The Experiment

This would have been Molly's 104th post.

On other blogs, such a milestone would count for cake and champagne (or, in my case, a liter of Diet Coke and pack of Mentos.) Instead, Molly has taken a long, hard look at what she wants the future of this blog to be.

When she first came to me, eager to show off what she claimed to be "The Very First Feederism Blog, Anywhere!" I was as excited as she. I am a stuffer myself, and wildly interested in anyone's efforts to legitimize this delightful subculture. A blog devoted particularly to the intestinal workings of the most beautiful of creatures, stuffer boys, made me hurry to my bedroom in anticipation of a long session of critique.

My verdict? A quiet, yet adamant: "It's dull, dear."

Her eyes filled, but I went on: "This isn't at all what you envisioned--where are the descriptions of real life stuffing orgies you've attended? Your creation of a pinhole camera for a tour of the UK, in which you would take glorious black and white photos for Stuffies Magazine, Issue 1? Where are your drafts for Champagne, the full-length fetish novel starring myself, Rufus and Rihanna with full-color illustrations by mamabliss? All you have to show for your hundreds of hours of wanking is a very ugly template--" she protested that all Blogger templates were so--"and a lot of poorly archived photos! And--" I raged on, for this made me the most indignant of all, "what was with your ridiculous insistence on referring to me as fictional?!"

I admit for someone who so loves the softer sex, I can be very hard sometimes. Fortunately, Molly was only briefly dismayed. She knows that the best cure for when I get uppity is to tell me to stuff it-- in this case, by shoving a Twinkie in my mouth. Nevertheless, it required the additional administration of several liters of soda before I was fully quieted.

Later, having eased me by unbuttoning my suddenly-too-tight-clothes, she gently whispered to me the realities of the world. Sex blogging, of whatever kind, is a labor of love, for which few, if any, receive compensation. Her carefree college days are over, along with much of her free time. She must begin a search for a real career--one that will help her pay off the thousands of dollars she has incurred in college loans. The writers of a few of the other sex blogs she reads so voraciously sometimes work out ways to get paid for it, but she has yet to do that--and she feels odd simply asking for handouts. To carry out the projects she's envisioned, she'll need more readers, writers, artists, and fetish enthusiasts to help her--connections she has yet to make. And, she added, since Saturday she has had shooting pains in her right wrist, perhaps the onset of carpal tunnel after all this blogging--

"But," I pointed out as her hand cupped the fullest part of my belly, giving it a gentle squeeze, "it does get you real life dates with stuffer boys."

Though a mention of the Cheesecake Factory is enough to distract me, I do sometimes make some very good points. This one was enough to make her change her whole outlook. And so, as she continued rubbing my stuffed belly and I encouraged her with a gurgle or a moan every now and then, she laid out a new plan for Stuffies. She would try to write Champagne. Every week she would try--she laid particular emphasis on try--to post a new, polished segment of six stories that would have to do with our adventures in stuffing, bloating, and lots of m/m/f sex. I smiled at her projected number of tales.

"And the weekly BBWs and stuffer boys," I urged, "you shouldn't stop those. And Jaime has sent you the next installement in his adventures with the BBW Candy. And--"

She stuffed another Twinkie in my mouth.

But you, dear Reader--how will you keep up with these still-constant, but less scheduled updates? There are lots of ways!

♥ You can subscribe! Click on the box on the left that says "Subscribe to Stuffies"--that will bring you to the Stuffies RSS Feed!

♥ You can friend Molly on Myspace, and receive blog invites and updates from there.

What else can you do to help Molly?

♥ Leave comments! Comments, ideas, and constructive criticism are all welcome!

♥ E-mail Molly! Do you have an article or photo to submit, or just want to send her a link to something feeder-related on the web? You can send her a message on missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com.

♥ Or you can send her a message on one of her profiles on Fantasy Feeder, Myspace, Fetlife , or Curvage.

"I think I'll answer all my e-mails on Sundays," she said, gently laying her plump thigh across my hip. "And who knows? Maybe someday..."

But what "someday" would be I never got to hear. Cradling my bursting belly, I was already asleep, dreaming of my former adventures...and envisioning those that would come tomorrow.

The Mystery of the Disappearing Stuffer Boys

Lots of sex bloggers will tell you that they aren't Casanova. For various reasons they started dating later than most people do, and thus their mistakes in dating stem from lack of experience.

But sometimes I'm sure the confusion stems from the system of dating itself. I don't know what higher power decides the way dating is supposed to go--how we went from our parents negotiating dowries to splitting the check--but sometimes I'd like to take issues with the designers. One of the most puzzling things about my experiences with dating is the rule that silence means no.

It's a curious rule that I've never quite gotten the grips of. When I was in college I screwed around for the first time (like a surprising amount of people, I've since discovered.) Only I could never figure out the aftermath. I don't know what my girlfriends did--they weren't the screwing around type--but the boys seemed to know the rule of silence so instinctively they seemed stunned when I had to ask.

One Halloween I dressed as Red Death. It wasn't a sexy Red Death, but a mess of fake blood and sores all over my breasts and down my arms--my face was enclosed by a skull mask. A boy I'd asked to dance gripped me so hard I could feel it through his boxer's gloves. When we got back to my room he whipped of his nerd's glasses and I tore off his pants to reveal one of the most perfect asses I had ever seen.

My first (and so far only) long term relationship happened before that. It was a fuckbuddy thing: X. would call me up, we'd fuck and then he'd leave--we never went to dinner or sought each other outside the bedroom. I think for a while I thought all boys were like this: fucking was so rare, so precious to them, that after one taste they couldn't help but come back for more. I knew my own raging desires made me like that: after a single taste, I could never stop until I had scored another.

The nerd boy who had a thing for zombie girls was different than the boys I'd had before. He took direction, put his hands where I asked him, and screwed me up the ass with all the vigor of a jackrabbit after a week of celibacy. We even talked for a while after he fucked me--about music, I think, and he asked me what I liked. He told me I was pretty. Which was all so much more than I had ever gotten from X. or Constantine I was sure he would seek me out again, just like X. had, only this time it would be better. Even Q. said it looked promising.

Instead, we stared at each other for almost two weeks. Not coming up to say hi, not speaking, just staring. He kept looking at me, in the gymnasium or when he practiced his fencing outside. Q. told me to be patient: boys might call you after a week, she said. Time was different for them, or something.

Finally I came up to him and whispered, "I can't stop thinking about you!"

He blushed. "I got back with my girlfriend," he blurted.

"Oh," I said.

With internet relationships it's even harder to tell. A month of talking every night will suddenly end in silence: his handle will stay firmly at the bottom of your list of contacts, he won't answer calls, even your wittiest text messages go unanswered. Often you have no idea what "went wrong"--though who would ever tell you straight out what didn't work for them?

The second boy I had--before the Jackrabbit, after the X.--turned all the dating rules I thought I knew on their heads. All the signs that Q. had taught me, the proofs that a boy was "interested" in me, were there. But they didn't matter. If he asked me about myself or asked what I wanted when we made love, it was only a means to an end, not an indication that he "felt anything for me". When I tried to talk to him the day after he shrugged me off, walked by me: my first encounter with the rule of silence.

Why didn't I know this? I said to myself, embarrassed and enraged. Why hadn't I filtered this rule in through my skin, picked up on the minute vibrations that would tell me that he just wasn't that into me? I don't know how else I could have known.

After the Jackrabbit I made a rule for myself. The turnover time, I said to Q., isn't a week--not by a long shot. If they don't seek you out after a day or two, it's time to move on.

Same goes with stuffer boys. If the boy with the cute pic still can't meet with you after the second phone call, if they don't IM after two weeks, if they don't call back after the first date in the flesh, that's it. It's not that they broke their phone while racing Go-Kart or got called away to Japan or ended up in jail for 45 days, after two weeks they will have moved on, and so should you. That's why I'm so grateful for that little mass-email button on my favourite dating website: with a single click half a dozen people can be told, clearly and succintly, that you're "sorry, not interested."

Unless you're the Colt. Who has in fact had his phone broken racing Go-karts, left it in an airport and had it's batteries die all within a month or two. Or after 45 days, frantic from not being able to say goodbye, he finally was able to log on again and break the rule of silence.

Or Alex. He dissapeared from phone and internets a month ago. Then on Thursday, just as I was about to go to bed:

ME: long time no txt message

ALEX: yeah i know, i got some bad news and kind of stopped talking to people for awhile

ME: what happened?

ALEX: i got orders to japan

ME: fuck

What Is A Stuffer Boy?

By now you're probably like, "Ok Molly, we've seen you like tattooed penises. We've seen your ruffly behind. Is that all, or is this blog just another sop to a chubby girl's vanity?"

See up there, on the headliner? Way up there where it says "Molly loves stuffer boys"?

They are, in fact, why this blog was started in the first place.

To best answer that question, I realized I would have to do more than write a little post "in praise of stuffer boys". 'Cuz it's going to take a little more than that if you just got here to see the frilly rump and tattooed penis pics.

'Cus this blog is about to get a lot stranger.

And a lot more sexy.

Stuffer Boys: GalaxyBall

Via GalaxyBall's Myspace

As you may have noticed, Capitol Pride and blog breakages interfered with both stuffer boy Sundays and BBW Mondays. But the remarkable stuffed boy beauty I've found should make up for the long wait.

His Myspace says he's from Germany (many stuffer boys seem to be from Germany, why is that?) and his photo captions like they've suffered through one too many internet translations. His album only has two photos.

But two photos were all it took to blow all the photos I'd seen before out of the water: this boy has a swollen belly on a blonde model's body, as unexpected and arousing as seeing, say, Brad Pitt stuffed. His black and red clothes (vagely "designer") and his metal bracelets add just the right touch of alt to press all of my fantasy buttons at once.

Dirty Stories

All my life I've hated the idea of finding love on websites because I was afraid of branding myself as being socially inept. When I thought of looking for a girl/boy using a dating service I was faced with two images in my mind: that of a unwashed geek who spent five hours wanking in his basement hiding behind a computer screen or those dumpy conservative couples on eHarmony. I didn't drag myself up from being a virginal high-school bookworm with no fashion sense just to be shoved right back into that closet, I vowed.

Then I discovered I had a fetish.

As feederism, Myspace porn, BBWs, BHMs, and the hidden uses of Mentos and Diet Coke all exploded into my consciousness I realized I was spending at least as much time on my computer in the dead of night as that stereotypical geek. I also realized two things simultaneously: (1) this wasn't going to "just go away" and (2) it's almost impossible to tell a stuffer boy by looking at him. Unless I found a bar where the patrons regularly competed by drinking gallons of beer or started frequenting the completive eating circuit my chances of meeting one would be few. With a sigh of relief I realized my time spent on the internet was a forced necessity, not an acknowledgment of my own insecurities, and I set about trying to find out if there even was such a thing even as my friends wondered why they never saw me any more after school.

As Violet Blue says in her podcast about fetishes, finding a fellow fetishist on the internet is "hit and miss". Once I got over the sweaty palms and chair-rubbing reactions of simply being on such websites (hey, for a virgin feeder girl it doesn't take much), I discovered their flaws: they are uniformly ugly and they all seem to be populated by men that are at least fifteen years older than I am, a native of India whose spelling and seduction techniques didn't get far beyond fifth grade. "Ah", said some of my college friends, "it's the same level of people you meet in real life."

Intellectual snobbery aside, it is sometimes quite difficult to find someone who shares your same tastes in bloating and stuffing as well as your level of vocabulary. As I tried to condense the essence of my desires into an easy to read paragraph that still allowed for those lovers I'd never imagined to slip through the loopholes, I reflected that this was why eHarmony's elaborate screening process had been invented, never mind their inherent homophobia. I was wandering in the back alleys of the internet where transactions were shady and boys sometimes threw bottles to get your attention.

At the same time I posted this story in the forums, simply because I liked the idea that the most-read stories ended up on the front page of the website after the readers had voted for their favorites.

Without even knowing it, I had done the right thing. Before I posted "Water Bottles" I was having to comb my way through the archives looking for someone who might be what I wanted; after it appeared on the front page boys started messaging me. Even after it had disappeared into the archives I received e-mails from boys that were intelligent, articulate, and grammatically correct, saying that they'd always wanted to do that, that they wanted me to help them start stuffing or they looked like Mister Six or knew people that were like Rufus. I had stumbled on one of the truths of writing that happened way back when things were still written on paper: good writing calls out to good writers, and they will respond.

So this is my advice to people who are just starting dating on the internet: if you have a specific thing you want to do, a life-long fantasy, or are even looking for a specific body type, lock the bedroom door, get out a little lube, and spin a bit of smut. My dirty story in which I'd written out my main fantasy had attracted more like-minded people than my short "personality profile" or even my photographs ever did. For whatever reason, a little tale with characters gets deeper to the heart of most people and crosses more barriers than filling out pages of "likes" and "dislikes". And, If you are at all good at writing (and most readers of sex blogs tend to be), people who also value the written word will be drawn to you: the creative geeky stuffer boys, in my case, who can make me melt with a well-written e-mail or whose wit can stand up to my own.

In this way, I realized, I was carrying out a fact of writing that was happening even when words were only written on paper. Anias Nin, who was sadly born too late for sex blogging and whose juicy private journals were published after her death, wrote to a friend that when one puts oneself out in wiritng, others will come bringing gifts. Among writers who are still alive, Jefferson is an excellent example of the power of smut to find you the kinky literate partner that you would never look twice at in real life. He meets women almost entirely through his blog, which details his exploits with sometimes dozens of men and women in a week. It would be easy to simply write him off as as a user, but the reason women seek him out is because his writing makes you trust him. He tells stories against himself as well as his experiences hosting the Bukakke Social Club, and his blog archives (going back three years) are so detailed that after reading them you feel you could walk through his apartment with your eyes shut. In being so explicit about so many things, from his relationship to his children to giving a woman her first orgasm, you forget you have never actually met him. You can fake a persona, of course, and there is always the danger that someone writing about him/herself will leave out their most glaring flaws, but I remain awed by the depth to which you can glimpse another human being's mental world in such simple things as a choice of word or how they construct a sentence.

It's so intimate talking to someone whose read my stuffer stories and really paid attention to them. If we haven't met in real life before this, I can have the exquisite feeing of a partner having read my mind, coming to me already filled with the knowledge of what turns me on. Writing honestly is making your mind naked to another. In the act of writing, you have already taken the first step towards intimacy, opening yourself to anyone who's listening.

Stuffer Boys: It's Sunday Somewhere

A girl never forgets her first.

Around six months ago I was poking about on Myspace, having finally stumbled upon a few pictures and keywords that vaguely corresponded to the things I thought about every night when I was trying to get off. As yet, none of them were quite the right word or photo...

Then my eye fell on Fatten Me Up's profile (he had a different handle then, I forget what it was). Until then, I had no idea that boys did "it"--and with my first look at a stuffed boy, something clicked in my head. This was what I had been wanting.

Soon I was looking at his photos every night before I went to bed. I learned how different a boy's belly looked when compared to that of a soft plump girl's. Harder, heavier, masculine and impressive. He was the first stuffer boy I e-mailed, and though we haven't talked much, he seems to be quite a nice chap.

He's in Italy now and, being a gainer first and a stuffer second, trying to gain weight. But it's "still not goin great though :( what would u recommend a lost stuffer boy in distress??"

Any recommendations, girls? If you have an idea, send the boy a message!

Under Construction

Today I took down three of my previous posts: "Stuffer Boy Sunday: Alex" and "Baking Pies" and "'You Can Do Better'". ("Cyberfun" also disappeared briefly but then I remembered I had left a comment about it on Violet Blue's blog and she wouldn't be able to read it.)

I did this to avoid drama.

If you have been following this blog you will know that I have many different kinds of relationships with several different boys, both in RL and online. Recent events have forced me to think about changing my relationship to some of them, and putting my feelings out on such a public forum might create problems in the future. For instance, the Colt reads my blog, and I would rather he hear of the people I saw in his absence directly from me than read it in some impersonal blog post. (EDIT: he now knows about Alex and the BHM.)

Also, I try to make it my policy to ask the permission of almost everyone I write about before I put anything up about them on the internet (emphasis on the "try"). Cee, the Colt, Jaime, BBB and the "guest" stuffer boys whose photos I post every Sunday all know I write about them and have given their blessing. The exception to this is my housemates (who I've decided don't need to know I am a hardcore fetishist yet do things too amusing to avoid writing about), people I make out with in the murky darkness of parties, old flames who I will mention but haven't spoken to for years, and Alex, who I haven't heard from since he missed his date with me on July 4th. I told the BHM I wrote a blog last night and he said he wanted to see anything before I put it up, and thus some of the posts may reappear after I've talked with him. "'You Can Do Better'" will also probably re-appear in a newly edited state because I seem unable to write about anything in less than 1,794 words.)

So this is a needlessly long post explaining why you may have tried to find one of these articles and can't now. Unfortunately, Blogger does not have a password protect feature, which would allow people limited access to these posts while still letting you know they're there. This is the next best thing. The posts aren't gone, I just re-saved them in my draft folder. Hopefully after I've figured things out a little more they can re-appear.

(Here's a hint if you really miss them and use my RSS feed: even when it's been deleted on my blog, it's stuck in the RSS feed forever. Which is why you should really, really think before you put something on the internet, and why I always try to make sure it's OK with people first.)

Send Me Your Stuffed Tummy Pics!

Image via Becci.com

So I was laying around one day in my new thigh-high stockings when I suddenly thought to myself, "You know what this world needs? More stuffer boy eye candy."

So I went on the internets and looked. I found a few feederism sites, but it was mostly chubby girls and BHMs (not that there's anything wrong with that). I found a site called Belly Builders, but it was mostly forums, without an easily browsable gallery. I found Beefy Frat, but then discovered that it was mostly gay stuffer boys (not like there's anything wrong with that either, but what's a stuffed tummy lovin' feeder girl to do?)

But I KNOW you're out there! Somewhere there is a weight-lifting, skinny-hipped, gallon-milk drinking stuffer boy just waiting to show his tight swollen belly to the admiring gaze of the world. Perhaps you are the one? Then send Miss Molly Ren your best stuffed pics to put up on Stuffies!

In your e-mail, please include:

1. Your preferred handle

2. your age (and you'd better be 18 or older!)

3. Your current height and weight

4. Your orientation/ relationship status

5. Your website/ YouTube/ Myspace etc., if you have one and want it known

6. YOUR HOT STUFFED PHOTOS! You can even send more than one (I love before and after pics. *wink*) All I ask is that they be decently lit, have all the naughty bits covered up, and show a modicum of photographic ability (i.e. no fuzzy pics of just your navel--those will be deleted.) Push yourself! Do something new! Make them so hot feeder girls will swoon from one end of the internets to the other!

Are you the next Stuffies star? Then send your pics to MissMollyRen (at) gmail (dot) com.

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.

Stuffer Boy Sunday: cxanadu24

"How Big Can My Belly Get?"



[Via.]

Cxanadu can inflate himself to a shocking size even among stuffer boys. You can always tell it's him by the way he has to lean way back to compensate for all the weight in front.

The comments for this particular video are rather funny in that no one can figure out whether this is actually something someone can do:

berit542: guys its a different guy

cman18000: it's two different people, watch carefully at 0:17, the skin color changes


What do you think, all you stuffies, gainers, and drooling FAs? Shouldn't something that stretches the human body this much out of shape be fictional?

It's Sunday! You know what that means...

...stuffer boys!

And don't worry, they're coming. But they're not going to be your usual pic. Instead, you'll get a hot stuffer story, once of the first peices of my book Champagne. There'll be some boy-on-boy action...and a big box of doughnuts.

Stay tuned!

Welcome

I'm not sure where you all are coming from--my statcounter isn't able to give me a particular place--but there certainly seems to be a lot of you. And I'm glad to see each and every one. ;)

So, Welcome to my pervy little corner of the internet! Here you will find everything a stomach fetishist could desire, with articles weekly, erotica monthly and pictures almost daily...when I'm able to get online. (My internet connection is a bit, er, ticklish at the moment.) But until I've put up the next installment, why don't you have a look around?

You can look at the stuffer boys (i.e., male feedees) in all their round bellied glory.

Or, if you have the other persuasion, you can look at some of the hottest BBWs I've ever seen.

Or if your wanking takes a more literary turn, you can read the feederism erotica (i.e. stuffer stories) starring Mister Andre Six, his girlfriend Rihanna, and their soon-to-be-boyfriend Rufus Hex. Many stuffing orgies ensue.

And, if you want to keep up with my erotic adventures, the best way is, as always, to go up there on the right, hit the button under "subscribe", and add me to your RSS Reader.

Related:

◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Normal Sex: The Last Part

Image via Delta Sigma Phi.

1. Desire
2. Fetish


He took me to his house, saying something about all his housemates, how they were in a rock band. He wasn't, tho. The rock band may have also been daylight house painters, but I'm no longer too sure about the facts.

"You're nice," I had told him on the subway. There was something about him that let me know he wasn't going to use me or play with me, that all he wanted was the human warmth.

He said it was because he was from Littletown, the same small town I had gone to college in. "Nothing bad ever came from there."

I found myself peacefully remembering a question I'd read once: Why don't all women who play around get in trouble? The answer was that they're lucky. That night, I thought, I was lucky. His house was still decorated with month-late Halloween decorations--which struck me as appropriate, because I think all rock bands are Goth. There were prayer flags and christmas lights tacked around his window. It was like any room in college, with a copy of the Brother's K. on the dresser. He could have been any of the few boys I had fumbled with on cramped mattresses in messy dorm rooms. I was in a strange house, with a boy I only knew by his first name, but he was already known, familiar.

I asked to use the bathroom, then he took a turn. While he was gone I took off my shoes, lay on the bed. It was all so normal it pleased me.

The only thing that almost ruined it was the quotation. Someone had scrawled a philosophic quote on the wooden frame of his bed. I can't remember exactly what it was now, but it was something about you should make sure you were doing what you really wanted before you died. It bothered me particularly, but then he came in again and I was able to forget about it.

"Take off your shirt and shoes," I told him, "and get into bed."

I had never told a man to do something like that, and it gave me a little thrill. He lay down beside me, just in his blue jeans and leather belt, and we began to explore one another.

I've found that you can never tell much about someone's body until they have their clothes off. With his t-shirt and scruffy beard, he looked like any lit grad, but once he had his shirt off I discovered the kind of body I had never been with. If every one of the men in that club had lined up with their shirts off, I would have chosen him for myself. "Large nipples," I said with pleasure, working my way down his body, "tattooed biceps, prominent hip bones..." He was lean, flat-bellied, and I ran my eyes with pleasure over the subtle curves of his muscles underneath the skin.

"I like your body," I told him when he was on top of me.

"It's not a great body," he said.

"It's a good start," I said, or something like that. I think it was the potential that caught me, the idea that with a few months of work he could look like this. As if I were seeing an X-ray vision of his future life.

I took off my clothes piece by piece, until I was in my corset teddy. He fumbled at the bra-like hooks that held it closed. I laughed at him as I began rubbing myself between my legs: "I have all my clothing off except this one piece, and you still can't get to my pussy!"

I took pity on him and undid the hooks. He fingered me for a while. That was nice. I slid my hand in his jeans

We had a brief discussion of why condoms are uncomfortable, but I can leave that out. He wasn't unwlling to wear one, it going with "the whole thing about having sex with strangers and all."

He started thrusting--not in my pussy yet, just in the groove where my thigh joined my body. With each thrust the head of his dick smacked into my palm, hard and hot through the slick wrapping of the condom. I breathed in as I felt the power in his thrusts.

It hurt when he first put it in, the ache sharp but not unexpected. I knew I wasn't aroused enough. But after the first few thrusts let my pussy know he wasn't there to hurt me it began to get wet like it was supposed to. I loosened up, wrapped my legs around him. I realized it had been a while since I'd done that, it had been impossible with the BHM. I remembered that with the BHM there had always been the strange thrill of his size, his excess of flesh pressing up against my mound and sometimes, a little, on my clit. This boy, though, still made my thighs ache because I was holding him so hard.

I realized, as I lay there under him, focused on his movements as I tried to figure out when he was going to orgasm, that this was normal sex. It didn't hurt, but I didn't feel pleasure. I just rested underneath him, as he did the main work, and it was my job to make it easier by tilting my pelvis up, kissing him, playing with his nipples. There were no strap ons. No leather chaps or handcuffs. He didn't even want anal sex. Just a boy and a girl, doing the thing that a year ago I never thought I'd be comfortable enough with to simply take in. His thrust were going faster and faster.

Suddenly he stopped. He must have cum, I thought, but instead he started whistling.

"What the hell!" I laughed.

"Tantric," he told me.

He did this a couple more times, stopping at the peak of his thrusts to hold himself for me, moving his hips in a figure eight to touch different places inside me. It wasn't his fault I couldn't cum. I only came when I shut my eyes, sucked my stomach muscles in and out, and thought of stuffer boys. I had gone home with him knowing this.

He allowed himself to cum at last. I admired the sperm in the transparent condom, he told me it would be hot if I swallowed it, then added, "No, not really." He was teasing.

It was so late I was a little afraid to go back home. It would take me an hour, and I was deep in the darkened wilds of Brooklyn. He let me stay the night, tho, wanted me to so we could curl up together naked on the bed, snuggle together. That was nice too.

He might not like what I have written. The next morning I wrote my blogger name and email down on an envelope, in case he wanted to see me again. I don't want him to think it was awful, he was funny and smart and I liked his body a lot, I really did. But being with him only made me realize, once more, that my body and my mind don't work like other people's do.

Technical Difficulties

If you were here after 5:00 pm on Sunday, June 29th, you would have seen a post here entitled "Miss Lioness."

Where did it go?

I write many of my posts long before they appear on the blog. I set a date and time for when they will be posted, and Blogger puts them up, spacing out over days or weeks what I wrote during one long frantic Sunday. Usually they'll go up around 5:00 in the afternoon, EST. Concerning "Miss Lioness", I made a mistake typing in the date, and the post should have appeared tomorrow. It couldn't have possibly appeared today, because today is Sunday. You know what I always post on Sundays?

Stuffer Boys!

But if you liked the last post, don't fret: "Miss Lioness" will appear again tomorrow at 5:00.

Stuffer Boys: Jhonny

Here (at last!) is our first peice of stuffed boy eye candy--yummy!

Ladies, meet Jhonny. He's a 170 pound, blue-eyed submissive with a sweet disposition and a growing pot belly. He especially loves being called "piggy". (Example: "Bad piggy!" while shoving his face down into a trough.) But before all you girls let your inner swineherd out: he has a date this Friday . *le sigh* But, he adds, it's with a sweet girl that knows about his fetish. Dinner and a movie, mmm!

I say, go Jhonny! (And will you send us the before and after pictures?)

I Want You To Be A Little Fucked Up

"He makes me think of a vampire... but then he wouldn't need the gun...". Originally uploaded by _Vorfas_.

As wonderful as all the hype has been for Fetlife, it sucks for meeting up with stuffer boys. To be exact, the only male feedee I've seen so far is Cee, and that's because I asked him to join soon after I did.

I guess I really do belong to one of the rarest fetishes in the world.

But just because I'm a feeder doesn't mean I don't have an insatiable appetite for a good old fashioned shag. In fact, one could say I'm perpetually horny because I'm perpetually unsatisfied. So tonight, between searching for a better job and a bigger city to move to, I've rewritten a couple of my profiles. I think they cater more to the type of man I've usually ended up with anyway:

You're more beautiful than I am. I want your ass to look better in women's underware than mine does, I want you to taunt me with the narrowness of your waist. I want you to outdrink me, outfuck me (well, you can try), have a sharper tongue and a randier wit. I want you to smoke endless cigarettes and have cheekbones like knives. I want you to look pale, consumptive, like you only come out at night. I want you to be a little fucked up... Read the rest.

Stuffer Boys: He's a Nice Southern Boy

[Via.]

Stuffer Boys: Bellydude500

I could go on and on about this boy. Unlike most, who stuff without considering the consequences, Bellydude500 works out to have both a slender physique and a capacity roughly the size of a basketball. *swoons* But rather than go on and on about him, I'll sum up with a quote from his his YouTube channel bio:

"In the words of eating champion Takeru "The Tsunami" Kobayashi, I believe "You have to gradually build up your gut by eating larger and larger amounts of food, and then be sure to work it all off so body fat doesn't put a squeeze on the expansion of your stomach in competition."

Chocolate Milk

MOLLY: have you always liked girls this way?

BERLIOZ: Well I really started noticing it in high school.....but I actually remember having fantasies about big women years and years ago when I was younger

MOLLY: so you knew right away

BERLIOZ: Basically I think I did

MOLLY: Took me a while to figure it out. stufferboys are a lot less visible than chubby chicks

BERLIOZ: Very true, lol

MOLLY: always had dreams about skinny guys drinking milk until their tummies bulged, though

BERLIOZ: Oh I've done that before

MOLLY: *happy daydream*

BERLIOZ: Really?

MOLLY: Can't help it

BERLIOZ: lol....well I can do a half gallon easily...then it gets fun

MOLLY: fun how?

BERLIOZ: Because thats when my belly really starts getting hard of course

MOLLY: ooh

MOLLY: ahh

BERLIOZ: In your day dream, whats your favorite part may I ask?

MOLLY: I think you just mentioned it...

MOLLY: I also like the idea of just milk, for some reason
it's such a sensual thing to drink

BERLIOZ: Very true
Thats actually the first thing I bloated with
I would go to my store on campus back at college and buy half gallons of whole milk and quarter gallons of chocolate milk...
It's an awesome feeling. All nice and tight.....feeling a small skinny tummy get bigger and bigger...it's quite intense...
What are you thinking about right now may I ask

MOLLY: stuffer boys!
drinking chocolate milk!

BERLIOZ: Like me?

MOLLY: you might be in there somewhere

MOLLY:deep in the chocolate milk guzzling orgy

BERLIOZ: Is it coming out of garden hoses into all of our mouths

MOLLY: it is now

But People Don't See My Fetish As Sexy! How Do I Write About It?

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