Chocolate Gloves

Want Some? from Tony Love Heart

I don't need to blog any more. Whenever someone asks me why I like feederism, I'll just show them this picture. 

The Perfect Man

Almost Divine, from Tony Love Heart's collection of Cute Boys

One of the side effects of being into feederism is the ability to guess someone's weight just by looking at them. FA*s, like tailors, learn through looking at hundreds of profiles listing height and weight what to expect, and after a while certain numbers become more important than others. There is a kind of man who will begin to stiffen and leak upon reading the stats "5' 5", 200 lbs." before he's even seen a picture, and I myself am not immune to this phenomenon. 

For me, the magic number is 170 lbs. (My ideal height for a man is a little shorter than myself--say 5' 8".) I'm unusual in wanting something so low, but much over 170 lbs. and a boy's frame will begin to look overloaded. The fat will begin to fold over and bloat him out, overbalance him. Under 170, all his muscles will stand out and his belly will be flat. But at 170, the extremes are perfectly in balance. If he has muscle definition it will still be visible, perhaps slightly softened, but the main difference will be in his belly. The extra flesh will have a round, tight look to it: he'll still fit in his clothes but form-fitting t-shirts will pull across his tummy like a slut's dress. This, in feederism parlance, is called a "ball belly", and I zero in on it the way an ass man looks at pictures of Beyonce. 

It is this set of parameters, as unforgivingly specific as the demands of height and weight for a Vogue model, that seem to set me apart even in what is already an unimaginably rare fetish. I am forever trying to get my cyber-beaus to slow down when they want to speed up--when boys talk lustfully about reaching 200, 300 lbs. I'm urging them to stop right where they are. I want them to be gluttonous, but also go to the gym, maintain. If I could just freeze them in time I absolutely would. 

And, thus, I jinx myself. Most boys I've talked to just want to give their gluttony and lust free reign. What I want is much harder. I want soft hardness and restrained indulgences, I want their bodies to be everything to me, all at once. When I told Cee that I was going to stop looking so hard for a feedee and start trying other things because if I didn't I would be very, very lonely, he said, "Don't you want to create your ideal man?"

And that's the intoxication for every feeder's heart: the ability to mold someone into exactly what you want. Every modern retelling of Pygmalion makes him out to be a shallow, silly cunt, but really, who wouldn't want this power? When our robot overlords get good enough to marry I'm not so much going to want to program a boyfriend to do whatever I want (because who wants something as unchallenging as that?) but mix and match billions of skin and hair and bone structures so he looks exactly how I want. High cheekbones. Skin like marble. Black hair and blue eyes and a round porn star's ass and long fingered hands and a small, perfectly rounded belly. If there was any personality programming going on I'd install a desire to maintain his body that rivaled any starlet's (or would he be a Real Doll-like model that was stuck looking exactly one way?)

But the thing that keeps me from becoming a shining example of how women can have as insanely specific desires as men is that I'd can't imagine how I'd have the right to impose my standards on a real live human male, one that I'd sleep next to and make dinner with. Do I have the right to demand that my lovers shave and wax themselves when I hate doing it myself? Should they always look perfect when I seldom care to put any work into my appearance at all? It's a long and detailed list that would stress anyone out, and if they weren't naturally endowed with the "proper" bone structure it could drive them to despair**.

Nevertheless, I think of this description as the core of my desires. Sometimes it influences my sexual choices, sometimes not. It's true I've had several partners of the dark and delicate-boned variety, and all the feedees I currently cyber with fit that mold. But it's also true that their charms can lose their power over me if they're inarticulate, needy, or just plain mean: the ones I've kept in contact with for over a year are all smart, interesting, and mostly happy boys with their own style of language. And sometimes I just want someone completely different: my first love was a conservative with a body that made one think more of WWF wrestlers than dancers or jockeys, and when I look at the endless parade of boys on my Tumblr I'm constantly surprised how one physical attribute will look quite different on one boy than on another. (I've told Jefferson he'd be more attractive if he shaved his kiwis, but have found myself buried in DC Boy's far hairier crotch and loved every minute of it.) And there's a whole other as-yet-unwritten branch of my sexual desires where the men always come in pairs, with matching appetites but exactly opposite bodies. Perhaps the key to my desires isn't hungry brunettes, but  contrast?

So at the end of this long rambling post about my ultimate desires I've come to the conclusion that there are some things I like a lot, and some things I almost like, and some things I like that I had no idea I liked before I saw them. The fact that hardly anyone has all these things or none of these things guarantees that even if you don't fit my core desires exactly, you don't have to worry I'm "settling" for you. (And neither, thank God, do I.)

Which doesn't erase the fact that if a boy came along who was mostly sane and had the right bone structure I wouldn't go absolutely mad for him. The six weeks or six months it took to change his almost perfect body into my ideal perfect body would be the most intensely sexual of my life. Even if we didn't fuck I might be able to cum just from watching him eat, or work out, or whatever else I had demanded he do to mold himself. If he was slightly dumb I would put up with it, if he was really dumb I'd feel humiliated, if he was a sub I'd push him around and if he was a domineering asshole I don't know what I would do, but no matter what personality he had a part of me wouldn't be able to say no to him. He'd have more power over me than I'm comfortable thinking about, and if he were wired the way he'd have to be wired for this to be in any way consensual, I'd have the same power over him.

There's a movie called Original Sin. It's been many years since I've seen it, so it may in fact be horrible. But it's redeemed in my memory because it has Antonio Banderas and Angelina Jolie in it. They were two of my favorite actors for a long time. I have no idea what's happened to Mr. Banderas, and this was long before Miss Jolie became the woman every straight girl wanted to fuck. I just had an innocent awe of the fact that such alien lips were part of a real human being.

But to cut to the chase: Mr. Banderas sends away for a mail order bride, and gets Jolie in return. After he meets her, falls for her, and fucks her she leaves him (something about her really being a thief who posed as a mail-order bride in order to steal his fortune.) Apparently, she didn't really care for him at all. There's a few minutes of montage where it shows Banderas going into many different brothels, with many different types of women. But they all have the same physical characteristics, the slender build and the long dark hair, and he makes them smoke cigars as she did. 

I know what that's like. I know all too well. 

_____________________________________

*FAs: "Fat Admirers". It's feederism speak for chubby chasers. If you're a female chubby chaser you're supposedly an FFA, but why do we need another F in front of it telling people the admirer is female? 

** Or drive him to get very expensive and painful plastic surgery just for me, but that's another post altogether.

Nice View

[Via] Chagrin

There's a link to who took this photo, one Mireia, but that's not enough for once, because she doesn't have any more information as to why she took it. I'd like to know, though, 'cuz I'm curious if she had the same motive for taking it as I do for posting it here. 

Hipster Guts & Male Swagger

I haven't a clue where Nina Gapinski found this photo of Pete Doherty, but from the scarf's print I am guessing it may have actually been some kind of fashion spread. 

Just yesterday I was wondering why there wasn't a male term for plump-but-hot guys. Today, I found it in the most unusual of places: a blog about DC's Goodwill. The article's inspiration was from a NYT piece  talking about how hipsters are increasingly letting themselves go. There were the usual from-the-collarbones-down shots of fat people and the warning that "Women have almost never gotten a pass on the need to maintain their bodies, while men always have". 

But Nina Gapinski gets it:

I think most women know that attitude is everything when it comes to sexy. Belly fat held no appeal to me whatsoever when I was a teenager, but by my mid-twenties I’d turned the corner on that point. There was something to a man having some weight on him if he were going to be at all up to throwing it around, as I saw it... and most of the men I fancied tended to do that. Pitied in fitness magazines and the butt of so many Hollywood movie gags… belly fat, in my mind, held its own tacit countercultural standard; with the right swagger, it was its own brand of hot.

An unapologetic gut is very… gutsy, if you will. It’s take-it-or-leave-it; it isn’t trying too hard. And it subtly implies that this is a man with priorities that have nothing at all to do with some external standards, Greek gods or no Greek gods. The man makes the abs, but the abs will never make the man. It works for me. What, may I ask, is sexier than swagger?

Softie

[Via] Male

A "softie" is what I call a male who isn't what people would consider fat, but just a little plump around the tummy. Oddly, though there are BBWs, plumpers, and BHMs, there doesn't seem to be a popular phrase for boys like this. Perhaps we should call them BWAs (Boys Without Abs)?

Ice Cream

An excerpt from a piece I'm currently working on:

...There's something about the sheer hunger, something very masculine about the concept of devouring--Takeru Kobayashi's world famous hot dog eating eating contests, frat boys downing bongs. It definitely has something to do with the fact that once he has filled himself to capacity--the good ones, the "feedees", can drink almost a gallon at a time--he is incapacitated. No bondage cuffs could hold a pretty boy as willingly in thrall as the warm, heavy belly and the loggy feeling that comes after an orgy of overindulgence. To my mind, there is nothing so sweet to look at as a naked, full-bellied boy "sleeping it off"...

It's a lot like bar hopping in that I drop down into a crossfire of conversation, a hungry boy latches onto me, and if he passes the first tests of grammar and basic articulateness I take him aside into a private chat-room. We'll stay there for the first "getting to know you" paragraphs and then switch to Yahoo chat for the webcams. The little screen opens and I see an unfamiliar bedroom, a new body.

He's naked in an office chair. I can see his brush, his dick...oh, and his belly. He's just a little plump, so it contrasts nicely with the rest of his body, not to big or too small, and I can't see the rest of him because he's angled the camera to cut out his face. Once when he moved to the other side of the room to get something something shifted and I spied the color of his hair before he bought up his hand to cover his face like a prima donna hounded by the paparazzi. I want to respect his privacy and yet at the same time it seems so frustrating and pointless not to be able to see his face.

Beside him is one of those plain plastic tubs of ice cream you can get at the grocery store. He says he's let the ice cream inside melt, so that he can swallow it more easily and it won't give him a tummy freeze. Such details fascinate me, all the little bitty things that can't be thought of, but can only be realized through experience. Like a sailor talking about proper knots or a foodie describing the various ways to make a single dish, you can tell a true expert by the attention to detail, the little things he does to make the job easier.

He lifts the whole thing to his mouth, like drinking from a bucket. There's no way he can drink a gallon, but he's going to try. My clit swells as I watch his throat move, and if I watch carefully I can even see his tummy grow a bit with each swallow, each gulp traveling down to press it out a little more. A loop of melted cream falls across the soft flesh just above his nipple, and I offer to lick it off.

He stops, overwhelmed. He can't do it, though he made a good try. His tummy is noticeably bigger, rounder. fuller. This pleases me: that he looks better, that my favorite part of him is more exaggerated, that his senses are overwhelmed with sweetness and richness and gluttony. He runs his hand down his belly, caressing it, then, without asking me, begins to jerk off.

Stuffer Boy Sunday and Technical Difficulties

As you may have noticed, it's not, in fact, Sunday. However, rather than a tale of too many drinks Sunday night, I can only tell you that my house's wireless is busted. It's paid for by all of us, but now the wireless people are claiming they never got the first payment...which was sent to them a year ago.

Such snafus are common, but it means I might not be on very much in the coming weeks, if at all. Don't worry, tho, there's a few more scheduled posts, so things won't dissapear entirely...but for the next couple weeks the blog is kinda on hiatus.

I'll be back, tho, to spread more word about "the rarest fetish in the world". Might even have the last installment in that story about Rufus. ;)

In the meantime, enjoy some watermelon:



Related:

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

◆ Are YOU the next stuffer boy? Submit a photo to missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Stuffer Boy Sunday: Bartleby Jones

I love before and after pics.

Take a good look at this boy's belly, my tummy-loving peeps: what do you think? You might be hearing more about him on this blog in the future.

Related:

◆ Bartleby Jones' Myspace

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

◆ Are YOU the next stuffer boy? Submit a photo: missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Belly Brigade: Stuffed

bloated belly, originally uploaded by poketo.

Stuffer Boy Sunday Isn't Just for Sundays: n2bfed

me 230, originally uploaded by n2bfed.

EDIT: Hey all, sorry about the lateness of this one. I somehow scheduled it funny--one of the hazards of late night updates.

Stuffer Story: Warm Milk

Here it is at last: the first part of one of my stuffer stories.

Rufus Hex

Rufus Hex hated hotel rooms.

Strange aversion, for a musician, but then he had spent his formative years in a dormitory, rather than on the road. Upon his becoming more well-known he had become more familiar with them, but had hated them none the less. He despised them whether they were clean with huge smothering comforters, so quiet you could hear the ice rattle in the machine at the end of the hallway, or old ratty ones where the coverings scratched and the AC banged all night long.

This one was pretty, though, with a huge picture window looking out on New York City. And a kitchen and private bath. When he had come in he thought this might, possibly, be the first hotel room he would have liked--for there would have also been a pretty boy in it, barefoot, with neatly pressed shirts, a magically small waist, and bare feet below the immaculate suit.

Instead it was raining, and Rufus was kneeling on the sofa, his tummy pressed into the rough cloth, and listened to Mister Six talking about canceled flights.

"And there's no other way...?" asked Rufus. He brushed his hair out of his eyes as he listened. It was jet black and very long, but the stylists had it dyed deep blue so that in light it shimmered with indigo highlights.

"...but it doesn't really matter," said Mister Six into his ear, "because I'm going to be there for a whole week afterwards..."

Yes but not this day, this time we agreed on. Instead of the vision he had been nursing all day--all week--all the month they had been sending a web of e-mails and texts and late-night phone calls to create a vision, an idea, that Rufus Hex and Mister Six might actually meet in a hotel room and touch one another, become real, he would have to pretend he had more important things in his life, plans, hobbies, and read books whose words he would not even remember the next day. He felt the whole day opening up before him, empty, a wasteland.

"All right", said Rufus, and he could hear every drop of his defeat pressing through those words. "Love you." Press end. He put his arms down on the sofa back and watched it rain.

It was all so fragile, he reflected, these ridiculous assignments. There was no Mister Andre Six. All this time he had been making love to a photograph without seeming to notice...only this one could talk, would tell him how much to drink, how to finger his ass, could whisper all the gluttonous fantasies that would never fail to bring him to orgasm...There had been days he thought he could not live without that voice in his ear. But today, what did he have?

Rufus heaved an immense sigh, miserable with his own stupidity, and flung himself back on the sofa with his arm on his eyes. He should have known better. These things seemed so simple--Mister Six would move from one point to another, and the two would meet, point A and point R, when in reality it was just another torment.

Rufus had unbuttoned his shirt in his privacy and anticipation, and realized he had been unconsciously tracing his soft nipples. They were large, each with a nip of softness underneath them....not moobs, but proof his stockiness wasn't all just broad shoulders. His skin was perfect, an almost phosphorescent white, which had somehow come out along with his pure black hair and sleepy blue eyes, with their girlishly long lashes. He fervently wished that it was not his own broad hands touching his nipples, and that made him rub them until they became hard. He traced the scar around one of them, followed the spiral down his chest and then to his tummy, which made him smile. Unlike most pop singers, Rufus had no abs, just a gentle rounding below his pectorals. Around the height of his navel it became more pronounced, a soft bulge of tummy, and he remembered the gasp of joy he'd heard when he had taken off his shirt for the first time in front of Mister Six, modeling for him in front of the webcam.

Rufus grinned without realizing he was doing so. That was the power that Andre Six had over him, that even in his disappointment, even when he wanted to throw his laptop across the room in his frustration, just the idea of him could get him off. Rufus curved his back slightly, pushed out his stomach muscles, and ran his broad hand down his belly, caressing. There was something special about that curve, something so delightful in the feeling of soft, delicate flesh that was a secret key to all his lust. He pulled his tummy in, pressed it out, began to rub a little harder, faster.

His phone throbbed in his hand. Check e-mail, it said.

Andre Six to me:

virgin sucks ass.

but i don't want you to have a sad birthday. and, actually, one of your presents was supposed to come today. but since i can't be there, i thought sending you an e-mail would be best.

Happy Birthday, Rufus: i got you a tummy fluffer!

"A what?" said Rufus, though there was no one to hear him. He had learned a lot of words from Mister Six in the six months that they had been emailing each other, such as feeder, feedee, stuffing, and inflation (though Rufus felt like he had never quite been able to get over that last one.) Still, this word was entirely unknown to him.

as far as i can tell, she's the first of her kind. but she's something you'll really like. she's quiet and adorable, and will help you with whatever you want, but she says she likes boy's bellies best. i've told her your likes and dislikes and she should come prepared to cater to them. she's a good masseuse.

she told me she liked boys with black hair, blue eyes, "and I like it if they're taller than me they should have a little bit of a tummy." now, who does that sound like?

her name is Molly Ren, but she likes to be called "kitten".

The attached picture was of a very curvy lady, dressed in a corset and with some very frilly underthings on. She had curly hair. Rufus couldn't tell much more about her, however, because the main focus of the photo was her behind.

* * *

More to come! Part 2 is now here!

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.

Stuffer Boy Sunday: bellylover1977

[Via.]