Guest Post! Peanut Butter Cup
(Another guest post from Poetic Desires. -MR)
He sat on the edge of his bed, spooning ice cream out of a just opened pint, savoring each bite slowly. I looked on wantonly.
“Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.”
“Not in those clothes.”
Obdiently, I stripped. He instructed me to grab his towel and I knealt on it in front of him, my hands tucked behind my back. Staring at his treat, my lips watered. He ate one more bite before offering me my first.
Delicately scrapping the cold dessert from the carton, he waved the spoon just off the edge of my lips. Slowly he glided the ice cream into my mouth and my tongue lapped it up gratefully. Tipping the spoon upward as he removed it, my lips pressed together to capture every last drop.
After taking another taste for himself, he again brought the spoon to my wanting mouth. I instinctively moved forward for my bite, but he moved away, teasing me. I slightly snipped at my treat before settling back on my knees. He again glided the ice cream over my lips and I again enjoyed the sweet rich morsel.
For his next bite, he decided he wanted to eat it another way. Scooping up another spoonful, he spread the ice cream onto my breast and licked it off sensuously. It was all I could do to not buckle under the sheer intensity of this moment. Skipping my next turn, he spread the dessert over my other breast and again enjoyed his treat.
As he ate, I could feel a few melted drops slide down the center of my clevage. Instinctively, I brought a hand forward to catch the liquid before it made a mess.
“Put your hands behind your back!” He smacked my breasts and nipples hard, reprimanding me.
“If the ice cream falls, it’s because I want it to.” I bit back an apology, knowing he did not want to hear it. Seeing I was upset, he again fed me another bite.
“You’re a slut; why are your legs closed?”
I opened my legs wide on his towel. He reached down and began fingering my already wet pussy. I moaned and writhed against his hand, but he commanded me to not cum. The sensations ripping through my body were so intense, I had no choice but to start begging.
“Please, please let me cum. God, please let me cum.”
And when he finally said yes, I ground my hips hard against his fingers, fucking his hand and screaming out his name.
(Want more? Read part two on her awesome blog, That’s Messed Up.)
In typical (i.e., civilian) boy-meets-boy or boy-meets-girl scenarios, the attraction is generally there from the beginning. Whether they meet on the dance floor, bar, library, coffee shop or online, each individual’s physical presentation clearly attracted the other person. If they didn’t attract, the relationship would never germinate. You can almost read their minds: “Gee, I really like that person. He looks like just my type…plus he’s witty, funny and relaxed.” The relationship proceeds and compatibility is assessed over the next months/years, but rarely do you encounter a civilian saying, “gee, they really are so perfect for me…if only they weighed another 100 pounds.” People may wish for certain attributes on their partner to be slightly better than what they got (a longer/thicker penis, bigger breasts, more/less height, different eye/hair color, etc) but for the most part, relationships can overcome these superficialities due to compromise and perspective (and by perspective, I mean the more you see who’s out there, the more you realize you probably have a good thing with your partner).
Conversely, for the gainer world, the immediate attractions that one guy feels for another may or may not be as important as the gainer’s change in size…and presumably, his change in subsequent attractiveness. Using the above example, an admirer might say, “Gee, I really like that guy, he seems like just my type…witty, funny, relaxed…if he just had another 100 lbs on his body.” As you can see, the attractions here are almost displaced — temporarily put on hold until some arbitrary goal is met. And it really is arbitrary — we may think another guy would look great with 100 lbs of fat and muscle on him, but do we really know? How will his face fill out? Will he develop dramatic stretchmarks, and are those appealing? How will his overall body look after the gain? These are unknown variables, yet the gainer-encourager relationships seem to be based, to some degree, on this initial leap of faith.
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Fatnesse Follies: Finding attraction and romance in the gaining world
This is a whole article about all the issues revolving around physical attraction for gay gainers and encouragers. As a (mostly) straight feeder chick, I find this article very familiar in some places and very strange in others.
First of all, the writer talks about a gainer community, which isn’t something I’ve ever experienced in regards to my specific fetish. I am kind of in awe that the author ha seen enough face-to-face relationships play out that they can make these kind of generalizations. Most feeders and feedees I’ve met have to make do with chat roomsand webcams.
Second, that whole bit about attractiveness being “temporarily put on hold” I found fascinating. I can’t say I’ve ever based my physical attraction on someone for what they might become instead of what they already were (related: I’ll always choose sex now over what might never happen in the future.) I have definitely fantasized about what some of my (long term, non feederist) partners have looked like if they weighed more or developed a penchant for stuffing, but I tended to view these as variations on the same person rather than deal makers or breakers. I take it as a given that someone’s appearance will change due to circumstances, as they age, or whether they suddenly turn Goth.
That said, I’ve also screened online feedees for those with similar ideals to myself when it comes to stuffing and gaining. A “no limits” feedee disturbs me the same way a “no limits” sub does, because I feel like feederism still doesn’t have any hard guidelines for what you should and should not do during what I think of as a form of edge play. The other main reason I’ve broken it off after a couple weeks of IMs is the level of participation they allowed me to have. Some feedees already had very definite ideas of what they were going to look like, and I didn’t like feeling that I was simply an accessory voyeur. Some feedees were so eager to please that it made me uncomfortable—you shouldn’t be changing yourself that much just for an Internet hookup!
After explaining my woes to a friend of mine, they told me that what I was actually looking for was the same kind of dynamic in a dom/sub relationship, and the majority of feederists might not even know what that was. I keep forgetting how little overlap there can be between sexuality communities, and how many feederists think BDSM is “out there” when they’re already practicing an unusual form of sexuality.
Anonymous asked: How do you deal with a feedee who has second thoughts? As in, someone who wants to be fat because they like it, but doesn't want society's scorn?
I’ve avoided answering this question for a long time because of the way it’s phrased: “How do you deal with a feedee…?” You don’t deal with them, you respect the fact that it’s their body and that what they do with it is ultimately their decision. Even if it means they no longer want to help you achieve your ultimate fantasy, you have to put your big girl/boy/person pants on and give them the time they need to think through it without pressuring them.
Society’s scorn is, unfortunately, still a big fucking deal. Reading up on some blogs about the politics of fat acceptance may help you realize more fully the pros and cons of making such a decision.
And even if you’re the most alternative, beauty-paradigm busting, hardcore fetishist that ever lived, you still might not want to change your body. I post nekkid pics of myself on the Internet, love stretch marks, dig fat acceptance, and I can’t even settle on a tattoo design.
Guest Post: The Macaroon Incident
Guest author Scarlet emailed me for tips on introducing some feederism into her current relationship, and this was the delicious result! She describes herself as “a city girl with attitude who likes avant garde jazz, pretends to be bookish, and who is discovering peculiar things about her sexual psyche”.
For a few months I’d been having a mutually satisfying e-affair with a beautiful skinny boy from a far-away town – I’ll call him M. I’d been encouraging him to stuff himself via the magic of webcams. M liked to make his little flat belly swell up like an inflated beach ball. What I loved was the way his taut, round tummy contrasted with his delicate bone structure – his sharp shoulders, poetic thin wrists and long slim fingers. I was so turned on by watching him becoming painfully full, and in the process deeply aroused, that I was reduced to a quivering, dampening voyeur whilst he expertly got on with devouring a selection of fruit (yes, fruit, dear reader – neither of us wanted him to get fat) in a variety of sexually suggestive ways.
Observing and encouraging M’s stuffing had become so exciting for me that picturing his full belly in my mind’s eye would often be the tipping point to make me come whilst having sex with someone less well-endowed in the tummy area. I decided I needed to try stuffing someone for real. Maybe M’s beauty meant that watching him do anything would have been alluring – was it him, or the stuffing that was my trigger?
I wondered if my recent real-life acquisition, DL (Dangerous Liaison) would be up for it. We’d only been fooling around together for a few weeks and I loved being in bed with him. He drove me wild with his tumble of tousled hair and pretty-but-not-saccharine looks. His body was divine – all long limbs and angles, with a flat belly that just yielded enough under my fingers to make me want to stuff it.
DL was familiar with what feederism was, in general terms at least, and knew I had an interest in it. Plus he was a dab hand at baking fabulous Victoria sponge cakes and had even spoon-fed me a piece in bed one afternoon. I hoped this was a sign that he might be amenable to a little light stuffing fun.
Introducing the subject was tricky. I’d never talked about feeding someone – I mean, not out loud. I find it very easy to be bold online, in IM or text. But saying to someone face-to-face, “I’d like to feed you cakes until you’re too full, I think it would be sexy” is, let’s face it, a bit odd.
In an abstract way there didn’t seem to be a problem – DL likes cake (his sweet tooth was my friend in this situation), and he likes having sex with me – what could be more innocent that combining the two?
I presented myself on DL’s doorstep armed with a box of Ladurée macaroons. Ladurée sells the most exquisite macaroons on the planet – tiny round sandwiched cakes, with a slight crispness to the outside and an amazing gooeyness to the inside, softly melting in the mouth. Brightly-coloured and subtly flavoured – chocolate, violet, bergamot, lemon, salted caramel, licorice – they seemed perfectly designed to make eating fun and sexy.
To break the ice, I asked DL to read an article by our lovely Miss Molly. DL made me coffee, and rolled me a cigarette with his long, sensitive fingers. Some very long minutes ticked by as I pretended to read a review of Franzen’s Freedom in DL’s copy of the London Review of Books. I say pretended – of course there was no way I could concentrate, as I was covertly ogling DL’s lanky beauty, feeling myself get turned on just by his presence, and worrying about his reaction to the story. But when he’d finished it he turned to me, smiling, asking, “What did you like about that?”
I said I thought it was sexy, and that I felt just as Molly did in the story – aching to stuff her boy, but cautious not to overstep the mark. “I’m happy to give it a try” he said. Pleased, but frightened that he was just humouring me, I insisted on discussing the pros and cons.
I wasn’t interested in seeing anyone gain weight – I have always loved aggressively skinny men, which I imagine is a totally different take to the majority of feeders, who actively want their feedees to gain. What consistently makes me tingle inside is the swollen, pregnant, kissable, suckable, I-need-a-rub tummy that results from a skinny boy eating too much too fast.
DL, from his insouciant start, became unconvinced. He explained that the feeling of being over-full, and the aesthetic of having a rounded belly, was anathema to him. His history of body dysmorphia and an eating disorder or two didn’t help my confidence that he would enjoy the experience – although he sought to assure me that it was long past and didn’t present a problem. My inexperience was making me tentative. We reached an agreement that he was the least likely candidate for me to try this out on. Well, at least I’d put it out there, I thought. Next lover, I’ll try again.
We went to bed. Which was incredible, as usual. He likes curvy girls, I like skinny, cute men, and it all works in a most satisfactory way. I don’t find archetypal clean-cut, wholesome-looking men remotely attractive. This boy… just looking at him makes me yearn to fuck him. In appearance, he could easily have been in the Rolling Stones if they’d been 20 years younger. Lithe, delicate-limbed, long scruffy-haired, a bit beat-up round the edges, but engagingly pretty – with the added characteristics that really do it for me: fiercely intellectual, challenging, impeccable grammar, well-read. And with a terrific smile which doesn’t happen that often, but when it does, it’s electric. Having found this delightful creature, I didn’t want to frighten him off with my strange fetish.
Rain falling outside in the gloomy, cold English autumn made the heat we were creating in his bed all the more seductive as we licked, kissed and fucked each other for a good while… then much later, when I was on top, he paused, smiling, and said, “Go get those macaroons”.
“Really?” I prevaricated, unsure.
“Go get ‘em” he insisted, with a firm slap on my arse.
Returning with cake box in hand, I re-mounted… he lay beneath me, obediently awaiting being fed. I selected a bright pink raspberry-flavoured macaroon and presented it to his lips. I watched as he took it gingerly and chewed. “Do you want to sit up?” I asked, anxious not to give him a tummy ache. He shook his head no. His cock inside me felt slick and wet as I realised that I’d just fed someone for the first time, and that it turned me on. I was thrilled and scared all at once.
A second cake went down… I loved watching him, ragamuffin hair spread over the pillow, swallowing fancy expensive cakes just to amuse me. It had a decadence, a French courtesan feel to it. I felt the sexual wantonness of Madame de Merteuil crossed with the cavalier superiority of Marie Antoinette. Let him eat cake.
“Chocolate. I want a chocolate one,” my feedee now demanded. I considered punishment by refusing, but the gluttony of the request turned me on. Two cocoa-flavoured confections rewarded him and I slid my hand over the trail of hair rising from his groin and over his flat tummy, imagining what it would feel like if it were full. I was still riding him, and the combination of his hardness and the exhilaration of feeding him was making me bubble with an effervescent, throbbing urge to come.
The fifth he teased me with, delicately holding it between his teeth but not admitting it to his mouth. His eyes, until this point modestly closed as he struggled with sensory overload, fluttered open. Looking directly into my eyes, he wolfed the cake whole and chewed, grinning. The greediness (imitated or not, I didn’t care) of the action made me moan out loud. His cock was filling me and together with the unaccustomed pleasure of watching him eat from my hand I was almost unbearably excited.
The sixth I contrived to make crumble slightly as I wedged it between his oh-so-pretty lips… deliberately leaving crumbs to be kissed away from around his mouth. (I have an additional fantasy about food being crushed and smooshed over our bodies, so we can lick and nibble it from each other… or just have wild passionate sex amidst it, in a pool of slippery chocolate sauce and cream – but that will be another story, I hope).
I licked the crumbs away and then kissed him deeply to share the yummy creaminess as the gooey cake melted in our mouths.
“What flavour?” I asked.
“I can’t tell,” he said, “it’s impossible to concentrate on that with so much else going on”.
I felt that there was some frustration in his voice, and by this time I was unsure where to take this next… watching and feeding him was beautiful and turning me on incredibly, but I knew I couldn’t prolong it to the place I wanted it to go – which would be to stuff him until he was painfully full, to feel his tummy swell round, fat and taut beneath my gently pressing palm, and then to fuck him with our bellies bumping together, watching him wince from the sensation of being over-full. He wouldn’t have been turned on by that, and in any event, 15 dainty macaroons weren’t going to do it.
Don’t push it, I thought, and swept the box of macaroons away and concentrated on enjoying his body and fucking him some more. I had loved feeding him, but he might not have… and I wanted to be able to do this to him again.
As I lay panting and satisfied after we’d done, he smilingly made a suggestion: that I bring chocolate éclairs next time. Amazed and grateful (He hadn’t hated it! Result!), a silly smile spread across my lips as I contemplated precisely how many éclairs I’d need to make him full… how many more I’d persuade him to eat after that… and how enticingly, groaningly, sexily stuffed I could make him, if only he’d let me.
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.
