The Feeder

They call me the feeder. I find myself a mar, plump her up until she can’t move anymore, and disappear. Am I cruel? Perhaps. I do love the mares, but once they’re immobile they’re not so fun anymore. There’s just too much of my love to stick to one lover.

Not just any mare will do. First, she has to be cute, look good. That’s pretty easy. It’s hard to find an ugly mare. Second, she has to either already be at least a little heavy, or have a hidden predisposition toward heftiness. It’s hard to describe, but I can sense it. Third, she has to be single. What I do is too risky to involve stealing a stallion’s gal. Once I have a mark, I cozy on up to her. Woo her. Compliment her. Tease her. In some cases I have to break out a little mind control. Once I get them to agree to a date, the contract is sealed. She won’t so much as have a second thought about me until we’re done.

It starts out small, subtle. A simple dinner date, nothing out of the ordinary, except I coax her into ordering dessert. For some of my marks, I only have to coax her into ordering a second or third dessert. Some of these mares are just destined for me. One dinner date turns into another one the following day. After that, It’s a dinner date and a lunch date. The day after, she’s eating all three meals with me. Each meal is the tiniest bit bigger than the last.

By the second week, we’ve moved in together. By the third, the only grocery shopping she ever does is for snacks. Every meal is either delivery, takeout, or dine-in. Fast food is the name of the game. By the fourth week, she’s eating five meals a day, each of them not ending until her stomach is stuffed to its limits. Three months in, I’ve got her right where I want her. She’s gained, on average, 300 pounds by now. Wardrobe malfunctions, furniture failures, even if she becomes all that aware she’s blowing up like a lard balloon, she can’t stop. Even if she tries dieting, the hunger gets to her and she eats more. The best part is, not once have I been blamed for it. I’ve been blamed for being encouraging by not being disgusted by their bloated forms, but it’s so easy to patch that up. A belly rub, some soft words. I don’t even have to lie when I tell them they’re beautiful and shouldn’t be so concerned.

The three month mark is where I truly get hooked, myself. I could call this the golden era, if you will. She’s big enough to really get me going, but not so big that daily tasks are cumbersome. Her belly usually reaches her knee joints, her rear usually takes up two seats, it all depends on her height and body shape. Some of the mares have bellies that reach the floor before their rear even reaches the two seat size. Some of my favorites have had considerably larger bellies than normal – not because they gained weight in their bellies foremost, but because I broke them so much they fell in love with constantly stuffing themselves, their bellies only ever shrinking in size when they sleep. By now we’re boning every night, though I have to adjust the schedule depending on her gluttony. Nearly all my mares will eat themselves to sleep here. Sometimes we have to merge sex with her third dessert. It’s my kind of food play.

I’ll admit, this is when I lose control as much as she does. If she isn’t already hooked on stuffing herself silly and all the growth that comes with it, I force the issue. The details, well they depend on the mare. If she just needs a little encouragement, I add more and more food to each meal, bring her more snacks, bigger desserts. I bring her a near-constant supply of food, and only have to plead or appeal to her kind nature to get her to give in and eat up. If she’s a little more adamant about not expanding her figure further, I’ll mind control her a bit. If she really puts up a fight, that’s when I get serious. That’s when I really have fun. Those mares I like to play with a bit longer than the rest. I feed these mares at least four meals more than the rest, and they’re all considerably bigger. In between every meal, there is a constant supply of snacks. I don’t just feed these mares, I forcefeed them. I stuff them as much as possible. She can’t escape. She can’t run. She can’t even cry for help, nopony will hear her. I stuff her agonized belly until it’s fit to burst, then I keep going. Not until she really does burst, of course, I’m no murderer. I only kill traditional beauty standards and metabolisms. I just feed her until it hurts, until that old joke about a wafer thin mint becomes a reality. By the time the next meal comes around, her stomach is stretched out enough to fit even more food.

I keep her topped up on snacks to the point she hardly has time to digest. The snacks alone exceed the caloric intake of any other mare I make my lover. A mare of any color will have a belly that’s practically glowing red all day and all night long, only given enough time to rest at night when she sleeps. These mares always break, for one reason or another. They’ll either grow to love what I do, or their stomachs will be so stretched out they have no choice but to keep eating the way I’ve forced them to even after I’m long gone. Oh, the resisters. How I love them so. For them, the magic does not simply fade once they reach permanent immobility. No, I go overboard there too. Given enough time, dieting, and manipulation by doctors and mages who try to undo my gifts, most of my mares could at least return to mobility, if not shrinking down to what would be considered extremely obese. There isn’t a chance of any of them going below 500 pounds, that’s for sure. I know of one in Ponyville that was able to shrink down to about 540 after I left, but she quickly regained another four hundred pounds once she got a taste for pastries again. No, the resisters, I push them far beyond immobility. I grow those mares to sizes even I find excessive, at least when I’m not currently with one. If you could even get one on a scale, I would expect you’d find them to weigh tons. Yes, multiple tons. I remember one mare, a formerly rather athletic Pegasus. No Wonderbolt, but if she had never met me she might have at least done well enough in the tryouts to get an honorable mention. Last I saw her, one of her forelegs was wider than this couch. If you could suspend her in mid-air, she would look like a wrecking ball, while probably outsizing and outweighing one. Stuck on the floor as she was, the sides of her belly touched each opposite wall, and her face and rear alike were getting rather close to the ceiling. I dare say she outgrew her house entirely. As for the rest, they follow a similar fate, just not nearly so forceful, or large. I mentioned an earlier size being my personal favorite, but to be frank, every pound a mare gains, every inch of width and rotundity she gains, the more beautiful she grows to me. Meals continue to get bigger. Desserts become more common. Snacking increases until it’s a constant. Some mares replace meals with a constant stream of desserts. Her rear grows wider, her belly grows closer and closer to the ground. She no longer leaves the house. Not because she’s so big, all but the resisters have grown more than accustomed to their sizes and become quite proud. No, she doesn’t leave the house because it becomes too much effort to do so. Earth ponies, they hang on a bit longer. Most earth ponies I get together with stop leaving the house because they can’t fit through the doorway before they find their bulk too cumbersome to move around with.

And so it goes. My mare grows fatter and fatter until her belly touches the floor and her flank requires an interior remodeling just to get around inside. Moving around grows more and more difficult, and more of the day is spent sitting or lying down and stuffing her wonderfully pudgy face. Bellies spread across the floor so prominently the mares’ legs are forced apart, and they can hardly move at a snail’s pace. One day, she can’t touch the floor at all. A few days later, as soon as she’s rolled out of bed and her empty stomach growls for food, she can’t touch the floor with anything but her belly. I stick around for a few more days, secretly feeding her food and drink spiked with extreme calorie boosts to plump her up well past immobility and get her hooked to a level of gluttony they had never seen before, and then I disappear to find a new lover. Why have I never been caught? Well, that’s simple. I fattened over fifty mares to immobility before anypony even knew what was happening. I fattened fifty more, some of which were my earliest resisters, my earliest wondrous multi-ton creations, before I was given a name: The Feeder. My body count as of now numbers just shy of three hundred. Still, nopony has ever caught me. How can that be, when two hundred ninety nine mares have all seen me, and were willing to sell me out in between delightfully excessive mouthfuls of caloric catastrophes?

I’ll reveal you this secret, for the same reason I agreed to meet with you to tell this tale. Do you recall how I mentioned the resisters could not seek help? Make any sound you like. Rush for the door. Try to escape. As far as anypony on the outside can tell, this is an abandoned building. Empty. Nopony here. They see an empty, dark building and hear nothing but the wind and the creaking of the eaves.

Now this form, it does not match the limber, dashing stallion you were just speaking with, no? I’m afraid while I don’t indulge in food nearly as much as my mares, the excessive amount of love I get from all of them does accumulate after some time. I do enjoy reverting to my true form from time to time, get a taste of what my mares live through. After turning that chubby shut-in with the tacky sweater into a room-sized beanbag of blubber, I now get to experience what it’s like to have your belly brush the floor when you walk. I fear if I get much larger, my disguises may begin starting off with some extra heft. Perhaps that won’t matter soon.

As for you, I don’t worry about my secret getting out. I’ll be back to that slender, beautiful stallion in mere moments. You’ll soon forget you were even doing this story. You’ll write some fluff pieces, some food reviews perhaps, and a few months down the road all you’ll remember of this attempted expose is that you were my three hundredth mare.