leaks a while back.
Can't find the original of the last one but I'm sure it's on that one Tor FA Backup, just can't access atm.
But yeah - Sedation, duct taped muzzle, being bent over a log - All of those are very commonly seen in real zoosadism stuff. One of the first ever shock images I saw on the early internet days was a dog with its muzzle/legs duct taped and its legs pulled into a very painful looking position. That shit hurt me man.
Hell, I've seen people draw furry porn over True Crime events. Something feels a lot more uncomfortable when it begins to skirt into knowing people are focusing on the more realistic, easily commited fantasies and taking from real life events.
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- Joined
- Jun 14, 2018
Going through this, all I could think of was the Gluttony death from Seven. And then had the horrible thought that people would get off to that too, nothing is safe anymore from weird fetishes.probably one of the few posts I make to this thread, instead of it being art it is actually a story. A very terrifying story if you are wondering, this did almost make me fucking vomit and cry. You cannot see the story without being logged in, so there is no point in archiving the link
Deathwish by Mairari
Have been wanting to do something dark lately, here's the results of those efforts. Starring xkwebster as the gainer and blushysnoo ...
Deathwish
Webster had had dark fantasies for as long as he could remember.
He was a gainer. That part he was sure of. Sometimes he could suppress the darkest parts of it, but he couldn't deny all of it. Even when he wasn't actively gaining weight, he still fantasized about eating himself to enormous sizes. Getting too big to move, too big to do anything. Always eating, always growing. Fat was the only thing that consistently, always got him off.
He had never been skinny in his life, and growing up fat wasn't easy. He had been teased in locker rooms, chastised by adults for his weight, been unable to fit into school desks. Gaining weight was in his nature. Even if he wasn't a gainer, getting fat would be as easy for him as breathing. He never had to try. He always felt as though he was holding back the tide of sudden, violent weight gain. As though all he had to do was simply let go and the pounds would fly on dangerously fast. It excited and terrified him in equal measure. Despite the constant shame he'd always felt over his weight, his size turned him on immensely. It left Web with some deep, complicated emotions around his weight, and these had matured into intense, powerful, dark kinks.
Though he had occasionally found similar-minded people online, it was too intense to bring up with the occasional feeding hookups he managed in person. And he was mostly content with the usual routine: they fed him, he ate as much as he could handle, they got off together. Fine. Easy. Web went back to awkwardly maintaining his 300+ size in reality and dreaming about being an immobile blob on its last legs in fantasy.
His dark streak would occasionally come out in the heat of mutual pleasure, in between kisses and gropes, and Webster would beg them tell him about how they were going to fuck him up. Destroy his body. They tried sometimes, but it was invariably less hot than he'd imagined.
Web would go on occasional gainer benders, fueled by intense chats with distant feeders. These inevitably died down as the chats faded away, usually leaving him a little bit embarrassed about the new, permanent ten or fifteen pounds of fat he'd packed on. Things would stagnate, he'd get distracted by work or games, and the cycle would repeat itself. When he met Sam, he was already well over 350lb and was entirely unprepared for how things were going to change.
The wolfdog was 21 years old, a few years younger than Web. He was slim, on the shorter side and, most importantly, cute as hell. Despite his innocent exterior and playful demeanor, Sam was -really- good at talking about how fat he wanted Webster. At their first meetup, they bought large bags packed full of greasy burgers that Web greedily scarfed down. While the goat was face first in grease, Sam diligently rubbed the slowly bloating belly in front of him. The pup's teasing got a little bit more intense as the night drew on, and he got more comfortable with the fat goat. It was looking like a fun (if not particularly memorable) night, when the playful, fearless mutt tested the waters by rubbing Web's belly and ramping his teasing up a few notches.
"What a fucking pig you are, Web. You eat like you've got a death wish, fatass."
The words sent the goat's libido into overdrive. He moaned through a mouthful of fries and forced himself to eat faster, despite how full he was. Sam's teasing struck his heart: Web desperately wanted to eat like he had a death wish. He wanted to be that self-destructive, that far gone in his gluttony. He forced himself to binge toward that goal, licking the grease and salt off his paws and stuffing his face until every swallow brought on a pang of nausea.
Sam's bulge throbbed through his pink boxer-briefs at the outrageous show of gluttony he'd triggered; the idea that his words could turn this hot, fat gainer into a reckless glutton was intoxicating. "I guess you liked that."
The goat's cheeks turned red. "I.. yeah. I know it's weird, but when.. when you say stuff like.." Though the fantasies had been living in his head for years, he struggled to say the actual words.
Sam didn't have any hesitancy. "Stuff like, I want to watch you eat yourself to death? I want to help fill your heart with grease, to stretch your hide past its limit, to wreck you with fat?"
The goat's dick, already half-swallowed up by fat, moistened the fabric of his boxers with pre-cum. Sam's words sent hormones and adrenaline raging through his overstuffed body. Lust overtook his his mind. He reached down to jerk himself off, but Sam's paw grabbed his and placed it on his belly. The mutt then nestled his toned body against Webster's chubby, rolling side, wrapped his digits around Webster's dick, and started to slowly pump as he spoke.
The wolfdog was quite aware of how good he was with words, and with his cute face and round ass, he knew how to utilize his assets to get what he wanted out of weak-willed gainers. His voice was soft, but his tone was confident. "I'm going to make you the fattest version of yourself imaginable, goatpig. I'm going to push your body to its limits, and then I'm going to push it further. Nothing is going to stop me from helping you get enormous. We're going to bloat your stomach out until it's impossible to get you full. I'm going to control your diet and limit it to the worst foods in existence. We're going to fill your body up with grease and fat, corrupting you from the inside out. No matter how unhealthy you look on the outside, you're going to be even worse inside."
He kept pumping, and Webster rubbed his fat tits with one paw. He was so full and overstimulated, it wasn't going to take much to make him cum.
With no pushback from the goat, Sam just got darker and darker. "You're going to be a ticking time bomb, Web. A disaster waiting to happen. It doesn't matter how, but your life is going to end before you're thirty. With you weighing over a thousand pounds of lard. With your clogged heart soaked in lard. With your stomach bloated into a monstrous caricature of what it should be. With blood unnaturally thick with sugar and grease. With your hide stretched to its limit, barely able to contain the sheer amount of fat within. And that's all you're going to be. Bloated, swollen fat cells, and the broken machine to bloat them even more. Tell.."
Mind-sentence, Web's cock finally exploded. His hips thrust as he shot hot cum through Sam's paw, all over his belly and fatpad. The mutt nursed him through it, coaxing all of the cum he could out of the goat's heavy, overstimulated nuts. "Good boy. Cum for me, show me how much you want this. Good boy.."
When the orgasm finally died down, the goat was beyond spent. He lay there, whimpering, and Sam just watched him catch his breath as he idly played with his own hard cock. The grin on his face was toothy, wide, and undeniably evil. "Seems like I hit some buttons."
Webster's cheeks turned a little red, but Sam's penetration into his dark fantasies was as liberating as it was embarrassing. "You have no idea."
"I might have a clue. You came about a liter there, big guy."
"Oof.. thank you, that was so good. Give me a minute, I'll return the favor.."
"No, sit there and relax. Soak it in. Let's not pretend this is some normal tit-for-tat hookup. I'll let you know when and how you can return the favor, and it'll almost certainly involve food." Sam grinned. "Seem reasonable?"
Webster huffed loudly. "Y..yes. Thank you."
"You're welcome, pig."
---
As Sam predicted, it was not a regular hookup. They met up later that week, and then on the weekend. It wasn't long before they were kind of actually dating. They saw movies, went to buffets, hit up restaurants. Low impact activities where food was prevalent. They kept ending up back at Webster's place with a bag full of food and a whole lot of intense, brutally dark dirty talk. Sam never even really tried for traditional sex; it was all food and teasing and rubs and grinding himself into fat. Webster fucking loved it. He felt the walls he'd built up between his normal life, his gainer identity, and his darkest fantasies all begin to crumble. It was scary and freeing. He felt as though he could say anything to Sam. Not only would he not be judged, but everything would be reciprocated.
As those dark fantasies were indulged over and over, however, they grew in power. He could not cum unless he was imagining himself in the last minutes of his existence, heart strained, skin stretched, stomach churning, inordinately fat. He could not stop thinking about the choices needed to get there, the strain it would put on his body. Having Sam by his side, forcefeeding him when his body tried to reject calories. Eating things dangerously bad for him, risking his life just to pile more useless pounds of lard onto his body.
He wanted to get huge. Recklessly huge. He wanted to devote his whole life to it. He wanted to quit his job and see how fast he could ruin his body. To completely destroy his future. To finally and completely submit to the self-destruction that he'd been dreaming about since he was old enough to jack off. The more he met up with Sam, the more of himself he revealed, and the darker the mutt's teasing got, the more he couldn't stay away.
Some part of him wanted to stop. The old, uneasy alliance he'd had with his fantasies wasn't satisfying, but at least it allowed him to live something of a normal life. He could have friends, speak with family. What would he say to them otherwise? What would they think? He'd already been eating way more lately, and was actively putting on a ton of weight. Things were already starting to change.
He finally came to a decision after he and Sam had been seeing each other regularly for a few months. He couldn't bring himself to stop seeing the cute, evil mutt, and despite how much his worries and fears about the future plagued him, the intense hookups continued. Although he was nervous, Web decided he'd put the question to Sam and let him inevitably break things off.
It took a little while for Web to gather the courage, but he finally brought it up one night when they were both together. There was still a huffing in his voice as he spoke. "Hey, we gotta talk, Sam."
The mutt was still cleaning the cum out of his fur. "Sounds serious. What's on your mind?"
"Listen, this is fun, but.. you're really good at this. I've put on like twenty pounds so far."
Sam chuckled. "Well, thanks. You're really good at getting fat."
Webster's cheeks reddened. "I know. That's kind of part of it. I'm not just turned on by getting fatter, but I also gain weight really easy. It's just in my nature. Kind of a dangerous combo. I've never tried to go full-speed gaining, but I know the fat's gonna pile on fast. It scares me, but I'm also really into it. And doing it with you just makes me want it more. You know what I'm saying?"
Sam nodded. "I get it. But I don't have to push all the way, Web. I can slow down if you feel like you're getting too big. You're still gonna be hot."
"No, I.." The goat closed his eyes. "I don't wanna stop. That's what I'm trying to say. The thought of you wrecking me with food is all I can think about, Sam. And I know it'll happen if I let it. So, I want you to do it to me."
"Do what?"
"I want you to feed me to death, Sam. I want you to do this to me. I can't stop thinking about it. You're so hot, and you're so good at bringing out the darkest, hottest parts of my fantasies. You bring out the worst in me. I know you're into it too. The idea of me getting that big.. it turns you on, right?"
Sam was quiet for a moment. "I can't deny it does, but.."
"Just let me finish. I want it really bad, Sam. I know it's bad for me. I know I shouldn't. But I've always been fat, and I was bullied in school for my weight. I'm fucked up because of it. I know that. But that doesn't change how badly I want to eat myself to death. Nothing else turns me on like that thought. It's always been in the back of my mind, but ever since I met you, all I can think about is sacrificing everything to be a wheezing heart attack waiting to happen. A mountain of useless fat. I want to be pitied. A desperate sack of lard that's so addicted to food, they can't do anything but eat anymore. When you're around, that's all I want."
His dick was hard again just talking about it. "I want my body to fall apart as you stuff food into me. I wanna be the fattest thing you've ever seen. I want to wonder if my heart is going to give out first, or my stretched-out skin is going to tear from being too fat. And I want it to happen as FAST as possible. I want to eat myself to death. And the only thing standing thing between me and that future right now is you."
Sam looked over at Webster's fat body, almost as turned on by hearing Webster's desperate confession. "Me?"
"I can't do it alone. Say no, and we'll stop seeing each other, and we can both go back to living normal lives. I'd be okay with that, Sam. Really. A big part of me is counting on you turning me down." He took a deep breath. "Or, we can do this. I don't know how long it'll take, but I think we can do it in a few years tops. Two years left to live.. fuck, just thinking about it. But it'll take a lot of effort from both of us. More toward the end, of course. But I don't care about anything about getting fatter. Whatever needs to be done. Whatever you want to feed me. How far you want to push me. Just constant, rapid weight gain until my body can't take it anymore. But it's a commitment from you. I know."
Sam bit his lip. "It is a commitment. But if we do this, I'm gonna make it out the other end unscathed, Webster. You're not."
"I know. You don't understand how bad I want it. Sure, if I was older, maybe my hormones would settle down and I'd get over it, but I don't want that, Sam. I don't want to get older. I don't want to settle down. I don't want to be reasonable, I don't want love, I don't want anything but to get huge."
"You don't want love? That doesn't sound.. healthy. Are you sure this is okay? I feel like you can't be in your right mind to actually want this."
"None of this is healthy, Sam. And I know it's fucked up, that's what I'm saying. But NOTHING fucking turns me on this much. Nothing. I don't want to be normal. I don't want to live a long, happy life. I want my fat-soaked life to be cut short fast and hard by grease and lard. I want your attention, but I don't want you to love me. I want to be your project. Your gainer. A trashbag full of lard that you can tease, fuck, and stuff until it inevitably explodes. I want you to date others. Don't get attached to me. Move on fast. Just be there with food and make sure I never stop getting fatter."
The mutt looked away. "Fuck, Webster. If you want me to just straight up say no, I'm not going to. Maybe I need to think about it a little, but.. you're right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Knowing you never want any limits, that nothing is ever going to stop you from getting fatter.. it's incredibly hot. And how I'm just going to walk away from it, leaving your 1000+ body behind me while I look for more superchubs to fatten up.."
He leaned over and rubbed Webster's fat belly. "I think I might be in. I can't say I know exactly what I'm signing up for, but I think I'm ready to.. to feed you to death, lardass."
Webster bit his lip. "Really?" He was gleeful and terrified watching his hope of a normal life dissipate. "You think so?"
"I think so. This is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me in my life. My mind is racing. Yeah, I think I do want to do it." He huffed. "And we should start now. I have some butter in the fridge."
The goat's eyes widened. "Butter?"
"Solid, saturated fat. Yeah, that's a good start. We're going to have to go cheap and fattening to do this to you. It's gonna take a lot of calories. But I wanna see the limits of what your body can take. Let's start with butter. You need to get used to eating it sooner, rather than later. It's only gonna get worse from here."
"Are you.. You're sure you're not going to change your mind?"
"I need to think about it a little more, but I don't think so. If you're willing to fatten yourself as ruthlessly as you claim, I think I'm in. And when I commit, Webster, I commit for real. You don't need to worry about me; just how long that body of yours is gonna last."
The goat bit back a moan. "So.. Butter?"
The lean pup hopped up. "Butter."
---
Webster was right in that the weight came on quickly. Sam was more math-oriented than the goat, and he took an active role in planning his daily calorie intake. They began meeting up daily, though no longer for movies or pleasant walks. They made changes to the Web's diet that would terrify any normal person. While the goat had a broad palate and enjoyed a wide variety of foods, they eliminated everything that wasn't calorie-dense and fattening from his diet. If a vegetable wasn't deep-fried and covered in salt, he wasn't allowed to have it. He was limited to fast food for nearly every meal, and Sam would reinforce this by randomly-timed extra deliveries of fast food whenever he could manage.
Water was eliminated in most cases as well. Heavy cream replaced most of the liquid he drank with the remainder being high-caffeine, high-sugar soda. He bought thick gainer shakes and Sam maintained a slowly-increasing quota for how many he had to consume daily. Once a week, he was allotted a ‘cheat meal' of something not-particularly high calorie, like sushi. The remaining days were just a nonstop barrage of burgers, chicken nuggets, and bacon ranch cheese fries. What nutritionists might call poison.
They settled on the very ambitious goal of five pounds a week. That was more than 20 pounds a month, and 260 pounds a year. It was March, and if Web managed to hit that goal every week, he'd be up 180 pounds, to over 580 by the end of the year. He fantasized about this number: 580 pounds seemed like an incredible amount of weight. The goat knew he'd be struggling to keep up with his size and his job at that size, especially as his health and mobility waned. And if he kept it up another year, he'd be 840 by the end of that one. A third year? Over 1100 pounds.
Even 840 was enough to make him wonder if he'd reach it. 1100 seemed like a gamble. Any more than was surely certain doom. Web would MAYBE last three years, then. He was 23 now, and he wouldn't make it to 27 years old. He'd be lucky to see his 26th birthday. And Sam, turning 21 soon, would easily enjoy another happy, healthy 50 years. Webster could, too, if he wasn't so fucked up.
But he was.
To reach that goal, he needed to eat a minimum of 2500 calories a day more than he burned. And that was assuming he perfectly digested every calorie. They calculated his base metabolic rate around 3500 calories a day, which means he needed to eat a bare minimum of 6000 calories a day, an amount that would drift upwards with every pound gained and every slow, heavy step taken. He eliminated as much physical activity as possible. He wore a watch to track his steps and try to limit the number to under 500 on the days he worked, and under 100 on his days off. It monitored his heart rate and blood pressure as well, and the data was uploaded for future comparisons.
From the very start, every decision that Webster made revolved around him making the worst possible choice. How could he use this to get himself even fatter? Become more sedentary? His calorie goals rolled around in his head as he imagined himself as these sizes. The idea that he was actively on the road to his own imminent self-destruction was the hottest thing he could dream. Sam got him off talking about all of the things that he'd never get to experience. The things he'd be too fat to do. Too unhealthy to do. That would happen after his heart had given out.
He had committed to gaining five pounds every week. It was foolish to think that his body would survive to 1400 or 1500 pounds. These truths added up to the simple fact that he had an expiration date. And it was not far off.
Despite that, it was not easy to hit 5lb/week regularly. His body WAS very good at storing fat, and he WAS eating nearly 7000 calories a day. He was eating until he was painfully full with every meal; eating until he wanted to throw up. Sam was grinding up against his bloated belly as he forced gainer shakes down Web's throat until he could barely breathe. Not letting him get off without consuming entire sticks of butter. Binge eating when he was alone and being forcefed into a painful, whimpering wreck when the wolfdog was there. Still, there was some biological imperative for self-preservation left within his body and some calories passed through him undigested. He gained an average of 3.0 pounds a week at first, which brought him to 407 after two months.
A gain of 27 pounds in two months was impressive, but it was not the 45lb they'd hoped for. The changes to his diet left Webster feeling terrible. As effective as it was to packing on lard, all of the non-nutritious garbage he'd been stuffing down for weeks left him constantly belching, bloated, and with indigestion and poor sleep. But the new pounds of unhealthy goatfat he saw in the mirror were worth it and the climbing numbers got him off. New stretch marks on his bronze-tinted love handles and arms highlighted his progress; the thickening of his creamy white inner-thigh rolls to an increasingly ungainly, awkward size. Just these two months had already left an indelible mark on his body.
Web's persistence had paid off in more than one way. His appetite and capacity for food was only growing with each gigantic meal. He found himself able to handle larger and larger quantities of fast food without feeling ill. He even began to crave it, and his moderately-portioned cheat meals left him feeling incredibly unsatisfied. He grew used to the nausea and stomachaches and Sam took advantage of this, encouraging him to eat ever-more ridiculous amounts of junk food in a single sitting. The goat was eating himself so full he could barely breathe, until he was a useless, helpless food balloon. He was altering his body into something much less healthy, with terrible habits and cravings it couldn't ignored. His addiction to food grew more serious with every greasy mouthful.
He hit the five pound goal for the first time in the second week of May. 412 pounds. It was still a struggle to force that much food into his body, but at least he proved it could be done. They celebrated the milestone by going out to eat at an upscale restaurant together, a rare treat since they were generally optimizing calories per dollar. A sweaty, out of shape Web ordered plate after plate of food as a slim, well-dressed, flirty Sam did most of the talking. He waddled out feeling absolutely huge.
At the beginning of June, he was 420 even. The summer heat was a lot of him to handle and he rarely went outside. He ordered food delivery to his door. His cheat meal was eliminated, his calorie count was updated upward. Sam used Web's credit card to buy groceries and would sometimes surprise the goat with fast food snacks. He had placed a lot of trust in the mutt, but Web knew that if he was really serious about immobilizing himself under a thousand pounds of lard, he was going to end up dependent on Sam. If he was a liar or a thief, it'd be better that he took money and ran now, instead of when he was too far gone to do anything about it.
Sam had access to Web's savings, though he contributed his own funds to the endeavour as well. His savings should be enough. They could always dip into his meager retirement fund if it wasn't, as he wouldn't be using it. But if was going to chicken out from this endeavour, time was running out.
Web's diet only got worse the bigger he got. As he closed in on 500 in October, he found his breath was constantly short. He had put on almost a hundred pounds of fat in seven months. The toll that both the extra fat and his terrible diet had taken on his body was immediately obvious. There were new stretch marks all on his sides and his widening fat ass. His fur had grown greasy and matted, there were bags under his eyes. His body did not have time to adapt to the new weight it was forced to carry, and even small amounts of activity exhausted him and strained his flabby muscles. Showering was becoming more and more difficult, and though they still lived apart, he would occasionally ask for Sam's help in scrubbing him down really well.
His breathing was the real issue. He had resisted getting both a CPAP and an asthma nebulizer to help him breathe easier. Webster wanted to feel the weight of his choices at all times, feel his body struggling to keep up with his appetite. Feel the strain that all that lard was putting his body under. But choking in his sleep every night was a difficult pill to swallow, especially when it left him too tired to function. And while he liked the idea of constantly needing to chug down sugary, caffeine-heavy energy drinks just to stay conscious, it was just getting to the point where even massive doses of caffeine weren't cutting it. The choice was between seeing a doctor and using illicit, dangerous, addictive stimulants to get through the day. An actual close choice, but Sam convinced him to get a consult.
The doctor didn't have any idea how quickly he gained, but seeing a 23 year old weighing a quarter of a ton was some cause for alarm. They ordered blood work and vitals, both of which were just as bad as they might have feared. His resting heart rate was 118, his blood pressure was 142/94, his cholesterol was nearly 300mg/dL. His baseline oxygen saturation was low at 92%, his A1C was 6.3%. All of these were worrying and the doctor let him know it. Web left the room with prescriptions for medicines to reduce his blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar, as well as for the CPAP and asthma inhaler.
They spoke and decided to ignore the blood pressure and cholesterol meds: these would only help on a timeframe longer than he was going to live for. They picked up the blood sugar meds, as preventing himself from going into diabetic shock seemed useful. Same for the CPAP and nebulizer.
As they were sitting in the wolfdog's car outside the pharmacy, he looked over at the bloated, fat, unhealthy goat. Webster's belly filled up his lap, his cheeks were puffed and red, and every roll wobbled and shook with each breath. He was sweating hard, even in early September, and even with the AC blasting.
His feeder instincts were temporarily overwhelmed by a rare moment of empathy. "I just have to stop and ask you, Web." The mutt hesitated. "Your body's really taking a hit. You're sure you want to keep going, right?"
"Yeah, just -huff- give me a second to catch my breath. I'll come in with you."
"No, I mean.. you're sure you want to keep getting fatter? Continuing on this path. We both knew what we were getting into, but.."
Webster very suddenly got quiet. "Are you having second thoughts?" Sam opened his mouth, but the goat interrupted him. "Be completely honest."
The mutt sighed. "I don't know, Webster. Honestly? No. I'm not having second thoughts. It's more like the idea that I should be having them. That I should care about how badly you're doing, how this diet is destroying you. That I should.. I don't know. Be empathetic. Try to stop you. At least not encourage this."
He continued. "But I don't want to, you know? It's just really fucking hot. I kind of want you to confess to me that YOU want to stop, because I think that would take the guilt off my shoulders. I'm helping you kill yourself with food. And I should care, but.. we're not romantic. We talk about numbers and charts, weigh you, make plans together. Get off together. I don't consider you my boyfriend, you know? When I see some massive, huge fatass on the internet talking about how they're still gaining weight and getting fatter, do I plead with them to stop? No. I want them to keep going. I want to see how much fat they can take. I want them to get as huge as humanly possible for my benefit. I feel that way with you.
"It should be different in person. I mean, I know you. I know your personality. I should care more. I guess I'm just asking you if you want an out. To slow down or stop. To get a little healthier. Anything, really. Because the shrinking part of me that cares about my soul wants you to stop. And the part of me that wants to nut on a thousand pounds of barely-living goat wants you to keep going. And going to pick up these medicines, after hearing the details about how bad your health really is, seems like a good time to ask."
The goat closed his eyes for a long time, so long that Sam thought he might have fallen asleep. But he finally spoke in a forced calm voice. "I guess we're in the same boat. Does some part of me want you to bail? Did some part of me want you to empty my savings account and run for the hills, leaving me broke but alive? Yeah. I can't think about what I'm doing to myself too hard, Sam. Too many emotions. Too much of my brain begs me to stop. I just want to focus on eating and getting fatter. No thinking, no feeling, no nothing. Just food and mindless pleasure. All I care about is intense my orgasms are when I think about how bad off I'm getting. That's all I want to deal with.
"So no. I can't tell you I want to stop. I'm not going to be the one that stops this train. Your soul, my life are both going to be causalities of my appetite. I want to keep going. I want to destroy my body, bury every part of me under so much fat I can never escape. If I never met you, would I be doing this to myself? No, probably not. But we did meet. And we unlocked these desires in each other, things that would have probably always stayed under the surface otherwise. Things that no rational person would do to themselves. I don't want to stop."
Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay, Web. Then let me get you the drugs we need to make you even bigger."
---
Web did not visit his family for the holidays that year, and they had no idea that he'd gained so much weight. The goat didn't want to deal with it. They complained and tried to video call him, but he made excuses. He only had to hold them off long enough, after all. Sam did spend a few days with his parents, who nudged him about finding a partner. The mutt laughed it off, truthfully explained he hadn't had many serious dates lately, and entirely omitted any mention of Webster.
The goat was averaging about 4.9 lb/wk by the end of the year, and with a good final push just hit 560 by New Years. He'd gained a total of 180 pounds since March and he was feeling every unhealthy, wobbling pound of lard. His pounding heart hemorrhaged calories just to keep his body alive, but he'd stretched and bloated out his stomach to hold way more food than it could ever use. When he really pushed himself hard, his stomach would expand to a ridiculous size and his soft, wobbling, stretch-marked belly would blimp outward into a firm sphere of lard. Fat pressed tight against his thin, stretch-marked skin by the insane amount of food he could fit inside of him. The fact that he could go from so soft, heavy, and wobbly to taut, full and round was always and forever taken advantage of by Sam, who very much enjoyed pushing his body to the limit.
It was really the incredible changes to Web's body that invigorated Sam, and how hungry the goat was for even more. The new rolls of fat, the stretching of his skin, his exponential appetite, even his heavy breathing. He used the goat's body to get himself off whenever they were together, pressing his dick between two sweaty rolls of fat as he stuffed his wheezing face full of junk food. Grinding up against his bloated, taut gut and listening to him force out tiny little desperate belches. It was intoxicating to push him to his limit without needing to worry about how Web would feel about it. The goat was there to get fatter by any means necessary.
But after winter break, there was no way around it: Webster could simply not keep working. He was just too fat, too unable to do the basic tasks his job required of him. They'd spoken to him too many times over the past few months, co-workers trying to figure out what was going on with his gain, managers offering therapy or counseling, taking a page from the drug-addiction corporate handbook and trying to develop a plan to get him back on his feet. But they were exasperated with his endless gain and dwindling performance, and they eventually offered him a small bonus to finally just quit. He accepted.
Without a job, he had nothing to fill his day but sitting on his growing butt and eating. It suited him well. He'd given up on any hobbies he used to have when he started this endeavour and felt no need to fill his remaining days with learning a new skill or game. He watched mindless television and played easy video games, slept whenever he felt tired, and stuffed his face with animal lard, cheeseburgers, gainer shake, and candy.
Web hit 600 pounds jut before the first anniversary of this gaining experiment, and was only about 30 pounds behind schedule. Sam took a few days off of work, and together they celebrated in five consecutive days of pure, unabashed gluttony. Webster moved as little as humanly possible and only left bed to use the bathroom. He was averaging about 8000 calories a day before this, and did not go under 10,000 a single day that Sam was there. Though each meal involved the mutt using Web's thick, heavy, wobbling rolls to cum, the goat was often left on the edge. Actually getting off left his heart racing as it struggled to force saturated-fat soaked blood through cholesterol-slick veins and arteries.
In fact, in a single year, he'd had to completely revamp his entire process of getting himself to cum. He could still reach, but it wasn't easy and it was exhausting. His fatpad had entirely swallowed up his dick when he was soft, and his stretched balls were always competing for space with his sagging, awkwardly lard-swollen thigh rolls. His fatpad was thirty pounds of blubbery, sweaty, stretch-marked lard that made pawing his dick off much harder. Even getting hard wasn't as easy as it used to be, as blood needed to be diverted through narrowing vessels to his buried dick. Though he was as horny as ever thinking about what he'd done to himself (moreso now that his avenue of release was impeded), he was able to act on the urge less often.
No part of him was left unimpaired by the insane weight gain. Everything was more difficult. Everything was tiring. Even without Sam's constant brutal, horny teasing in his ear, Web's whole life was a constant reminder of how incredibly unhealthy his ridiculously fast weight gain had been. Even his house was filled with things that he could not do, things he was too fat for. There was not an article of clothing in his closet that he could fit into. He was too wide for his recliner. His couch had cracked. Trash was piled by the door. Everything was a mess.
The corruption of his body and living space was matched by the corruption of his mind. Nothing could get him off except the thought of his own impending demise. It was the only thing he thought about when he was horny. It was the only thing that Sam teased him with. There was no respite, no kinky side-quests, no exploration. His goal was to eat himself to death, and it was reinforced with every mouthful of greasy food, every exhilaratingly cruel word the mutt spoke to him. When it came to his dick, there was nothing but eating himself to death.
"God, you're such a fucking disaster, you know that, goatblob? Every one of those sagging, fat rolls is a testament to how fucked up you are. Every wheeze, every palpitation, every pound. You're killing yourself one burger at a time. What is it like to look at the future and know that you're not going to see 30? 28? That you're destroying every organ in that fat-soaked blubbery body of yours? Wrecking your future with every bite? And it's all just because something broke inside of you and now it's the only thing that can get you off?"
Sam pumped Web's buried little dick gently with two digits as he teased his growing gainer. His thighs straddled out of the goat's huge thighs as he lay there, the mutt's big cock sliding in between some combination of his underbelly, thigh rolls, and fat pad. Web moaned for him to continue.
"Watching trailers for movies that you are probably never going to see? Wondering if you're gonna finally burst before that game you want comes out? Or keel over from a coronary before next spring? This could easily be the last March you ever see, lardass. If you keep gaining like this, you'll be 850, 875 by your next anniversary? That's not a weight that many people can survive at. At least not for very long, and definitely not with how badly you've been trashing your body. And you still want to keep gaining like this, don't you, lardass?"
"Fuck.. yes.." Every word was accompanied by a painful wheeze.
"You're never going to get married. Never going to feel true love, never going to have a family. All you have left is fat, you huge fuck. Mountains of wobbling rolls. Unhealthy, stretch-marked love handles. A giant, sweaty fat ass you can barely keep clean. Two sagging tits. You're giving up everything just for more fucking fat. To be horrifyingly, disgustingly fat. No one is going to understand how this happened to you when they see your half-ton corpse laying there, face smothered in grease and half a sandwich in your bloated paw. Knowing you were barely 350 just a couple years ago."
"That's what you're fucking doing to yourself. Killing yourself with food before you've got a chance to achieve anything. Throwing away your life because your fucked-up brain conflates food with pleasure. And you still want to keep going, don't you?"
Sam was still pumping, and he knew very well how to edge the goat. "Yes.. I'm so fucked up.. I'm wrecking myself.."
"Tell me and I'll let you cum."
"I'm.." He wheezed and grunted. His stomach gurgled as it struggled to digest. His fat rolls smacked against each other. "I'm eating myself to death." He belched loudly. "And I don't want to stop."
His confession made the wolfdog cum buckets, shooting seed all on the underside of Web's belly. It dripped down into the deep, sweaty crevices of the goat's crotch. This triggered the goat's own buried dick to spurt useless, unhealthy cum into Sam's paw. Soon, the only thing that the goat would be able to breed would be his own fatpad. As he laid there, his grease-soaked heart pounding in his fat chest, struggling to catch his breath, receding dick oozing the last few drops of jizz onto his fat, he let his mind go blank with bliss. The urge to reflect and think critically about his choices was strongest in his post-coital moments, but the empty-headed euphoria of calories headed this off.
He was going to get huge, no matter what his brain or his heart said.
---
Webster continued to gain at a dangerous pace, averaging around 5.2lb/wk in the months after that first anniversary. By the end of April, he was already at 650. Through May, he re-devoted himself to truly monumental amounts of consumption, and averaged over 10,000 calories a day and 6.1 pounds a week. He was 675 by the end of that month, and closing in on 700 at the start of the month after. He did not care about anything except how much food his stomach could hold and how much lard he could pack on his desperately struggling body.
Though Sam retained his old apartment, he essentially moved in with his gainer. The goat simply could not function without help. Help getting out of bed, help washing himself, help moving his body through doorways, help getting food, help reaching for oxygen. His muscles could not keep up with the amount of fat on his body; he was crushing himself underneath the weight of his own indulgence. Every inch of his body was ripe with stretch marks, some fading slight, some angrily red. His fur was thinning around the curviest parts of his fat belly, where his skin could simply not keep up with the lard underneath it. And where his fur was thick, it was dull, flat, and greasy.
His ass had billowed out behind him spectacularly, and were now no less than two king-sized, cellulite-swollen, wobbling bags of fat that took up a sofa cushion each. His thighs had spread spectacularly wide, and the little thigh-rolls that bulged out against his fat-pad were now two very large, somewhat asymmetrical bags of lard. His calves were bloated and weak, his feetpaws had doubled in width and constantly ached. All of him constantly ached. All of him was constantly exhausted.
His numbers kept getting worse. Sam began to take some online classes in basic medical knowledge just to make things easier. He learned all about the organs, and how they were destroyed by monumental obesity. He studied arrthymias, heart disease, heart attack, heart failure, diabetes, kidney disease, fatty liver, blood clots. Anything that might strike Webster down. Though the goat was determined to eat himself to death, if there was something quick and preventable he could do in order to wring another hundred or hundred fifty pounds out of his gainer's failing body, he would.
Eventually, Sam managed to procure a counterfeit certification and proof that he was Webster's home care nurse. He learned to do blood draws and send them to labs. He purchased a defibrillator, an IV, and breathing equipment from a medical supplier. He was even able to get some prescription medication and taught himself how to administer via syringe or IV. YouTube was a great help. It wasn't very long before the confident mutt felt comfortable attempting to handle Web's medical requirements.
Besides, the only actual consequence to a medical error would be Sam not getting to see how truly enormous Webster could get.
Even as he continued to grow and become reliant on his feeder, Webster took comfort in watching Sam flirt and go on dates with much smaller gainers that knew nothing about the goat. Webster was Sam's and Sam's alone. But it helped him to know that Sam would not suffer over the goat's inevitable demise. He would get as much use out of him as possible, and then simply move on to the next one. Enough orgasms in his rolls, food stuffed down his face, enough belly wobbles, enough teasing. That's all he wanted to be used for, and knowing Sam was going to simply move on to the next gainer pleased him.
While they didn't know about him, he knew a little about them. Web knew when Sam was going on dates, and showed him pictures of the much smaller gainers he was going out with. Gainers that were his size when they started, or even a little more. Gainers with big fantasies that were enamored when Sam took them back to his barren apartment and ruthlessly fed them. These gainers had no idea what the cute, young, flirty guy they were meeting with was an unfeeling, no-limits feeder with first-hand experience stuffing someone to the edge.
Web was practice for the young wolfdog. Sam would live another fifty years; he wouldn't last twelve months. It got him hard to wonder if he would be the only one Sam found that was actually willing to go this far. If he would feed anyone else into immobility, or to death. Would they be into it? Would he simply use the skills he'd perfected on Web to coerce and manipulate gainers into getting too fat for their own good?
He imagined Sam at 40 or 50 years old, finding veritable clones of Web in their twenties. Corrupting them, teasing them, bringing out the worst in them. Covincing them that they WANTED this for themselves as well. How many pounds would Sam put on fat fucks? How many would he make housebound? How many would he permanently corrupt with bad-ending gainer kinks? How many would he actually bad end?
And he was the first. The lost cause. The origin story to future serial-fattener Sam. He begged the mutt to talk about other gainers when he buried his digits in his sweaty, slimy fatpad and got him off. He wanted to hear about how small they were. How big Sam wanted to get them. How he'd get them even fatter than Webster was.
---
The medical knowledge came in handy when Webster finally had his first heart attack at age 24. It was the beginning of October and he was weighing in at a very heavy 788 pounds. He'd finished 12,000 calories the day before and was feeling like absolute fucking shit. Even more than usual. Every breath was a struggle, and though he had the classic symptoms of pressure on his chest and a numb right arm, it did not occur to him that he was actually having one at first.
"What?!" Webster couldn't catch his breath and could feel his heart pounding in his ears. "Are you sure?"
"I sure think so. You've got all the symptoms. I see decreased heart sounds on the left side of the heart, but the ST segment doesn't seem to be elevated, so I think it's not completely blocked. It still looks like a heart attack. I mean, your blood pressure is still over 170/130 and your O2 sats are barely at 90. We must have caught it early, though."
Sam talked about him so clinically that it made him horny, despite the pain surging through his chest. "Is that it? Did I actually fucking eat myself to death?" He wheezed loudly and sucked on an oxygen mask to catch his breath. "I'm not even 800 yet!"
"No, not yet. You've still got a ways to go. Aspirin first, and then I think.. uhh.. like, 200mg of an ACE inhibitor? I have Enalapril somewhere. Let me check my notes. It should help bust up the clot."
The goat lay there in bed, wheezing and trying to cope with the pressure in his chest as Sam casually read through a composition notebook. "Ah, found it! Oh man, it was 20mg, not 200. Glad I checked that, or you'd really be dead."
He said it so fucking casually. His fears overwhelmed him, and for the first time, Web freaked out hard. The pain was truly a lot. He heard himself begging for his life. "You're.. you're sure I shouldn't go to the hospital, right?"
The mutt's grin turned wide and toothy. "NOW who's thinking about self-preservation! No, you're not going to the hospital. You're either going to get through this, or you're not. Isn't that what you want?"
"I.. It hurts so much and I.."
The mutt grabbed at Webster's crotch and started tugging at his lard-crushed balls and buried dick. "You're going to make it through, or you're not, you hog. You can't back out now. All you can do is accept the consequences of every fattening fucking thing you've done over the last year."
As always, the mutt's words made him. All the goat could do was moan through the pain. "Oh fuck.. Yes.. You're so right."
"I know I'm right. And I'm not going to administer this shit either until you cum. You deserve to feel the first orgasm of your short, fat life that happens during a heart attack. Familiarize yourself with what it feels like to cum as your heart is pounding to a halt. As your body begins to fail. As your life fades away. You'll make it through this time - probably - but who knows about next time?"
"You.. huff.. think I'll survive?"
"80% odds lardass. And it goes down every minute I don't fill you up with drugs. So think your horniest thoughts and focus on that pain in your chest as I pump this useless, buried dick of yours. Think about the permanent damage this is causing to your body, even if you get through it. Think about the fact that you've gained 400 pounds in a year and a half. Think about how helpless you've become. How you're out of a job and will never work again. How there's a 20% chance you won't live to see next week, that you'll be on some coroner's slab. Their disgusted faces as they dig through mountains of unhealthy, yellow fat tissue to reach your oversized, wrecked heart, scarred liver, and wrecked lungs. That could be your body next week, lardass.
"Yeah, you're getting hard now, aren't you? God, you're so fucked up, Webster. What fucking happened in that brain of yours to make you want this so bad, huh? Look at what a wreck you are. You've probably broken records with how fast you've gained. How unhealthy every pound has been. With the damage you've done to your body so quickly. It's just a matter of time and weight now. Are you gonna hit 1000 pounds? Your birthday is in what, two weeks? Are you even going to see 25? You have to realize you are NEVER going to see 26, now. Even if you tried to stop today, I don't think you'd see two more birthdays. You're too far gone, Web. Too addicted to food. Too much damage to your body.
"I can see you struggling. Maybe you need a little more incentive to get off before your heart stops, huh?" Sam had been stroking his own cock as he talked and, without much ceremony, pressed the head of his dick into the fat little divot that Webster's desperate, semi-hard cockhead poked out of, and he came. Shot after shot of his healthy, white, hot, virile seed drenched the goat's unhealthy dick. Despite the pain in his chest, the goat moaned again and finally came himself, shooting his thick, off-yellow, impotent jizz onto his own fat rolls.
Sam wiped his paws off on Webster's fat belly and stuck four aspirin into the goat's mouth. He attached the IV (after missing the vein a couple of times) and started the goat on a drip of life-saving medicine. Slowly, the heart monitor returned to normal and the pain began to recede.
"Lucky this time, fatass. Who knows about next time."
---
There were, unfortunately, a few lasting impacts from Webster's first heart attack. Sam got him taking more pills on a regular basis. He was even more easily tired than he used to be, and even sitting up could wind him. And for the two weeks afterward, he could barely keep any food down at all. Webster was at 781 when the heart attack happened, and dropped to 774 the next week, and 770 the week after. It was only on his 25th birthday that he managed a day with a calorie level above 7,500 and that was only with relentless encouraging. His chest still ached, he just ate through the pain.
But, honestly, now that he had had a heart attack, the reality of his situation had sunk in. His end wasn't years away anymore, it was months of weeks. Any day could be his last, and he was not going to go out without trying to get as fat as possible. He couldn't go back. There was permanent damage to every part of his body. He forced food down day after day, chugging gainer shake and stuffing his face with pizza, calling on Sam to go out in the early morning to get burgers and dipping them in mayo. As long as it was unhealthy.
He got back to his old calorie levels quickly and hit 800 before the end of November. Even compared to before, Webster ate like he had a death wish. He was on a clock now more than ever, and he was determined to pack on as much lard as possible. His stomach could barely keep up with his appetite. It learned to stretch with the amount of food it held. Even with as much fat as there was under his skin, when he really, really ate, his stomach would get tight as a drum. His thin, stretch-marked skin could barely hold the amount of food and chub quivering underneath its surface. When Sam dragged his digits along its tight surface, he had to be sure his claws wouldn't tear anything.
And every time Webster packed away a ridiculous amount of food, the problem would only get worse. His stomach would stretch out further, his skin would struggle to cope with the sudden expansion of circumference, and even more fat would pile on. Sam encouraged this, and often wondered aloud whether Webster would blow his heart or his stomach first. It wasn't even hyperbole.
With the new medication, he avoided any more heart attacks in the short term. His family was desperate to contact him for the holidays again, but he ignored them. He was 841 pounds at the end of the year, and averaging over 12,000 calories a day and a brutal 7.4lb/wk through December. This next year would be almost certainly his last. If he kept his pace, he'd be 1100 pounds by his 26th birthday and nearly 1200 by the end of the year. Those were weights almost by definition incompatible with his continued existence. Especially with his current health.
By mid-February he was functionally immobile. He would struggle to even move in the months before that, unable to take more than a few steps without palpitations and bracing pain in his feet, knees, and back. His body moved so awkwardly that he hardly knew HOW to be ambulatory. And one day, it simply became easier to stop trying. He would spend the rest of his short, blubbery life in a bariatric bed he was slowly filling up like a trash bag hooked up to a lard hose. He was too fat to play games, too fat to read. All he could do is sit back, eat, and watch television. Only with voice activation could he even reliably change the channel.
Their second anniversary was fast approaching, and he was closing in on 900 at the same time. Sam hooked him up to a feeding tank and started to use hoses to augment his gain. Web's poor stomach was on the very verge of bursting for days on end. More than once did Sam think that the goat overdid it and he'd finally burst, an ocean of lard pouring out from his ripped, broken hide and taking his cholesterol-clogged organs with it. But the goat just barely made it through, and they celebrated it with more food. He was 902.5 pounds.
Only a week after that, he had his second heart attack. It was more serious than the first and involved a full clot to an important artery. Sam could only give Webster a clot-busting drug that thinned his blood significantly and hope for the best. In a real hospital, he would have been sent up to surgery, but under Sam's care, the goat only gasped and wheezed from his permanent, bed-bound position as his dick was ruthlessly jerked off. Told by Sam how he only had a 50% chance of surviving this one. Dumb luck if this would be the last orgasm he'd ever have. He came violently to his own imminent death but made it through anyway.
He was in a permanent hypertensive crisis from here on, with a resting heart rate of 160 and a steady blood pressure of 182/148. The lab results he got back printed everything number in bold red with DANGER on it. His body was barely able to keep itself alive anymore. And still, Webster was forcing more unhealthy fat onto his bones with every passing day.
They were determined to make it to 1000 pounds. His weigh-ins were much more difficult now that Sam had to ease his enormous body into a giant, bariatric sling and lift him up enough to be weighed, but it was worth it. It was what they cared about the most. As the number climbed up through 930, 950, 975, Webster could practically feel the pressure his body was under. His pounding heart beat, his atrophied, aching muscles, his stinging, stretched skin. Every meal pushed his body to the limit. Every chest pain was inspected closely, he was constantly hooked up to an IV and heart monitor.
And finally, in mid-June, he hit it. The first weigh-in above a thousand: 1001.8 pounds on June 21. It was week 113 that finally got him over the barrier. Two and a half years to destroy his health and get him into quadruple digits. He was a half ton of lard at 25 years old. A thousand pounds of fat. Every pound after this would just be whipped cream on the dessert of his self-destruction. He'd gained 621 pounds since they started, a full 27 pounds FATTER than his original estimate at 5 lb/wk.
They celebrated the best they could, though Webster was barely able to catch his breath. He was nothing but fat now, with a BMI of 150.3 and rolls that filled the entire bed. His bloated legs were too fat to move. His belly swelled outward far enough to smother his knees with fat. His cheeks were so fat that they muffled his speech, his double chin so thick that it impaired his breathing. His tits spilled to either side of his chest. He was unable to get truly hard anymore, and Sam found himself sliding one of his digits along the goat's soft, slick cockslit until it dribbled cum into his paw. That was sex to him now. That was the most his body could manage.
After that, his days really began to blend together. Sam used him to get himself off over and over, occasionally expending the effort required to dig all the way underneath the goat's massive gut and between his huge thighs to play with his broken, buried, lost dick. The slim wolfdog would press his tight, hard body against an avalanche of lard as he teased the barely-living goatblob about how each day could be his last. He used tubes to great effect, as it wasn't easy to keep Web full, but often spent two or three hours of nonstop handfeeding to fill his bloated gut up with so much fast food that he thought the goat might explode.
The automated food pumps and inside security cameras allowed Sam to leave long enough to go on dates. He was seeing two or three gainers, and had packed almost a hundred pounds of blubber on one of them already. They had even started coming to Web's house, and the goat had to listen to these cute chubs get railed by his hot, evil feeder mere feet away from his permanent spot on the bed. They never even knew he was there.
He had another heart attack three later in September, and his skin really did almost rip open just after Christmas. It required some very quick stitching from a very inexperienced wolfdog, but Sam managed to keep him in one piece. He was constantly on the IV, on a drip of various medications and antibiotics and painkillers. The heart monitor was always blasting an alarm, so Sam had to disable the audio. Web's body was failing from every angle.
Web's fourth and final heart attack happened just after their third anniversary, in his 26th year. He was barely conscious enough to know what was happening anymore, and most of his calories came from grease and gainer shake. Staying awake was a problem near the end, and Webster would constantly knock into and out of a deep, dead unconsciousness. Tubes kept pumping calories into his stomach and drugs into his cholesterol-clotted veins as he slept. Despite that, he was awake and eating greasy fast food when his chest began to hurt in that familiar way again. This time, worse than ever before. Everything about his body felt worse than before.
Web grunted in pain and got Sam into the room, who checked his vitals. "Yeah, it's another heart attack, lardass. A big one this time. If you wanted a real chance of surviving it, we'd have to get you into the hospital now. I'll get the clot busters into you, but I don't think you're making it."
The goat started breathing faster, sucking as much oxygen as he could into his failing lungs. "Odds?"
"Five percent. Maybe less."
That was it, then. These were his last moments on earth. He ate himself to death. He could feel every pound of his choices weighing him down. His heart giving up and taking the rest of his body with it. His breathing got faster and faster as he felt the familiar sensation of Sam's paw reaching toward his broken, soft dick. "Give it to me, pig. This is almost definitely your last orgasm. Cum. That's the only reason you did this to yourself, right? Why you murdered yourself with food and lard? Why you buried your heart in so much grease that you're feeling it fail? Enjoy it. It's the last fucking thing you're ever going to do. Cum."
The goat didn't have enough time left for foreplay of edging. Despite the cascade of failures through his body, he managed enough energy to do exactly what Sam said. The mutt tugged and squeezed one final orgasm out of his useless balls and dick. It was what he had killed himself for, and as pain began to grow deeper inside of him and his brain fogged up, he couldn't even regret it. Sam jumped on top of belly and began to violently fuck his rolls in a way he hadn't since they were afraid of tearing skin. All the goat could think about was who the mutt was going to get through next.
They looked deep into each other's eyes without saying a word, Webster in his final breathes and Sam ruthlessly slamming his hips into the goat's lard. He realized there would be no miracle, no five-percent beating the odds, a calm overcame him. Somewhere very far away, he felt his skin tear again and the mutt's brutal dick plunge directly into his fat tissue. His last thought was the hope that Sam would fill him with cum.
He did. The young wolfdog came buckets as he watched the spark go out of Webster's eyes for the last time. The heart monitors beeped loudly and then stopped. Sam had fed this giant fat fuck to death. He was responsible for the lifeless blob in front of him. He knew that the goat's skin had torn, and felt hot yellow lard and blood cover his cock as he pounded shot after shot of cum into the goat's body. It took him a long time to recover.
He turned off the medical equipment and wiped himself off, eventually, and raised the crane to get Web's final weigh-in. 1315.5 pounds.
Sam did not feel remorse or sadness when he looked over at Webster's body. This was a fat fuck that got exactly what he wanted. Web wanted to eat himself to death, and he did. What was there to feel sad about? A huge blob that finally collapsed under his own weight.
He cleaned up any incriminating trace and called the coroner: morbidly obese patient finally kicked the bucket. No one would ask any questions. Can't eat yourself that big and expect a happy ending, after all.
Sam grinned to himself. He already had three hot young gainers at his beck and call. They'd all been fooled by his innocent face and cute style; none of them had realized just how intense and dark he could really get. He'd bad end at least one of them under a thousand pounds of useless blubber. Maybe all three, if he played his cards right.
And he wouldn't feel bad for any of them either.
The comments to this story is far worse View attachment 2427603
- Joined
- Oct 2, 2019
It is even more terrifying these people are likely living decent social lives
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2020
>over 350lbsprobably one of the few posts I make to this thread, instead of it being art it is actually a story. A very terrifying story if you are wondering, this did almost make me fucking vomit and cry. You cannot see the story without being logged in, so there is no point in archiving the link
Deathwish by Mairari
Have been wanting to do something dark lately, here's the results of those efforts. Starring xkwebster as the gainer and blushysnoo ...
Deathwish
Webster had had dark fantasies for as long as he could remember.
He was a gainer. That part he was sure of. Sometimes he could suppress the darkest parts of it, but he couldn't deny all of it. Even when he wasn't actively gaining weight, he still fantasized about eating himself to enormous sizes. Getting too big to move, too big to do anything. Always eating, always growing. Fat was the only thing that consistently, always got him off.
He had never been skinny in his life, and growing up fat wasn't easy. He had been teased in locker rooms, chastised by adults for his weight, been unable to fit into school desks. Gaining weight was in his nature. Even if he wasn't a gainer, getting fat would be as easy for him as breathing. He never had to try. He always felt as though he was holding back the tide of sudden, violent weight gain. As though all he had to do was simply let go and the pounds would fly on dangerously fast. It excited and terrified him in equal measure. Despite the constant shame he'd always felt over his weight, his size turned him on immensely. It left Web with some deep, complicated emotions around his weight, and these had matured into intense, powerful, dark kinks.
Though he had occasionally found similar-minded people online, it was too intense to bring up with the occasional feeding hookups he managed in person. And he was mostly content with the usual routine: they fed him, he ate as much as he could handle, they got off together. Fine. Easy. Web went back to awkwardly maintaining his 300+ size in reality and dreaming about being an immobile blob on its last legs in fantasy.
His dark streak would occasionally come out in the heat of mutual pleasure, in between kisses and gropes, and Webster would beg them tell him about how they were going to fuck him up. Destroy his body. They tried sometimes, but it was invariably less hot than he'd imagined.
Web would go on occasional gainer benders, fueled by intense chats with distant feeders. These inevitably died down as the chats faded away, usually leaving him a little bit embarrassed about the new, permanent ten or fifteen pounds of fat he'd packed on. Things would stagnate, he'd get distracted by work or games, and the cycle would repeat itself. When he met Sam, he was already well over 350lb and was entirely unprepared for how things were going to change.
The wolfdog was 21 years old, a few years younger than Web. He was slim, on the shorter side and, most importantly, cute as hell. Despite his innocent exterior and playful demeanor, Sam was -really- good at talking about how fat he wanted Webster. At their first meetup, they bought large bags packed full of greasy burgers that Web greedily scarfed down. While the goat was face first in grease, Sam diligently rubbed the slowly bloating belly in front of him. The pup's teasing got a little bit more intense as the night drew on, and he got more comfortable with the fat goat. It was looking like a fun (if not particularly memorable) night, when the playful, fearless mutt tested the waters by rubbing Web's belly and ramping his teasing up a few notches.
"What a fucking pig you are, Web. You eat like you've got a death wish, fatass."
The words sent the goat's libido into overdrive. He moaned through a mouthful of fries and forced himself to eat faster, despite how full he was. Sam's teasing struck his heart: Web desperately wanted to eat like he had a death wish. He wanted to be that self-destructive, that far gone in his gluttony. He forced himself to binge toward that goal, licking the grease and salt off his paws and stuffing his face until every swallow brought on a pang of nausea.
Sam's bulge throbbed through his pink boxer-briefs at the outrageous show of gluttony he'd triggered; the idea that his words could turn this hot, fat gainer into a reckless glutton was intoxicating. "I guess you liked that."
The goat's cheeks turned red. "I.. yeah. I know it's weird, but when.. when you say stuff like.." Though the fantasies had been living in his head for years, he struggled to say the actual words.
Sam didn't have any hesitancy. "Stuff like, I want to watch you eat yourself to death? I want to help fill your heart with grease, to stretch your hide past its limit, to wreck you with fat?"
The goat's dick, already half-swallowed up by fat, moistened the fabric of his boxers with pre-cum. Sam's words sent hormones and adrenaline raging through his overstuffed body. Lust overtook his his mind. He reached down to jerk himself off, but Sam's paw grabbed his and placed it on his belly. The mutt then nestled his toned body against Webster's chubby, rolling side, wrapped his digits around Webster's dick, and started to slowly pump as he spoke.
The wolfdog was quite aware of how good he was with words, and with his cute face and round ass, he knew how to utilize his assets to get what he wanted out of weak-willed gainers. His voice was soft, but his tone was confident. "I'm going to make you the fattest version of yourself imaginable, goatpig. I'm going to push your body to its limits, and then I'm going to push it further. Nothing is going to stop me from helping you get enormous. We're going to bloat your stomach out until it's impossible to get you full. I'm going to control your diet and limit it to the worst foods in existence. We're going to fill your body up with grease and fat, corrupting you from the inside out. No matter how unhealthy you look on the outside, you're going to be even worse inside."
He kept pumping, and Webster rubbed his fat tits with one paw. He was so full and overstimulated, it wasn't going to take much to make him cum.
With no pushback from the goat, Sam just got darker and darker. "You're going to be a ticking time bomb, Web. A disaster waiting to happen. It doesn't matter how, but your life is going to end before you're thirty. With you weighing over a thousand pounds of lard. With your clogged heart soaked in lard. With your stomach bloated into a monstrous caricature of what it should be. With blood unnaturally thick with sugar and grease. With your hide stretched to its limit, barely able to contain the sheer amount of fat within. And that's all you're going to be. Bloated, swollen fat cells, and the broken machine to bloat them even more. Tell.."
Mind-sentence, Web's cock finally exploded. His hips thrust as he shot hot cum through Sam's paw, all over his belly and fatpad. The mutt nursed him through it, coaxing all of the cum he could out of the goat's heavy, overstimulated nuts. "Good boy. Cum for me, show me how much you want this. Good boy.."
When the orgasm finally died down, the goat was beyond spent. He lay there, whimpering, and Sam just watched him catch his breath as he idly played with his own hard cock. The grin on his face was toothy, wide, and undeniably evil. "Seems like I hit some buttons."
Webster's cheeks turned a little red, but Sam's penetration into his dark fantasies was as liberating as it was embarrassing. "You have no idea."
"I might have a clue. You came about a liter there, big guy."
"Oof.. thank you, that was so good. Give me a minute, I'll return the favor.."
"No, sit there and relax. Soak it in. Let's not pretend this is some normal tit-for-tat hookup. I'll let you know when and how you can return the favor, and it'll almost certainly involve food." Sam grinned. "Seem reasonable?"
Webster huffed loudly. "Y..yes. Thank you."
"You're welcome, pig."
---
As Sam predicted, it was not a regular hookup. They met up later that week, and then on the weekend. It wasn't long before they were kind of actually dating. They saw movies, went to buffets, hit up restaurants. Low impact activities where food was prevalent. They kept ending up back at Webster's place with a bag full of food and a whole lot of intense, brutally dark dirty talk. Sam never even really tried for traditional sex; it was all food and teasing and rubs and grinding himself into fat. Webster fucking loved it. He felt the walls he'd built up between his normal life, his gainer identity, and his darkest fantasies all begin to crumble. It was scary and freeing. He felt as though he could say anything to Sam. Not only would he not be judged, but everything would be reciprocated.
As those dark fantasies were indulged over and over, however, they grew in power. He could not cum unless he was imagining himself in the last minutes of his existence, heart strained, skin stretched, stomach churning, inordinately fat. He could not stop thinking about the choices needed to get there, the strain it would put on his body. Having Sam by his side, forcefeeding him when his body tried to reject calories. Eating things dangerously bad for him, risking his life just to pile more useless pounds of lard onto his body.
He wanted to get huge. Recklessly huge. He wanted to devote his whole life to it. He wanted to quit his job and see how fast he could ruin his body. To completely destroy his future. To finally and completely submit to the self-destruction that he'd been dreaming about since he was old enough to jack off. The more he met up with Sam, the more of himself he revealed, and the darker the mutt's teasing got, the more he couldn't stay away.
Some part of him wanted to stop. The old, uneasy alliance he'd had with his fantasies wasn't satisfying, but at least it allowed him to live something of a normal life. He could have friends, speak with family. What would he say to them otherwise? What would they think? He'd already been eating way more lately, and was actively putting on a ton of weight. Things were already starting to change.
He finally came to a decision after he and Sam had been seeing each other regularly for a few months. He couldn't bring himself to stop seeing the cute, evil mutt, and despite how much his worries and fears about the future plagued him, the intense hookups continued. Although he was nervous, Web decided he'd put the question to Sam and let him inevitably break things off.
It took a little while for Web to gather the courage, but he finally brought it up one night when they were both together. There was still a huffing in his voice as he spoke. "Hey, we gotta talk, Sam."
The mutt was still cleaning the cum out of his fur. "Sounds serious. What's on your mind?"
"Listen, this is fun, but.. you're really good at this. I've put on like twenty pounds so far."
Sam chuckled. "Well, thanks. You're really good at getting fat."
Webster's cheeks reddened. "I know. That's kind of part of it. I'm not just turned on by getting fatter, but I also gain weight really easy. It's just in my nature. Kind of a dangerous combo. I've never tried to go full-speed gaining, but I know the fat's gonna pile on fast. It scares me, but I'm also really into it. And doing it with you just makes me want it more. You know what I'm saying?"
Sam nodded. "I get it. But I don't have to push all the way, Web. I can slow down if you feel like you're getting too big. You're still gonna be hot."
"No, I.." The goat closed his eyes. "I don't wanna stop. That's what I'm trying to say. The thought of you wrecking me with food is all I can think about, Sam. And I know it'll happen if I let it. So, I want you to do it to me."
"Do what?"
"I want you to feed me to death, Sam. I want you to do this to me. I can't stop thinking about it. You're so hot, and you're so good at bringing out the darkest, hottest parts of my fantasies. You bring out the worst in me. I know you're into it too. The idea of me getting that big.. it turns you on, right?"
Sam was quiet for a moment. "I can't deny it does, but.."
"Just let me finish. I want it really bad, Sam. I know it's bad for me. I know I shouldn't. But I've always been fat, and I was bullied in school for my weight. I'm fucked up because of it. I know that. But that doesn't change how badly I want to eat myself to death. Nothing else turns me on like that thought. It's always been in the back of my mind, but ever since I met you, all I can think about is sacrificing everything to be a wheezing heart attack waiting to happen. A mountain of useless fat. I want to be pitied. A desperate sack of lard that's so addicted to food, they can't do anything but eat anymore. When you're around, that's all I want."
His dick was hard again just talking about it. "I want my body to fall apart as you stuff food into me. I wanna be the fattest thing you've ever seen. I want to wonder if my heart is going to give out first, or my stretched-out skin is going to tear from being too fat. And I want it to happen as FAST as possible. I want to eat myself to death. And the only thing standing thing between me and that future right now is you."
Sam looked over at Webster's fat body, almost as turned on by hearing Webster's desperate confession. "Me?"
"I can't do it alone. Say no, and we'll stop seeing each other, and we can both go back to living normal lives. I'd be okay with that, Sam. Really. A big part of me is counting on you turning me down." He took a deep breath. "Or, we can do this. I don't know how long it'll take, but I think we can do it in a few years tops. Two years left to live.. fuck, just thinking about it. But it'll take a lot of effort from both of us. More toward the end, of course. But I don't care about anything about getting fatter. Whatever needs to be done. Whatever you want to feed me. How far you want to push me. Just constant, rapid weight gain until my body can't take it anymore. But it's a commitment from you. I know."
Sam bit his lip. "It is a commitment. But if we do this, I'm gonna make it out the other end unscathed, Webster. You're not."
"I know. You don't understand how bad I want it. Sure, if I was older, maybe my hormones would settle down and I'd get over it, but I don't want that, Sam. I don't want to get older. I don't want to settle down. I don't want to be reasonable, I don't want love, I don't want anything but to get huge."
"You don't want love? That doesn't sound.. healthy. Are you sure this is okay? I feel like you can't be in your right mind to actually want this."
"None of this is healthy, Sam. And I know it's fucked up, that's what I'm saying. But NOTHING fucking turns me on this much. Nothing. I don't want to be normal. I don't want to live a long, happy life. I want my fat-soaked life to be cut short fast and hard by grease and lard. I want your attention, but I don't want you to love me. I want to be your project. Your gainer. A trashbag full of lard that you can tease, fuck, and stuff until it inevitably explodes. I want you to date others. Don't get attached to me. Move on fast. Just be there with food and make sure I never stop getting fatter."
The mutt looked away. "Fuck, Webster. If you want me to just straight up say no, I'm not going to. Maybe I need to think about it a little, but.. you're right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Knowing you never want any limits, that nothing is ever going to stop you from getting fatter.. it's incredibly hot. And how I'm just going to walk away from it, leaving your 1000+ body behind me while I look for more superchubs to fatten up.."
He leaned over and rubbed Webster's fat belly. "I think I might be in. I can't say I know exactly what I'm signing up for, but I think I'm ready to.. to feed you to death, lardass."
Webster bit his lip. "Really?" He was gleeful and terrified watching his hope of a normal life dissipate. "You think so?"
"I think so. This is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me in my life. My mind is racing. Yeah, I think I do want to do it." He huffed. "And we should start now. I have some butter in the fridge."
The goat's eyes widened. "Butter?"
"Solid, saturated fat. Yeah, that's a good start. We're going to have to go cheap and fattening to do this to you. It's gonna take a lot of calories. But I wanna see the limits of what your body can take. Let's start with butter. You need to get used to eating it sooner, rather than later. It's only gonna get worse from here."
"Are you.. You're sure you're not going to change your mind?"
"I need to think about it a little more, but I don't think so. If you're willing to fatten yourself as ruthlessly as you claim, I think I'm in. And when I commit, Webster, I commit for real. You don't need to worry about me; just how long that body of yours is gonna last."
The goat bit back a moan. "So.. Butter?"
The lean pup hopped up. "Butter."
---
Webster was right in that the weight came on quickly. Sam was more math-oriented than the goat, and he took an active role in planning his daily calorie intake. They began meeting up daily, though no longer for movies or pleasant walks. They made changes to the Web's diet that would terrify any normal person. While the goat had a broad palate and enjoyed a wide variety of foods, they eliminated everything that wasn't calorie-dense and fattening from his diet. If a vegetable wasn't deep-fried and covered in salt, he wasn't allowed to have it. He was limited to fast food for nearly every meal, and Sam would reinforce this by randomly-timed extra deliveries of fast food whenever he could manage.
Water was eliminated in most cases as well. Heavy cream replaced most of the liquid he drank with the remainder being high-caffeine, high-sugar soda. He bought thick gainer shakes and Sam maintained a slowly-increasing quota for how many he had to consume daily. Once a week, he was allotted a ‘cheat meal' of something not-particularly high calorie, like sushi. The remaining days were just a nonstop barrage of burgers, chicken nuggets, and bacon ranch cheese fries. What nutritionists might call poison.
They settled on the very ambitious goal of five pounds a week. That was more than 20 pounds a month, and 260 pounds a year. It was March, and if Web managed to hit that goal every week, he'd be up 180 pounds, to over 580 by the end of the year. He fantasized about this number: 580 pounds seemed like an incredible amount of weight. The goat knew he'd be struggling to keep up with his size and his job at that size, especially as his health and mobility waned. And if he kept it up another year, he'd be 840 by the end of that one. A third year? Over 1100 pounds.
Even 840 was enough to make him wonder if he'd reach it. 1100 seemed like a gamble. Any more than was surely certain doom. Web would MAYBE last three years, then. He was 23 now, and he wouldn't make it to 27 years old. He'd be lucky to see his 26th birthday. And Sam, turning 21 soon, would easily enjoy another happy, healthy 50 years. Webster could, too, if he wasn't so fucked up.
But he was.
To reach that goal, he needed to eat a minimum of 2500 calories a day more than he burned. And that was assuming he perfectly digested every calorie. They calculated his base metabolic rate around 3500 calories a day, which means he needed to eat a bare minimum of 6000 calories a day, an amount that would drift upwards with every pound gained and every slow, heavy step taken. He eliminated as much physical activity as possible. He wore a watch to track his steps and try to limit the number to under 500 on the days he worked, and under 100 on his days off. It monitored his heart rate and blood pressure as well, and the data was uploaded for future comparisons.
From the very start, every decision that Webster made revolved around him making the worst possible choice. How could he use this to get himself even fatter? Become more sedentary? His calorie goals rolled around in his head as he imagined himself as these sizes. The idea that he was actively on the road to his own imminent self-destruction was the hottest thing he could dream. Sam got him off talking about all of the things that he'd never get to experience. The things he'd be too fat to do. Too unhealthy to do. That would happen after his heart had given out.
He had committed to gaining five pounds every week. It was foolish to think that his body would survive to 1400 or 1500 pounds. These truths added up to the simple fact that he had an expiration date. And it was not far off.
Despite that, it was not easy to hit 5lb/week regularly. His body WAS very good at storing fat, and he WAS eating nearly 7000 calories a day. He was eating until he was painfully full with every meal; eating until he wanted to throw up. Sam was grinding up against his bloated belly as he forced gainer shakes down Web's throat until he could barely breathe. Not letting him get off without consuming entire sticks of butter. Binge eating when he was alone and being forcefed into a painful, whimpering wreck when the wolfdog was there. Still, there was some biological imperative for self-preservation left within his body and some calories passed through him undigested. He gained an average of 3.0 pounds a week at first, which brought him to 407 after two months.
A gain of 27 pounds in two months was impressive, but it was not the 45lb they'd hoped for. The changes to his diet left Webster feeling terrible. As effective as it was to packing on lard, all of the non-nutritious garbage he'd been stuffing down for weeks left him constantly belching, bloated, and with indigestion and poor sleep. But the new pounds of unhealthy goatfat he saw in the mirror were worth it and the climbing numbers got him off. New stretch marks on his bronze-tinted love handles and arms highlighted his progress; the thickening of his creamy white inner-thigh rolls to an increasingly ungainly, awkward size. Just these two months had already left an indelible mark on his body.
Web's persistence had paid off in more than one way. His appetite and capacity for food was only growing with each gigantic meal. He found himself able to handle larger and larger quantities of fast food without feeling ill. He even began to crave it, and his moderately-portioned cheat meals left him feeling incredibly unsatisfied. He grew used to the nausea and stomachaches and Sam took advantage of this, encouraging him to eat ever-more ridiculous amounts of junk food in a single sitting. The goat was eating himself so full he could barely breathe, until he was a useless, helpless food balloon. He was altering his body into something much less healthy, with terrible habits and cravings it couldn't ignored. His addiction to food grew more serious with every greasy mouthful.
He hit the five pound goal for the first time in the second week of May. 412 pounds. It was still a struggle to force that much food into his body, but at least he proved it could be done. They celebrated the milestone by going out to eat at an upscale restaurant together, a rare treat since they were generally optimizing calories per dollar. A sweaty, out of shape Web ordered plate after plate of food as a slim, well-dressed, flirty Sam did most of the talking. He waddled out feeling absolutely huge.
At the beginning of June, he was 420 even. The summer heat was a lot of him to handle and he rarely went outside. He ordered food delivery to his door. His cheat meal was eliminated, his calorie count was updated upward. Sam used Web's credit card to buy groceries and would sometimes surprise the goat with fast food snacks. He had placed a lot of trust in the mutt, but Web knew that if he was really serious about immobilizing himself under a thousand pounds of lard, he was going to end up dependent on Sam. If he was a liar or a thief, it'd be better that he took money and ran now, instead of when he was too far gone to do anything about it.
Sam had access to Web's savings, though he contributed his own funds to the endeavour as well. His savings should be enough. They could always dip into his meager retirement fund if it wasn't, as he wouldn't be using it. But if was going to chicken out from this endeavour, time was running out.
Web's diet only got worse the bigger he got. As he closed in on 500 in October, he found his breath was constantly short. He had put on almost a hundred pounds of fat in seven months. The toll that both the extra fat and his terrible diet had taken on his body was immediately obvious. There were new stretch marks all on his sides and his widening fat ass. His fur had grown greasy and matted, there were bags under his eyes. His body did not have time to adapt to the new weight it was forced to carry, and even small amounts of activity exhausted him and strained his flabby muscles. Showering was becoming more and more difficult, and though they still lived apart, he would occasionally ask for Sam's help in scrubbing him down really well.
His breathing was the real issue. He had resisted getting both a CPAP and an asthma nebulizer to help him breathe easier. Webster wanted to feel the weight of his choices at all times, feel his body struggling to keep up with his appetite. Feel the strain that all that lard was putting his body under. But choking in his sleep every night was a difficult pill to swallow, especially when it left him too tired to function. And while he liked the idea of constantly needing to chug down sugary, caffeine-heavy energy drinks just to stay conscious, it was just getting to the point where even massive doses of caffeine weren't cutting it. The choice was between seeing a doctor and using illicit, dangerous, addictive stimulants to get through the day. An actual close choice, but Sam convinced him to get a consult.
The doctor didn't have any idea how quickly he gained, but seeing a 23 year old weighing a quarter of a ton was some cause for alarm. They ordered blood work and vitals, both of which were just as bad as they might have feared. His resting heart rate was 118, his blood pressure was 142/94, his cholesterol was nearly 300mg/dL. His baseline oxygen saturation was low at 92%, his A1C was 6.3%. All of these were worrying and the doctor let him know it. Web left the room with prescriptions for medicines to reduce his blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar, as well as for the CPAP and asthma inhaler.
They spoke and decided to ignore the blood pressure and cholesterol meds: these would only help on a timeframe longer than he was going to live for. They picked up the blood sugar meds, as preventing himself from going into diabetic shock seemed useful. Same for the CPAP and nebulizer.
As they were sitting in the wolfdog's car outside the pharmacy, he looked over at the bloated, fat, unhealthy goat. Webster's belly filled up his lap, his cheeks were puffed and red, and every roll wobbled and shook with each breath. He was sweating hard, even in early September, and even with the AC blasting.
His feeder instincts were temporarily overwhelmed by a rare moment of empathy. "I just have to stop and ask you, Web." The mutt hesitated. "Your body's really taking a hit. You're sure you want to keep going, right?"
"Yeah, just -huff- give me a second to catch my breath. I'll come in with you."
"No, I mean.. you're sure you want to keep getting fatter? Continuing on this path. We both knew what we were getting into, but.."
Webster very suddenly got quiet. "Are you having second thoughts?" Sam opened his mouth, but the goat interrupted him. "Be completely honest."
The mutt sighed. "I don't know, Webster. Honestly? No. I'm not having second thoughts. It's more like the idea that I should be having them. That I should care about how badly you're doing, how this diet is destroying you. That I should.. I don't know. Be empathetic. Try to stop you. At least not encourage this."
He continued. "But I don't want to, you know? It's just really fucking hot. I kind of want you to confess to me that YOU want to stop, because I think that would take the guilt off my shoulders. I'm helping you kill yourself with food. And I should care, but.. we're not romantic. We talk about numbers and charts, weigh you, make plans together. Get off together. I don't consider you my boyfriend, you know? When I see some massive, huge fatass on the internet talking about how they're still gaining weight and getting fatter, do I plead with them to stop? No. I want them to keep going. I want to see how much fat they can take. I want them to get as huge as humanly possible for my benefit. I feel that way with you.
"It should be different in person. I mean, I know you. I know your personality. I should care more. I guess I'm just asking you if you want an out. To slow down or stop. To get a little healthier. Anything, really. Because the shrinking part of me that cares about my soul wants you to stop. And the part of me that wants to nut on a thousand pounds of barely-living goat wants you to keep going. And going to pick up these medicines, after hearing the details about how bad your health really is, seems like a good time to ask."
The goat closed his eyes for a long time, so long that Sam thought he might have fallen asleep. But he finally spoke in a forced calm voice. "I guess we're in the same boat. Does some part of me want you to bail? Did some part of me want you to empty my savings account and run for the hills, leaving me broke but alive? Yeah. I can't think about what I'm doing to myself too hard, Sam. Too many emotions. Too much of my brain begs me to stop. I just want to focus on eating and getting fatter. No thinking, no feeling, no nothing. Just food and mindless pleasure. All I care about is intense my orgasms are when I think about how bad off I'm getting. That's all I want to deal with.
"So no. I can't tell you I want to stop. I'm not going to be the one that stops this train. Your soul, my life are both going to be causalities of my appetite. I want to keep going. I want to destroy my body, bury every part of me under so much fat I can never escape. If I never met you, would I be doing this to myself? No, probably not. But we did meet. And we unlocked these desires in each other, things that would have probably always stayed under the surface otherwise. Things that no rational person would do to themselves. I don't want to stop."
Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay, Web. Then let me get you the drugs we need to make you even bigger."
---
Web did not visit his family for the holidays that year, and they had no idea that he'd gained so much weight. The goat didn't want to deal with it. They complained and tried to video call him, but he made excuses. He only had to hold them off long enough, after all. Sam did spend a few days with his parents, who nudged him about finding a partner. The mutt laughed it off, truthfully explained he hadn't had many serious dates lately, and entirely omitted any mention of Webster.
The goat was averaging about 4.9 lb/wk by the end of the year, and with a good final push just hit 560 by New Years. He'd gained a total of 180 pounds since March and he was feeling every unhealthy, wobbling pound of lard. His pounding heart hemorrhaged calories just to keep his body alive, but he'd stretched and bloated out his stomach to hold way more food than it could ever use. When he really pushed himself hard, his stomach would expand to a ridiculous size and his soft, wobbling, stretch-marked belly would blimp outward into a firm sphere of lard. Fat pressed tight against his thin, stretch-marked skin by the insane amount of food he could fit inside of him. The fact that he could go from so soft, heavy, and wobbly to taut, full and round was always and forever taken advantage of by Sam, who very much enjoyed pushing his body to the limit.
It was really the incredible changes to Web's body that invigorated Sam, and how hungry the goat was for even more. The new rolls of fat, the stretching of his skin, his exponential appetite, even his heavy breathing. He used the goat's body to get himself off whenever they were together, pressing his dick between two sweaty rolls of fat as he stuffed his wheezing face full of junk food. Grinding up against his bloated, taut gut and listening to him force out tiny little desperate belches. It was intoxicating to push him to his limit without needing to worry about how Web would feel about it. The goat was there to get fatter by any means necessary.
But after winter break, there was no way around it: Webster could simply not keep working. He was just too fat, too unable to do the basic tasks his job required of him. They'd spoken to him too many times over the past few months, co-workers trying to figure out what was going on with his gain, managers offering therapy or counseling, taking a page from the drug-addiction corporate handbook and trying to develop a plan to get him back on his feet. But they were exasperated with his endless gain and dwindling performance, and they eventually offered him a small bonus to finally just quit. He accepted.
Without a job, he had nothing to fill his day but sitting on his growing butt and eating. It suited him well. He'd given up on any hobbies he used to have when he started this endeavour and felt no need to fill his remaining days with learning a new skill or game. He watched mindless television and played easy video games, slept whenever he felt tired, and stuffed his face with animal lard, cheeseburgers, gainer shake, and candy.
Web hit 600 pounds jut before the first anniversary of this gaining experiment, and was only about 30 pounds behind schedule. Sam took a few days off of work, and together they celebrated in five consecutive days of pure, unabashed gluttony. Webster moved as little as humanly possible and only left bed to use the bathroom. He was averaging about 8000 calories a day before this, and did not go under 10,000 a single day that Sam was there. Though each meal involved the mutt using Web's thick, heavy, wobbling rolls to cum, the goat was often left on the edge. Actually getting off left his heart racing as it struggled to force saturated-fat soaked blood through cholesterol-slick veins and arteries.
In fact, in a single year, he'd had to completely revamp his entire process of getting himself to cum. He could still reach, but it wasn't easy and it was exhausting. His fatpad had entirely swallowed up his dick when he was soft, and his stretched balls were always competing for space with his sagging, awkwardly lard-swollen thigh rolls. His fatpad was thirty pounds of blubbery, sweaty, stretch-marked lard that made pawing his dick off much harder. Even getting hard wasn't as easy as it used to be, as blood needed to be diverted through narrowing vessels to his buried dick. Though he was as horny as ever thinking about what he'd done to himself (moreso now that his avenue of release was impeded), he was able to act on the urge less often.
No part of him was left unimpaired by the insane weight gain. Everything was more difficult. Everything was tiring. Even without Sam's constant brutal, horny teasing in his ear, Web's whole life was a constant reminder of how incredibly unhealthy his ridiculously fast weight gain had been. Even his house was filled with things that he could not do, things he was too fat for. There was not an article of clothing in his closet that he could fit into. He was too wide for his recliner. His couch had cracked. Trash was piled by the door. Everything was a mess.
The corruption of his body and living space was matched by the corruption of his mind. Nothing could get him off except the thought of his own impending demise. It was the only thing he thought about when he was horny. It was the only thing that Sam teased him with. There was no respite, no kinky side-quests, no exploration. His goal was to eat himself to death, and it was reinforced with every mouthful of greasy food, every exhilaratingly cruel word the mutt spoke to him. When it came to his dick, there was nothing but eating himself to death.
"God, you're such a fucking disaster, you know that, goatblob? Every one of those sagging, fat rolls is a testament to how fucked up you are. Every wheeze, every palpitation, every pound. You're killing yourself one burger at a time. What is it like to look at the future and know that you're not going to see 30? 28? That you're destroying every organ in that fat-soaked blubbery body of yours? Wrecking your future with every bite? And it's all just because something broke inside of you and now it's the only thing that can get you off?"
Sam pumped Web's buried little dick gently with two digits as he teased his growing gainer. His thighs straddled out of the goat's huge thighs as he lay there, the mutt's big cock sliding in between some combination of his underbelly, thigh rolls, and fat pad. Web moaned for him to continue.
"Watching trailers for movies that you are probably never going to see? Wondering if you're gonna finally burst before that game you want comes out? Or keel over from a coronary before next spring? This could easily be the last March you ever see, lardass. If you keep gaining like this, you'll be 850, 875 by your next anniversary? That's not a weight that many people can survive at. At least not for very long, and definitely not with how badly you've been trashing your body. And you still want to keep gaining like this, don't you, lardass?"
"Fuck.. yes.." Every word was accompanied by a painful wheeze.
"You're never going to get married. Never going to feel true love, never going to have a family. All you have left is fat, you huge fuck. Mountains of wobbling rolls. Unhealthy, stretch-marked love handles. A giant, sweaty fat ass you can barely keep clean. Two sagging tits. You're giving up everything just for more fucking fat. To be horrifyingly, disgustingly fat. No one is going to understand how this happened to you when they see your half-ton corpse laying there, face smothered in grease and half a sandwich in your bloated paw. Knowing you were barely 350 just a couple years ago."
"That's what you're fucking doing to yourself. Killing yourself with food before you've got a chance to achieve anything. Throwing away your life because your fucked-up brain conflates food with pleasure. And you still want to keep going, don't you?"
Sam was still pumping, and he knew very well how to edge the goat. "Yes.. I'm so fucked up.. I'm wrecking myself.."
"Tell me and I'll let you cum."
"I'm.." He wheezed and grunted. His stomach gurgled as it struggled to digest. His fat rolls smacked against each other. "I'm eating myself to death." He belched loudly. "And I don't want to stop."
His confession made the wolfdog cum buckets, shooting seed all on the underside of Web's belly. It dripped down into the deep, sweaty crevices of the goat's crotch. This triggered the goat's own buried dick to spurt useless, unhealthy cum into Sam's paw. Soon, the only thing that the goat would be able to breed would be his own fatpad. As he laid there, his grease-soaked heart pounding in his fat chest, struggling to catch his breath, receding dick oozing the last few drops of jizz onto his fat, he let his mind go blank with bliss. The urge to reflect and think critically about his choices was strongest in his post-coital moments, but the empty-headed euphoria of calories headed this off.
He was going to get huge, no matter what his brain or his heart said.
---
Webster continued to gain at a dangerous pace, averaging around 5.2lb/wk in the months after that first anniversary. By the end of April, he was already at 650. Through May, he re-devoted himself to truly monumental amounts of consumption, and averaged over 10,000 calories a day and 6.1 pounds a week. He was 675 by the end of that month, and closing in on 700 at the start of the month after. He did not care about anything except how much food his stomach could hold and how much lard he could pack on his desperately struggling body.
Though Sam retained his old apartment, he essentially moved in with his gainer. The goat simply could not function without help. Help getting out of bed, help washing himself, help moving his body through doorways, help getting food, help reaching for oxygen. His muscles could not keep up with the amount of fat on his body; he was crushing himself underneath the weight of his own indulgence. Every inch of his body was ripe with stretch marks, some fading slight, some angrily red. His fur was thinning around the curviest parts of his fat belly, where his skin could simply not keep up with the lard underneath it. And where his fur was thick, it was dull, flat, and greasy.
His ass had billowed out behind him spectacularly, and were now no less than two king-sized, cellulite-swollen, wobbling bags of fat that took up a sofa cushion each. His thighs had spread spectacularly wide, and the little thigh-rolls that bulged out against his fat-pad were now two very large, somewhat asymmetrical bags of lard. His calves were bloated and weak, his feetpaws had doubled in width and constantly ached. All of him constantly ached. All of him was constantly exhausted.
His numbers kept getting worse. Sam began to take some online classes in basic medical knowledge just to make things easier. He learned all about the organs, and how they were destroyed by monumental obesity. He studied arrthymias, heart disease, heart attack, heart failure, diabetes, kidney disease, fatty liver, blood clots. Anything that might strike Webster down. Though the goat was determined to eat himself to death, if there was something quick and preventable he could do in order to wring another hundred or hundred fifty pounds out of his gainer's failing body, he would.
Eventually, Sam managed to procure a counterfeit certification and proof that he was Webster's home care nurse. He learned to do blood draws and send them to labs. He purchased a defibrillator, an IV, and breathing equipment from a medical supplier. He was even able to get some prescription medication and taught himself how to administer via syringe or IV. YouTube was a great help. It wasn't very long before the confident mutt felt comfortable attempting to handle Web's medical requirements.
Besides, the only actual consequence to a medical error would be Sam not getting to see how truly enormous Webster could get.
Even as he continued to grow and become reliant on his feeder, Webster took comfort in watching Sam flirt and go on dates with much smaller gainers that knew nothing about the goat. Webster was Sam's and Sam's alone. But it helped him to know that Sam would not suffer over the goat's inevitable demise. He would get as much use out of him as possible, and then simply move on to the next one. Enough orgasms in his rolls, food stuffed down his face, enough belly wobbles, enough teasing. That's all he wanted to be used for, and knowing Sam was going to simply move on to the next gainer pleased him.
While they didn't know about him, he knew a little about them. Web knew when Sam was going on dates, and showed him pictures of the much smaller gainers he was going out with. Gainers that were his size when they started, or even a little more. Gainers with big fantasies that were enamored when Sam took them back to his barren apartment and ruthlessly fed them. These gainers had no idea what the cute, young, flirty guy they were meeting with was an unfeeling, no-limits feeder with first-hand experience stuffing someone to the edge.
Web was practice for the young wolfdog. Sam would live another fifty years; he wouldn't last twelve months. It got him hard to wonder if he would be the only one Sam found that was actually willing to go this far. If he would feed anyone else into immobility, or to death. Would they be into it? Would he simply use the skills he'd perfected on Web to coerce and manipulate gainers into getting too fat for their own good?
He imagined Sam at 40 or 50 years old, finding veritable clones of Web in their twenties. Corrupting them, teasing them, bringing out the worst in them. Covincing them that they WANTED this for themselves as well. How many pounds would Sam put on fat fucks? How many would he make housebound? How many would he permanently corrupt with bad-ending gainer kinks? How many would he actually bad end?
And he was the first. The lost cause. The origin story to future serial-fattener Sam. He begged the mutt to talk about other gainers when he buried his digits in his sweaty, slimy fatpad and got him off. He wanted to hear about how small they were. How big Sam wanted to get them. How he'd get them even fatter than Webster was.
---
The medical knowledge came in handy when Webster finally had his first heart attack at age 24. It was the beginning of October and he was weighing in at a very heavy 788 pounds. He'd finished 12,000 calories the day before and was feeling like absolute fucking shit. Even more than usual. Every breath was a struggle, and though he had the classic symptoms of pressure on his chest and a numb right arm, it did not occur to him that he was actually having one at first.
"What?!" Webster couldn't catch his breath and could feel his heart pounding in his ears. "Are you sure?"
"I sure think so. You've got all the symptoms. I see decreased heart sounds on the left side of the heart, but the ST segment doesn't seem to be elevated, so I think it's not completely blocked. It still looks like a heart attack. I mean, your blood pressure is still over 170/130 and your O2 sats are barely at 90. We must have caught it early, though."
Sam talked about him so clinically that it made him horny, despite the pain surging through his chest. "Is that it? Did I actually fucking eat myself to death?" He wheezed loudly and sucked on an oxygen mask to catch his breath. "I'm not even 800 yet!"
"No, not yet. You've still got a ways to go. Aspirin first, and then I think.. uhh.. like, 200mg of an ACE inhibitor? I have Enalapril somewhere. Let me check my notes. It should help bust up the clot."
The goat lay there in bed, wheezing and trying to cope with the pressure in his chest as Sam casually read through a composition notebook. "Ah, found it! Oh man, it was 20mg, not 200. Glad I checked that, or you'd really be dead."
He said it so fucking casually. His fears overwhelmed him, and for the first time, Web freaked out hard. The pain was truly a lot. He heard himself begging for his life. "You're.. you're sure I shouldn't go to the hospital, right?"
The mutt's grin turned wide and toothy. "NOW who's thinking about self-preservation! No, you're not going to the hospital. You're either going to get through this, or you're not. Isn't that what you want?"
"I.. It hurts so much and I.."
The mutt grabbed at Webster's crotch and started tugging at his lard-crushed balls and buried dick. "You're going to make it through, or you're not, you hog. You can't back out now. All you can do is accept the consequences of every fattening fucking thing you've done over the last year."
As always, the mutt's words made him. All the goat could do was moan through the pain. "Oh fuck.. Yes.. You're so right."
"I know I'm right. And I'm not going to administer this shit either until you cum. You deserve to feel the first orgasm of your short, fat life that happens during a heart attack. Familiarize yourself with what it feels like to cum as your heart is pounding to a halt. As your body begins to fail. As your life fades away. You'll make it through this time - probably - but who knows about next time?"
"You.. huff.. think I'll survive?"
"80% odds lardass. And it goes down every minute I don't fill you up with drugs. So think your horniest thoughts and focus on that pain in your chest as I pump this useless, buried dick of yours. Think about the permanent damage this is causing to your body, even if you get through it. Think about the fact that you've gained 400 pounds in a year and a half. Think about how helpless you've become. How you're out of a job and will never work again. How there's a 20% chance you won't live to see next week, that you'll be on some coroner's slab. Their disgusted faces as they dig through mountains of unhealthy, yellow fat tissue to reach your oversized, wrecked heart, scarred liver, and wrecked lungs. That could be your body next week, lardass.
"Yeah, you're getting hard now, aren't you? God, you're so fucked up, Webster. What fucking happened in that brain of yours to make you want this so bad, huh? Look at what a wreck you are. You've probably broken records with how fast you've gained. How unhealthy every pound has been. With the damage you've done to your body so quickly. It's just a matter of time and weight now. Are you gonna hit 1000 pounds? Your birthday is in what, two weeks? Are you even going to see 25? You have to realize you are NEVER going to see 26, now. Even if you tried to stop today, I don't think you'd see two more birthdays. You're too far gone, Web. Too addicted to food. Too much damage to your body.
"I can see you struggling. Maybe you need a little more incentive to get off before your heart stops, huh?" Sam had been stroking his own cock as he talked and, without much ceremony, pressed the head of his dick into the fat little divot that Webster's desperate, semi-hard cockhead poked out of, and he came. Shot after shot of his healthy, white, hot, virile seed drenched the goat's unhealthy dick. Despite the pain in his chest, the goat moaned again and finally came himself, shooting his thick, off-yellow, impotent jizz onto his own fat rolls.
Sam wiped his paws off on Webster's fat belly and stuck four aspirin into the goat's mouth. He attached the IV (after missing the vein a couple of times) and started the goat on a drip of life-saving medicine. Slowly, the heart monitor returned to normal and the pain began to recede.
"Lucky this time, fatass. Who knows about next time."
---
There were, unfortunately, a few lasting impacts from Webster's first heart attack. Sam got him taking more pills on a regular basis. He was even more easily tired than he used to be, and even sitting up could wind him. And for the two weeks afterward, he could barely keep any food down at all. Webster was at 781 when the heart attack happened, and dropped to 774 the next week, and 770 the week after. It was only on his 25th birthday that he managed a day with a calorie level above 7,500 and that was only with relentless encouraging. His chest still ached, he just ate through the pain.
But, honestly, now that he had had a heart attack, the reality of his situation had sunk in. His end wasn't years away anymore, it was months of weeks. Any day could be his last, and he was not going to go out without trying to get as fat as possible. He couldn't go back. There was permanent damage to every part of his body. He forced food down day after day, chugging gainer shake and stuffing his face with pizza, calling on Sam to go out in the early morning to get burgers and dipping them in mayo. As long as it was unhealthy.
He got back to his old calorie levels quickly and hit 800 before the end of November. Even compared to before, Webster ate like he had a death wish. He was on a clock now more than ever, and he was determined to pack on as much lard as possible. His stomach could barely keep up with his appetite. It learned to stretch with the amount of food it held. Even with as much fat as there was under his skin, when he really, really ate, his stomach would get tight as a drum. His thin, stretch-marked skin could barely hold the amount of food and chub quivering underneath its surface. When Sam dragged his digits along its tight surface, he had to be sure his claws wouldn't tear anything.
And every time Webster packed away a ridiculous amount of food, the problem would only get worse. His stomach would stretch out further, his skin would struggle to cope with the sudden expansion of circumference, and even more fat would pile on. Sam encouraged this, and often wondered aloud whether Webster would blow his heart or his stomach first. It wasn't even hyperbole.
With the new medication, he avoided any more heart attacks in the short term. His family was desperate to contact him for the holidays again, but he ignored them. He was 841 pounds at the end of the year, and averaging over 12,000 calories a day and a brutal 7.4lb/wk through December. This next year would be almost certainly his last. If he kept his pace, he'd be 1100 pounds by his 26th birthday and nearly 1200 by the end of the year. Those were weights almost by definition incompatible with his continued existence. Especially with his current health.
By mid-February he was functionally immobile. He would struggle to even move in the months before that, unable to take more than a few steps without palpitations and bracing pain in his feet, knees, and back. His body moved so awkwardly that he hardly knew HOW to be ambulatory. And one day, it simply became easier to stop trying. He would spend the rest of his short, blubbery life in a bariatric bed he was slowly filling up like a trash bag hooked up to a lard hose. He was too fat to play games, too fat to read. All he could do is sit back, eat, and watch television. Only with voice activation could he even reliably change the channel.
Their second anniversary was fast approaching, and he was closing in on 900 at the same time. Sam hooked him up to a feeding tank and started to use hoses to augment his gain. Web's poor stomach was on the very verge of bursting for days on end. More than once did Sam think that the goat overdid it and he'd finally burst, an ocean of lard pouring out from his ripped, broken hide and taking his cholesterol-clogged organs with it. But the goat just barely made it through, and they celebrated it with more food. He was 902.5 pounds.
Only a week after that, he had his second heart attack. It was more serious than the first and involved a full clot to an important artery. Sam could only give Webster a clot-busting drug that thinned his blood significantly and hope for the best. In a real hospital, he would have been sent up to surgery, but under Sam's care, the goat only gasped and wheezed from his permanent, bed-bound position as his dick was ruthlessly jerked off. Told by Sam how he only had a 50% chance of surviving this one. Dumb luck if this would be the last orgasm he'd ever have. He came violently to his own imminent death but made it through anyway.
He was in a permanent hypertensive crisis from here on, with a resting heart rate of 160 and a steady blood pressure of 182/148. The lab results he got back printed everything number in bold red with DANGER on it. His body was barely able to keep itself alive anymore. And still, Webster was forcing more unhealthy fat onto his bones with every passing day.
They were determined to make it to 1000 pounds. His weigh-ins were much more difficult now that Sam had to ease his enormous body into a giant, bariatric sling and lift him up enough to be weighed, but it was worth it. It was what they cared about the most. As the number climbed up through 930, 950, 975, Webster could practically feel the pressure his body was under. His pounding heart beat, his atrophied, aching muscles, his stinging, stretched skin. Every meal pushed his body to the limit. Every chest pain was inspected closely, he was constantly hooked up to an IV and heart monitor.
And finally, in mid-June, he hit it. The first weigh-in above a thousand: 1001.8 pounds on June 21. It was week 113 that finally got him over the barrier. Two and a half years to destroy his health and get him into quadruple digits. He was a half ton of lard at 25 years old. A thousand pounds of fat. Every pound after this would just be whipped cream on the dessert of his self-destruction. He'd gained 621 pounds since they started, a full 27 pounds FATTER than his original estimate at 5 lb/wk.
They celebrated the best they could, though Webster was barely able to catch his breath. He was nothing but fat now, with a BMI of 150.3 and rolls that filled the entire bed. His bloated legs were too fat to move. His belly swelled outward far enough to smother his knees with fat. His cheeks were so fat that they muffled his speech, his double chin so thick that it impaired his breathing. His tits spilled to either side of his chest. He was unable to get truly hard anymore, and Sam found himself sliding one of his digits along the goat's soft, slick cockslit until it dribbled cum into his paw. That was sex to him now. That was the most his body could manage.
After that, his days really began to blend together. Sam used him to get himself off over and over, occasionally expending the effort required to dig all the way underneath the goat's massive gut and between his huge thighs to play with his broken, buried, lost dick. The slim wolfdog would press his tight, hard body against an avalanche of lard as he teased the barely-living goatblob about how each day could be his last. He used tubes to great effect, as it wasn't easy to keep Web full, but often spent two or three hours of nonstop handfeeding to fill his bloated gut up with so much fast food that he thought the goat might explode.
The automated food pumps and inside security cameras allowed Sam to leave long enough to go on dates. He was seeing two or three gainers, and had packed almost a hundred pounds of blubber on one of them already. They had even started coming to Web's house, and the goat had to listen to these cute chubs get railed by his hot, evil feeder mere feet away from his permanent spot on the bed. They never even knew he was there.
He had another heart attack three later in September, and his skin really did almost rip open just after Christmas. It required some very quick stitching from a very inexperienced wolfdog, but Sam managed to keep him in one piece. He was constantly on the IV, on a drip of various medications and antibiotics and painkillers. The heart monitor was always blasting an alarm, so Sam had to disable the audio. Web's body was failing from every angle.
Web's fourth and final heart attack happened just after their third anniversary, in his 26th year. He was barely conscious enough to know what was happening anymore, and most of his calories came from grease and gainer shake. Staying awake was a problem near the end, and Webster would constantly knock into and out of a deep, dead unconsciousness. Tubes kept pumping calories into his stomach and drugs into his cholesterol-clotted veins as he slept. Despite that, he was awake and eating greasy fast food when his chest began to hurt in that familiar way again. This time, worse than ever before. Everything about his body felt worse than before.
Web grunted in pain and got Sam into the room, who checked his vitals. "Yeah, it's another heart attack, lardass. A big one this time. If you wanted a real chance of surviving it, we'd have to get you into the hospital now. I'll get the clot busters into you, but I don't think you're making it."
The goat started breathing faster, sucking as much oxygen as he could into his failing lungs. "Odds?"
"Five percent. Maybe less."
That was it, then. These were his last moments on earth. He ate himself to death. He could feel every pound of his choices weighing him down. His heart giving up and taking the rest of his body with it. His breathing got faster and faster as he felt the familiar sensation of Sam's paw reaching toward his broken, soft dick. "Give it to me, pig. This is almost definitely your last orgasm. Cum. That's the only reason you did this to yourself, right? Why you murdered yourself with food and lard? Why you buried your heart in so much grease that you're feeling it fail? Enjoy it. It's the last fucking thing you're ever going to do. Cum."
The goat didn't have enough time left for foreplay of edging. Despite the cascade of failures through his body, he managed enough energy to do exactly what Sam said. The mutt tugged and squeezed one final orgasm out of his useless balls and dick. It was what he had killed himself for, and as pain began to grow deeper inside of him and his brain fogged up, he couldn't even regret it. Sam jumped on top of belly and began to violently fuck his rolls in a way he hadn't since they were afraid of tearing skin. All the goat could think about was who the mutt was going to get through next.
They looked deep into each other's eyes without saying a word, Webster in his final breathes and Sam ruthlessly slamming his hips into the goat's lard. He realized there would be no miracle, no five-percent beating the odds, a calm overcame him. Somewhere very far away, he felt his skin tear again and the mutt's brutal dick plunge directly into his fat tissue. His last thought was the hope that Sam would fill him with cum.
He did. The young wolfdog came buckets as he watched the spark go out of Webster's eyes for the last time. The heart monitors beeped loudly and then stopped. Sam had fed this giant fat fuck to death. He was responsible for the lifeless blob in front of him. He knew that the goat's skin had torn, and felt hot yellow lard and blood cover his cock as he pounded shot after shot of cum into the goat's body. It took him a long time to recover.
He turned off the medical equipment and wiped himself off, eventually, and raised the crane to get Web's final weigh-in. 1315.5 pounds.
Sam did not feel remorse or sadness when he looked over at Webster's body. This was a fat fuck that got exactly what he wanted. Web wanted to eat himself to death, and he did. What was there to feel sad about? A huge blob that finally collapsed under his own weight.
He cleaned up any incriminating trace and called the coroner: morbidly obese patient finally kicked the bucket. No one would ask any questions. Can't eat yourself that big and expect a happy ending, after all.
Sam grinned to himself. He already had three hot young gainers at his beck and call. They'd all been fooled by his innocent face and cute style; none of them had realized just how intense and dark he could really get. He'd bad end at least one of them under a thousand pounds of useless blubber. Maybe all three, if he played his cards right.
And he wouldn't feel bad for any of them either.
The comments to this story is far worse View attachment 2427603
>he reached down to jerk himself
Already seeing a problem here. It started off funny but just got sad. You can tell the writer is a gigantic fuck because they treat weight gain like an achievement that requires actual effort.
- Joined
- Oct 2, 2019
I find the ending even worse due to the visceral reaction of wanting to vomit. I then gave his twitter a glance and he said and I quote "I love seeing couples bring out the worst in each other". Also he talked about his diet and how "I cannot stop gaining weight" as well. Its like a goddamn train crash you cannot look away from.
Furx
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 6, 2021
Most ‘weird’ kinks just make me go “Huh? Okay... I... guess... that’s a thing...”
Main kinks that squick me are messy/dirty and bodily wastes, like scat, musk, skunkspray, vomit. Light watersports I’m ok-ish with, like wetting on death, sure. It doesn’t do anything for me, but it doesn’t squick me badly either. Actual watersports play is ick.
There are also a few types of gore that squick me, like most things involving the face, mouth and eyes (though weirdly eye-fucking I’m ok with). Same goes for gore with hands and feet, like fingers, toes and nails.
Also not a huge fan of degradation, and the worse the degradation gets the more it’s a turn off for me.
Those are what I can think of off hand, it’s certainly not exhaustive list. And it's funny how those few very specific things squick me when you could literally put me live through a meat grinder and I'd be ok with that.
Yeah, I've seen it all before and it's sad. It's people who are pretty much just "Well, I'm going to die anyway. Maybe someone else can get something from it". I'm just glad most snuff fans, however weird to normal folk, still have their heads screwed on right to not go full Armin Meiwes on people like that. It's one of the best examples to show people who have a good wall between fantasy and reality.
One of the most common scenarios in that case is usually younger, easily manipulated women who are suicidal/depressive and cut themselves doing it on cam for someone else. I know tumblr had a trend of that for a while with girls showing off their scars. The "mm hot
Sadly I've seen people who would probably also get a kick out of that and hold a death under their belt. Furry snuff groups are oddly polite compared to the non furs who love to steal peoples facebook photos and edit them to be killed and plaster them on a million sites for kicks. It's notoriously rife with revenge porn and extreme writing works where you can tell it's bordering on that line of becoming reality if there was an oppurtunity, whereas furry stuff tends to be very fantastical and exagerrated and easy to say "lol weird". Or maybe I'm just desensitized.
Yeah. I’m in complete agreement there. Encouraging real self harm is just fucked up.
And I have noticed that same thing about different subgroups as well. Weirdly it seems that furry groups indeed are often more “civilized” and respecting of boundaries. I’ve seen some posts (both pictures and text) in human snuff groups that have made even me very uncomfortable witnessing.
I think major aspect of that is that in human groups you are participating as yourself, while to fully participate in furry groups, you pretty much have to invent something to represent you. There is by default a sort of buffer built-in between you and your character, and so we are used to this distinction between someone’s public presentation as their character and the person themselves behind the character.
And also because we each have created something of our own (our own characters) then I would hope that that gives us more respect towards other people’s ownership of their characters and persona, because we have a reference point of what it would feel like to us to have our characters used in ways that we wouldn’t approve of.
Of course there are always exceptions and I know a few furries as well that, well, let's just say I would not meet with them in a non-public place...
Fuck. I usually don’t mind ferals in fiction (but not a fan of them either), but especially those latter two pictures squick even me out. That dog is not happy to be there... And is that... is that a prolapsed vagina on her?!?
You should have waited before posting these. The artist just added a lawnmower to the series.
- Joined
- Dec 23, 2018
- Joined
- Jul 19, 2019
It's oddly funny to me how the Snuff Scalie has been more accepting of our mockery than the fat, retarded husky dude that showed up in the OC-mocking thread a while back.
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2020
This was posted just before the downtime, so I didn't get a chance:
- Joined
- Jun 14, 2018
I'm pretty sure the third sister didn't even want to inherit the shop, and that's why she is touring the world getting ideas for her fashion label and the other two are running the shop instead.
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2018
Would watch FEED the movie but from the villains perspective
- Joined
- Dec 23, 2018
Who would've guessed that the furry gore porn wouldn't be very faithful to the source material
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2020
I guess he played AC as much as I have. That is, not at all.
As usual, whenever I post some faggot uploads something straight after so I have to double post: