Stuffies

A blog about food and sex.

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.)

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.

You don’t have a fetish, you’re just selfish

Violet Blue critiqued an article by Psychology Today entitled “Typically Twisted” The article attempts to de-mystify many of the thoughts and behaviors people keep secret for fear of not being seen as “normal”. Like fetishes, for example (direct quote):

A practice that is harmful, exploitative, or dangerous—such as pedophilia or public flashing—is deemed abnormal. But outside such clearly damaging obsessions, human-sexuality experts have a general rule: Unusual sexual practices are mostly harmless as long as they are part of a range of sexual responses. If you like dirty talk or get aroused by women’s underwear, that’s nothing to worry about…


Ok, I thought, until I finished the sentance:

… unless it’s the only thing that turns you on.

Then it’s usually called a paraphilia, defined as unconventional sexual behavior that’s both obsessive and compulsive. For instance: A guy who can get off only when he’s wearing diapers, or a woman who insists on dominating her partner. The person “is now substituting a behavior for a partner, and the behavior has become necessary for sexual satisfaction,” sex educator and author Yvonne Fulbright explains.

A little bit of kink is a good thing if it spurs open-mindedness and a spirit of adventure. But when an object or a ritual becomes more important than the living, breathing partner, it gets in the way of a relationship and of sexual fulfillment.


Oh, crap.

I’ve had ten partners in my life, and I’ve never asked any of them to stuff themselves while having sex (mostly because until recently I wouldn’t have been able to tell them what I wanted if they asked me). Instead I’ve pushed myself to be what—for me—might be termed “adventurous”. With all the proper contraceptives and barriers in place (and sometimes not), I’ve been penetrated in all my holes. I’ve had penises and fingers and dildoes in my pussy, ass, and mouth. I’ve been sucked, licked, and fingered, experienced rimming, been handcuffed to a chair and even spanked (by my request). And there’s never been a time when I’ve let my lover go before they’ve cum themselves. Usually, it’s through my mouth on their dick, because I love to swallow sperm. Once, it was when I got a girl to squirt.

So much for just sexual reciprocity—how about emotional? Of the different people I’ve been with, some I’ve loved, some I’ve hated, some have just been a casual fling. Every one of the experiences has involved me reaching out to my partner, wanting to know what they liked, wanting to know about their lives. Some of these experiences have changed me forever, making me think deeply about how another’s mind works, how I should treat people, and how I wanted to be treated myself.

But of all these varied experiences, not any of them has ever brought me to orgasm.

For a long time I was miserable over this. I’ve had partners feeling inadequate because they couldn’t get me off. I thought there was something wrong with me. Then I thought I was just a normal woman. Then I thought it was just because my lovers couldn’t find my clit. Then I found a lover that loved pussy and was willing to spend hours down there doing all kinds of things… but still nothing.

Then one day I was wandering around Myspace and saw this picture: instant orgasm.

This has brought me to only one conclusion: The only thing that’s ever taken me “there”—the only thing that makes the blood flow and my clit swell and finally every muscle in my pussy convulse with delight—is watching a skinny boy eating until his slender belly bulges out into a tight dome. No exceptions.

I could go on like I have been. I could chalk it all up to some kind of strange narcissism on my part and find a partner that was only into normal sex—and by “normal” I mean light BDSM or vanilla. And then I’d never have an orgasm again—unless it was through masturbation. Now that’s what I call selfish.

The thing that puzzles me most about this article is how it can simply be narcissism at work, when I’ve searched for years to find an alternative that would allow my partners to get me off?

But what do you guys think? How do you answer the question of balancing what gets you off with finding a partner you can connect with—especially if you only get turned on by something rare? Is it like being gay, something that cannot be changed and must be lived out in order to be a fully developed human being… or is it just as narrow as only seeing a skinny blonde chick (or a fat blonde chick) as attractive?

I’ve cross posted this on Myspace and Fantasy Feeder. At the end of the week I’ll cull out the best answers for a new post. This is something I’ve been struggling to come to terms with, so I’d love you guys to comment with any of your thoughts, feelings, or experiences. This probably won’t be my last post on this topic… the “Typically twisted” article is being hooted in several places, but it’s gotten me thinking about how I and other tummy fetishists tick…and this will definitely not be my last post on the subject.

Txt Sx

Molly: —stuffs you!—

The Colt: —mmphs!—

Molly: U’ll pop off all ur buttons!

The Colt: Buttons are for the weak!