I woke up with a pounding headache, the light was streaming
through the window and immediately knew that something was off, those weren’t
my curtains! Not again!
Immediately my eyes shot open and I ripped the covers off of
myself, I sat up feeling the now familiar sensation of my fattened body
jiggling with the motion. At first glance I couldn’t see anything untoward, not
convinced though I quickly made my way to the familiar bathroom.
I winced as I looked into the mirror, expecting the worst
but was thankfully met with the appearance I had become accustomed to, that of
an undeniably fat girl. Mr S had seen to it that I most definitely resembled
exactly what he expected of his feedee.
I took the opportunity to scrutinize my appearance, whatever
procedure Mr S had performed on me had left me radically enlarged and
overweight. I’d retained my youthful appearance for the most part and I
definitely still looked cute.
I ran my fingers over the spongy, bigger, lower roll of my
belly. The angry red stretchmarks that decorated it hadn’t been there all those
months ago when I had originally woken up in this room, no those had come
through the regimented feedings commanded by my mysterious benefactor. I never
seemed to be able to gain enough weight to please him. The belly that he had
put on me had since started to sag thanks to the constant onslaught of calories
and gravity. It was at this moment that I figured out exactly what was amiss.
The underwear I was wearing were far from comfortable, the
waistband seemed to be made of a rigid plastic that while flexible had no give
to it and there was no way I could hope to pull the garment down over my
fattened arse and thighs. The gusset of the offending item of fit snugly
against my pussy and appeared, from what I could make out in my frantic
attempts to look in the mirror, to be made out of a fine, mesh like material
that had to be a centimetre thick.
“What the fuck?!” I shouted to no-one in particular.
Frustrated, I waddled back in to the main room only to be greeted by a familiar
looking note. It read:
Good morning Donna
By now I’m sure you
have noticed my latest gift to you, your new underwear. They’re an item that I
had some of the finest minds in my company develop. Probably not the greatest
use of their talents but it is I who hold the chequebook or so the saying goes,
you know what I mean.
Anyway, they’re made
of some of the newest materials available and they are quite robust. They are
designed to accommodate your growing physique by use of accompanying weighing
scales that I’ve taken the liberty of installing in your bathroom at home.
Simply step on each morning and they will take a full body scan, adjusting the
waistband accordingly. It will then send me the data in the form of a wire
model that I’ll be able to save but I’m sure you don’t care about that, you’re
probably more concerned about removing them to relieve yourself.
Never fear, I have
that covered. You will notice that you are completely exposed at the rear of
the garment to allow for… going number two so to speak. The mesh used in the
front of the garment literally deflects moisture so any bathroom trips may
require a little extra wiping but I can assure you they will stay as clean and
dry as they are right now.
So why are you wearing
them? Well I’ve not been impressed recently Donna, your recent weigh-ins have
left a lot to be desired so I’ve decided to add a little incentive of a
different sort. You have probably realised by now that if you can’t remove
those panties, there is no way that you’re going to be able to pleasure
yourself through them, so how do you get them off?
I’ve decided to keep
you in bondage as it were until you meet our next set goal. I’ve taken the
liberty of removing the readout of the scale at your end, I’d prefer for you to
be in the dark about your current weight from now on, I just want you to focus
on eating and getting fatter for me. No more distractions. Oh and here’s the
kicker, each week you fail to meet my set goal I’ll be adding an additional 10
lbs to the release weight. Just a little extra incentive of course.
Your feeder
Mr S.
I broke down in tears, this bastard really wasn’t playing.
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