Monday, June 16, 2008

The Feeder Girl

I knew I was looking for trouble when my fetish didn't have a name.

It seemed to be part of Feederism, of course: all this stuffing, bloating, and inflation went under no other sexual category. But they weren't BHMS. They weren't soft. They had clean cut faces, delicate arm muscles, tight rumps, and flat stomachs that they were capable of inflating to an enormous size.

I called them stuffer boys. They called themselves bellydudes, bloaters, and stuffies.

Most people, I thought, wandering through the back alleys of the internet where such things usually go, had the wrong idea. A "fedee" was a huge cushiony woman, indulging in whole pizzas and giant boxes of cupcakes that were lovingly provided by a much skinner male. He couldn't get enough of her growing belly and breasts, and would stroke them and tell her--perhaps for the first time in her life--how lovely she was.

My fetish isn't anything like that.

It's about a woman dominating a man, holding him in place, making him helpless through the lust of his own body, his own immense appetite, holding him down like the wolf with his belly full of stones. And yet the stuffer boy still has teeth: he is clever, an edge paired with his delicate body that allows him to prick my ideas, bite my breasts, demand that I push his limits. He is an exhibitionist, challenging himself to swallow more, proud of his ability and jealous of other's. He has the same discipline to work out that he does to fill his body, keeping the contrast, his body tight and hard and beautiful... but then, one or twice a week, or even every other night with water or soda or warm milk, he will succumbs to his indulgence and be mine.

I am soft--as soft as any Burger Queen that inhabits an FA's fantasies--but I am not interested in making myself a slave to someone's eating fantasies. I am very giving: I gain more pleasure from watching a body drink and stuff than I ever do from my own eating, will forgo meals and sleep just so see his belly swell larger, tighter, coaxing him to drink just one more, just for me. For the first time I am conscious of my body, how it's heavy breasts, wide belly and round rump can inspire.

But there are no roadmaps as to how to be a feeder for a stuffer boy--at least none that I have found. The girl feedees have it easy: they just have to lean back and open their mouths. I have to find my own way, training my soft flesh to corsets, my soft feet to heels; and my soft hands: when to soothe and stroke... and when to jerk the leash.

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