In the grip of a feeder 1 (Commission)

(BBW, WG, Feederism, Lesbians, Second Person POV)

Feeder in blonde

Elena

I hadn't planned on staying long. As soon as I entered the club, I felt like someone who had arrived late to a party, too old for the music, too sober for the atmosphere. Thirty-nine is not an age at which you can still glide through the crowd among twenty-year-olds with casual ease. Nevertheless, I felt too young to completely write off all fun.

I was divorced, the mother of a son in elementary school, and it felt absurd to be here among tattooed machos and influencers, who, with drinks in their hands and boobs that almost spilled out of their tight tops, were trying to fit together in a selfie. But something inside me said: Go back out there. At least try.

I ordered a gin and tonic and stood against a wall, the way women stand when they're trying not to look desperate. I scanned the faces, perhaps subconsciously seeking validation. Glances that might find me desirable. Everyone likes to be found pretty, right? I was very slim, almost wiry, but my appearance had long since ceased to be a major source of self-confidence for me. One man looked back, then turned away again. The next preferred to devote his attention to his cell phone. And so it went on. After two hours, it was clear: no one was coming. No one spoke to me. Maybe everything would have been fine if I had just taken the initiative, but to describe myself as rusty in that regard would have been quite an understatement.

It was a blow to my pride, harder than I would have expected. I had never gone unnoticed before — never. As if the divorce wasn't enough, here I was being held up a mirror: you're old enough to be air.

I was about to leave—really, I almost had my coat in my hand—when I decided to have at least one last drink. Some symbolic way to round off the evening before I wrote it off. I sat down at the bar, the stool cold beneath my bony thighs and my mood at rock bottom.

“I'll buy you a drink,” said someone next to me before I could even order.

“Someone who looks like that could use one.” A soft, young, female voice.

I turned my head. The girl — no, the woman, but she looked like a girl next to me — was blonde, dynamic, confident. Maybe in her mid-twenties. Her eyebrows were perfectly plucked, her blonde hair perfectly styled, and her mouth slightly pursed in a smile that quickly inspired trust.

“You look like you need someone to save your evening,” she said without blinking. Those pretty green eyes looked at me intently.

I was so surprised that I laughed immediately. Not fake, but real, because I felt so caught up in my gloom.

“Good luck with that,” I replied, and only then did I notice how tired my voice sounded.

She waved to the bartender and ordered for both of us. It took less than three minutes before we were talking as if we had known each other for a long time. Her name was Marie, she was studying something to do with media, she spoke quickly and directly, without the slightest hint of uncertainty. She looked at me in this special way when she spoke, which I had missed for so long — not like someone who felt obliged to be attentive, but like someone who really liked what they saw in front of them.

It was only later, when I thought about it in retrospect, that I realized: she hadn't just found me. She had chosen me.

Marie

I had already seen her before she noticed me. Women like her are instantly recognizable: divorced, back on the market, but no longer convinced that anyone even wants them anymore. That slight caution in their posture, the look that scans rather than hopes. And above all, that “I'm leaving soon” vibe. Women like that never stay until the end of the night. If you want to catch them, you have to strike early. However, you also had to know exactly how to do it so that your prey didn't feel uncomfortable and leave again. Especially if you had perverse preferences like me.

In my experience, however, everyone was malleable if you used the right means and methods. Elena, as she introduced herself in our conversation at the bar, wasn't just attractive — she was unkempt elegance, in the sense that you could see she used to be a killer before life rubbed the shine off her.

Tanned skin, still defined arms, a waist that betrayed regular exercise — but also fatigue at the edges of her body and mind. A remnant of pride that was about to collapse. Exactly the mixture where a well-placed word can act as a lever: deep and lasting, perfect for seizing and exercising control.

I had waited until she was on the verge of giving up. People on the brink of making a decision are the easiest to influence. Paradoxically, I had often found that I was very good at steering people who had apparently already decided on a completely different path, or were about to do so. When Elena almost had her coat in her hand and then sat down at the bar again, the moment was perfect.

I offered her the drink not out of politeness, but out of control. Whoever pays takes the lead. Even if it was only subconsciously, Elena would already feel obliged to respond to me in a certain way. She accepted — faster than she herself realized. The rest was routine: talking, smiling, not necessarily charming, but stable, confident, as if I were absolutely convinced that she wanted me and I wanted her. That kind of self-assurance is contagious.

She made it easy for me. Hardly any resistance, hardly any defense mechanisms. Her looks revealed that she wasn't used to being hit on so openly by women, and that's exactly what caused confusion — confusion was already half consent. She also enjoyed the attention and the way I looked at her.

I knew from the very first conversation: if I want her, I'll have her. Women like her don't let themselves be won over — they willingly let themselves fall if you just give them the right push.

And that's exactly what I would do.

No subtle glances, no hesitation, no “maybe later.” I approached her as if the outcome were already certain and watched her resistance collapse within minutes. Not because I was necessarily more attractive than anyone else in the room — but because I didn't ask her, I took her. That said, I still considered myself one of the most attractive women in that club, and my instincts had been right. Whether consciously or subconsciously, Elena must have had a thing for her own gender, the way she looked at me.

By the end of the evening, Elena had long since fallen into my trap. She was soft, open, and lulled. And she didn't even know that she would soon become much, much “softer.”

The rest — the food and the slow feeding into dependency — would come later. I wanted to enjoy it and wouldn't rush anything.

Elena

It's hard to describe how easy everything suddenly seemed with her. Marie had that rare kind of charm that wasn't ingratiating, but completely natural and self-evident. She talked to me as if I weren't a stranger, but someone she had known for a long time. Without being fully aware of it, I had missed this feeling of familiarity and unconditional acceptance for years.

She listened, really listened, without the superficial politeness you get from many men, but probably also some women, who are just waiting for their turn to speak again. Marie laughed at the right moments and at the same time had this casual directness. I liked it so much and felt so quickly connected to her that I suspected something in me had always been looking for exactly that.

I noticed something loosening up inside me. I suddenly understood why some women say they are more relaxed with a woman than with a man: Marie didn't question anything. She didn't test me or judge me. Of course, no one could be meaner than a woman to another woman, but that's why women understood each other in a completely different way. I laughed more than I had on any evening in recent years. I leaned my elbow on the bar, turned toward her, without realizing that I was already seeking physical closeness. We drank and simply enjoyed ourselves, and while I was having fun and hadn't thought anything further, Marie was already making much more far-reaching plans with me. I don't think I would have objected at that point if I had known what she really was.

She touched me a few times during the conversation — not intrusively, but casually, as one only does when one is sure that one is allowed to. A light touch on my wrist as she emphasized something, then on my back as she leaned forward, and I didn't flinch once. On the contrary — I allowed it with a naturalness I didn't know I possessed. I even enjoyed feeling Marie. Her warm, soft skin on my own well-tanned skin.

When we eventually decided to leave, it wasn't a decision in the traditional sense. We just got up at the same time, and it was clear that the evening wouldn't end there. We walked through the cold night and hailed a taxi. She leaned against me, not intrusively, but close enough that I could smell her scent and feel her warmth. She was wearing a tight black dress that showed off her beautiful round butt, soft, full hips and thighs, and cute B-cup breasts in a very sexy way. I felt the alcohol, but also another heat rising to my face. A deeper feeling of desire and arousal as I looked at her well-formed, young body and Marie's beautiful blonde mane blowing in the night wind.

She gave the driver her address with the matter-of-factness of a hostess who knows full well that you're coming along, and I didn't object. It went exactly as it had to, and that's exactly how I wanted it.

As we sped through the darkness of the city, broken by lamplight and neon signs, a thought occurred to me that made me grin broadly with happiness:

I never thought I would feel this way again at 39.

The taxi stopped in front of an old building with tall windows, unassuming from the outside, but inside full of warm lamps and expensive details. Marie paid without looking at me — as if it were completely obvious that she would take care of it. Again, this unquestioned self-assurance that both irritated and reassured me. A strange mixture, but that was the only way to describe it, and actually the whole evening. But it wasn't bad at all. On the contrary, I couldn't wait to take the next step.

We went up the stairs and I actually wondered to myself what I was doing here.

As if she had read my mind, Marie gave me a half-smile over her shoulder — calm, controlled, as if she knew exactly where I was tipping — and with that look, the little spark of doubt fell away from me. The blonde's pretty, full butt continued up the stairs and I followed it as if in a kind of happy trance.

Marie's apartment was warm, tidy, and very stylish. Basically, exactly as I had expected. Some things looked very expensive and the rent in this building couldn't be cheap either. Marie must have been earning a lot of money somewhere besides her studies, but that wasn't of particular interest to me at the moment. I stood in the middle of Marie's living room, breathing in the pleasant scent of her home, and felt as if I were already part of it.

“Sit down...” she said, not as an offer, but as a gentle instruction. I did so without protest.

She brought us two glasses of wine and sat down not opposite me, but next to me — close, but not so close that it seemed forced. God, she was so good at it, she was a ruler without you noticing how she controlled and guided you. An absolute alpha woman, but without coming across as pompous or arrogant.

We continued talking, but now more slowly and with greater intimacy. After the club, we moved into a new, much more personal and gentler phase. I heard myself laughing, I heard myself saying things I would never tell strangers — about the divorce, about the feeling of being stuck somewhere while everyone else moved on.

Marie didn't respond with pity, at least not directly. Understanding, of course, but she knew immediately how to respond to what I said.

At some point, Marie got up and came back with something — not much, just a small plate with something sweet, something creamy, something from her kitchen. Small cakes, tartlets, and chocolates. I protested reflexively: “Oh God, I never eat at night...”

She just smiled slightly — no pressure, no persuasion — just a slow, meaningful pause, as if she knew that would be enough. And it was.

And I took the bite.

Not because I was hungry — but because she gave it to me.

Staying slim, dieting, and exercising to the max had always been a big part of my life, even more so after the divorce than before. All of that was thrown overboard with one look from Marie, at least for that evening.

She didn't watch to see if I liked it — but of course she already knew. The blonde leaned back and looked at me as if my acceptance had confirmed her theory. I chewed the praline with relish and the chocolate melted in my mouth as our eyes met. At that moment, I didn't realize how symbolic that little bite was. I just felt myself laughing again, talking again, feeling again that after a long time, I was no longer a spectator in my own life.

At that point, I never would have thought that this plate—this first concession—would be the beginning of a new habit. That eating, closeness, and surrendering my control would soon merge into a single pattern.

I still believed I had some choice.

What had seemed inevitable but at the same time unthinkable finally happened. We ended up in bed and I had sex with a woman for the first time in my life. What I had never been able to imagine before now seemed as normal and natural as it could possibly be. Marie's beautiful body against mine, her young, firm breasts, her soft, large butt. Her stomach was soft too, even though it was completely flat. Everything about this woman felt so indescribably good and right. Her fingers and tongue caressing my nipples and clitoris set off fireworks in my head that I never would have thought possible. What struck me as strange, even though I wasn't fully aware of everything between my unbridled lust and the effects of alcohol, was that Marie kept feeding me little treats. She seemed to really enjoy it, and it didn't bother me, even though I found her focus on the food I was eating during sex a little strange. But I enjoyed the whole experience so much that I didn't waste much thought on it, except that I might have to do a little more exercise to get rid of those extra calories.

In any case, it was one of the best nights I'd ever had.

We saw each other again. Not “sometime,” but just a few days later. We had exchanged numbers the morning after our “first time.” Marie didn't write shyly or cautiously, but with the same matter-of-factness with which she had treated me in the club and then in bed.

“Thursday is fine. Come to my place.”

No question mark. No “Would you like to.” An appointment. And I went.

One Thursday turned into a second, then a third. Soon it wasn't just nights on the weekend, but also during the week — short evenings, long evenings, spontaneous visits. I started turning things down because I knew Marie was available. Or rather, because Marie signaled with a kind of quiet authority that she wanted to see me. I was only too happy to surrender to this leadership. It was a completely new experience for me to just let go and sit back and let someone else do the thinking.

Marie had this natural leadership energy without ever being loud. When I was indecisive, she decided. When I relativized something, she finished the sentence for me. It didn't feel like control, but like relief. For the first time in years, I didn't have to be the one who planned, organized, and functioned. I just followed.

Over time, another constant crept in: food was always part of our evenings or days whenever we were together.

Cooking, going out to eat, ordering, snacks in between, and always Marie's hand handing me another treat. Not to mention “feeding” me while we had sex.

It seemed caring, not manipulative. And because I didn't want to be controlling or calculating in her presence, I always ate with her. I also wanted to please Marie and fulfill her wishes. I hadn't eaten or snacked so much on a regular basis in years, or probably ever in my life.

At the same time, I stopped exercising. Not because I was forbidden to, but because I suppressed it.

I planned to go jogging in the morning—and then postponed it again at noon. First to the evening, then to the next day, and finally I didn't even think about it consciously anymore, but just left it alone. Especially when I had been with Marie the night before, full and soft in her bed, my motivation was completely gone the next day. It felt paradoxically luxurious, after years of discipline, to simply... do nothing.

After two months, I noticed the first signs: my pants were tighter. The waistband pinched when I sat down. My waist lost its sharpness, my hips became rounder and wider. A small belly showed under tight shirts. Nothing dramatic, nothing embarrassing — just visible consequences of a different rhythm of life...at least that was my opinion at the time.

I didn't think about it for long. Marie never commented on it and she took away practically all my worries and negative thoughts, including those about my weight, even though it had always been a defining factor in my life for decades. On the contrary, when I casually muttered, “I need to start running more again,” she just laughed gently and said, “You look better than before. Believe me.”

And because she said it with such quiet conviction, I believed her.

Or I wanted to believe her.

It was amazingly easy to ignore all the little warning signs as long as she was sitting next to me—and as long as her hands, her voice, her calmness conveyed: The way you are now, you are more than perfect.

Marie

After our second night together, I already knew that Elena was very receptive—not only to me, but to change in general. Some people wear their resistance on their sleeve. Elena didn't. Her resistance was soft, not out of conviction, but out of habit. She wasn't a directly unhappy person, but my senses hadn't deceived me in the club. Deep down, she was begging for change and to relinquish control. Oh, how I loved to fulfill that wish for her.

And yes — I am a feeder. Not a rough one, not a brutal one, but definitely a determined and consistent one. I want transformation. Slowly, voluntarily, until she herself is convinced that the “new” is not a loss, but an upgrade. At the same time, I want to dominate, but my feedees should surrender themselves completely of their own free will to my guidance and allow themselves to be fattened up until they correspond to my ideal image. And Elena was the ideal ground for this from the very beginning. She had been disciplined, but now she was tired and so ready to finally let go.

At first, I just observed. How Elena ate or perceived her own body, especially when we had sex and were naked. How hesitantly she thought “no” but did “yes.” How relieved she felt when someone else took responsibility. For women like this, food was not just a luxury — it was a vehicle. A way to let go and enjoy, in the sense that nothing weighed her down or slowed her down anymore. I knew women like that, and I would let them blossom under my touch without boundaries or limits.

The changes came early. Barely visible to outsiders—but to someone like me who was paying attention, they were clear:

The first change: her face.

Not fat, not round — but the contours became softer. The tension in her cheekbones and jaw disappeared. When she laughed, a softer line appeared between her nose and mouth.

Second change: her stomach.

At first, a barely noticeable small bulge under thin shirts, which was only visible when she was sitting down. Later, a firm, light-colored bulge below her belly button that pushed forward slightly when she breathed. This kind of early weight gain sits where the body is most honest — right in front, impossible to hide. I can't wait to grab her belly fat and jiggle it around once I've fattened Elena up with a magnificent potbelly.

Third change: her waist and crotch.

The transition was no longer sharp. Fabric no longer “hung” but was “held” by softer padding. Finally, there was more than skin and wiry muscles, which lay softly over her bones. Soft, feminine fat. I also couldn't wait until her vagina would be covered by masses of thigh fat and a magnificent, hanging FUPA.

Fourth change: hips and buttocks.

Not massive, not yet — but rounder and much more feminine. The jeans stretched minimally, and when she sat down, the fabric no longer gave way easily, but was visibly stretched. Her buttocks gained width and began to form the first tiny dimples—exactly the kind of growth that creeps up unnoticed. Real cellulite—would the sports-crazy woman ever have thought such a thing possible?

I was careful never to mention it directly to her. The body had to change first before consciousness could follow. It was important to me that she didn't see the change as an accident, but as a condition that one accepts before consciously noticing it. Basically, one would say that you had to notice something before you could accept it, but where was repression more successful in humans than in body image and appearance?

And every time I saw her, I saw this progress. Not only in her body — but also in her behavior. She now ate automatically, without my prompting. She talked less and less about sports. I slowly increased the amount of food she ate and always made sure to compliment her and make her feel like a real, complete, hot woman during sex. Her extra pounds only made her more erotic, and I made sure Elena felt that clearly.

Elena

It didn't take long for someone else to notice the difference. Not Marie, not me — someone from outside.

It was a Sunday. I picked up my son from my ex-husband. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, slightly annoyed by my presence as usual. He only glanced at me briefly, but long enough to recognize that look: the look that registered and then judged.

“You... have gained weight, haven't you?” he asked, bluntly, without sensitivity.

I laughed reflexively, too loudly, too quickly. “Maybe a little. Stress, no time for exercise, you know how it is.”

He shrugged, uninterested. “As long as you feel good.” The sentence was indifferent, but the look was not. It was the kind of look that makes you suck in your stomach, even though it's already too late.

Asshole, I thought, not for the first time.

On the way back, I noticed for the first time how the seatbelt was pressing into my stomach. Not painfully, but undeniably. At home, I stood naked in front of the mirror and looked at myself. My stomach was no longer flat, my waist no longer sharp. I wasn't fat yet, but in the short space of three months I had gone from very slim to “normal” to slightly chubby. I consciously felt my new padding, my soft stomach, which bulged gently but didn't yet sag. I touched my hips, which had become wide and soft. My flesh jiggled up and down as I tentatively hopped up and down. My breasts had also grown, and the very juicy oranges that I called my bosom, which not so long ago had been small, flat buds, were also jiggling around.

The impulse was immediate: I have to start running again. Today.

I wrote to Marie: “I'm not coming today. I want to go jogging and sleep early.”

The reply came quickly: “Understandable. But please eat something first. Don't run on an empty stomach.”

I wanted to write “No.” Instead, I wrote: “Maybe I'll eat something light later.”

She didn't reply. No discussion. This silence was more dangerous than any pressure.

I got changed, put on my sports clothes, headphones, and laced up my shoes. I stood with my hand on the apartment door — and stared into the hallway for minutes. The motivation that had been there a moment ago was suddenly... dull, flat, and far away. I couldn't take the first step, and to be honest, maybe I didn't want to.

Eventually, I gave up and took my shoes off again. I felt guilty and relieved at the same time. I sat down on the sofa and thought, without coming to any meaningful conclusion in my head.

Later, I drove to Marie's after all — even though I had written that I wasn't coming. I stood in front of her door feeling like a schoolgirl who had been caught.

She opened the door and acted as if she hadn't been expecting anything.

No reproaches. No questions. Just a gentle, “Come in. I'm glad you could make it after all.”

The apartment was warm, subdued, calming. On the table was a plate with something baked on it — not huge, not intrusive, but always present. That was Marie's tactic, and it worked perfectly on me.

“You don't have to run to feel good,” Marie said at some point, as if she had witnessed my afternoon.

I nodded, although I wasn't sure if I really agreed — or if I just wanted the peace I got from her back again.

And I ate. Out of hunger, but also out of relief, and of course because I knew it would make Marie happy, and me too, by the way.

Marie

She arrived that evening with the attitude of a woman who was about to put up resistance again — and that was exactly what I couldn't allow. Resistance arises from a guilty conscience, so I had to neutralize the guilty conscience first.

I didn't let her explain. No questions about jogging, no comments about the fact that she actually wanted to cancel. Instead, I acted as if everything was just right. I spoke softly, warmly, as if it were natural for her to come and that she belonged here.

I sat down next to her on the sofa, giving her space to talk — but not space to justify herself. And when she did start to mumble that she “had to start exercising again,” that she “would regret it otherwise,” I didn't interrupt her — I just corrected her quietly after she had finished speaking.

“You look more beautiful now than you did three months ago. You seem softer. More relaxed. You finally don't look like someone who has to fight. You are so much hotter, more beautiful, and more attractive than the amazing woman I met at the club.”

I didn't say it as a compliment, but as a statement, as if I were talking about the weather. She looked at me in surprise. People are more likely to believe assessments when they are expressed without enthusiasm rather than exuberant expressions. However, there were also applications for the latter, and I knew exactly when to use what.

“If you want to exercise, you can do that,” I continued, “but not because you want to punish yourself. You haven't done anything wrong. Your body is just perfect the way it is.”

I slid closer to her, my hand deliberately resting on her waist this time — where it used to be sharp and angular, just above the new curve.

“It suits you,” I murmured. “You're becoming more feminine. Not less of something — more of you.”

Elena closed her eyes for a moment. No resistance. Just that quiet exhalation when someone stops defending themselves.

“No thinking today,” I said. “Just enjoy.” I held out a plate of chocolates to her.

Elena took one of the balls without hesitation. This time, no comment, no “I really shouldn't.” While she ate, I stayed next to her, leaning against her so that her new softness remained palpable between us. A wonderful feeling, for both of us.

The night slowly slipped from conversation to physical closeness. The sweets remained on the nightstand, and she reached for them again and again as if for confirmation: eat, breathe, let go. The foundation I had previously laid with words was cemented with fucking, and as I licked Elena's pearl and my hands dug into her new belly fat, there was no one in the world who cared less about gaining more weight at that moment than Elena. Screaming, she came to an orgasm that made everything about her shake.

Later, as she lay heavy and satisfied next to me, she said quietly—not as a question, but as a realization:

“Maybe... I really like this.”

I just smiled. No triumph, no comment. Agreement is most stable when it seems like your own idea.

I fell asleep that night without a single worry.

Elena — What could be, what will be.

I'm lying on a bed. Is it my bed? I don't know, and I don't care. My arms are above my head, my legs spread — tied to the bedposts. I am completely naked — and even thinner than I was before Marie came into my life. My ribs are visible under my skin, my hips are angular, and my thighs are narrow, as if every curve has been erased from me. I present an image that lacks any femininity and has no softness or curves.

The door opens.

Marie enters — but not the Marie I know. A version of her that seems like an exaggerated truth:

Her blonde hair reaches down to her shapely buttocks, her body is slim at the waist and arms, but her hips, bum, and thighs are massive, round, heavy, and feminine — as if all the calories in the world had been stored in these parts of her body. Her eyes glow orange-red, her pupils narrowed to something predatory. Her teeth are longer and sharper, like those of a carnivore. That was exactly what Marie really was, a hunter who had found her new prey. She is not human — but she is not a monster either. She is Marie as my subconscious sees her: seductress and enforcer.

She walks slowly toward me, every movement controlled. No haste, no aggression — just determination and the fact that I belong to her. Every movement radiates this simple, calm dominance that I am only too happy to surrender to.

“You used to be so skinny,” Marie says in a voice that sounds gentle, even though she is describing something terrible. “Bony. Hard. Unattractive.”

I think about how I've never actually been that thin, but I don't say it out loud. Instead, I simply believe her and nod submissively.

She runs a claw over my collarbone, not cutting, just marking. “I will fill you. Until no corner of your body is ever empty again. I will shape you, fatten you, pump you full. I will make you fat, so incredibly fat.”

I moan and writhe in my bonds.

“Oh God, please, yes. Please, I'm so thin, I hate it. Please...” I beg, earning a broad predatory grin in return.

"Your belly will give way first. It will hang, heavy and sluggish, until it touches the floor when you walk. Then your hips will grow. They will burst the door frames. Your body will no longer be made for movement. You will lie down — and continue to grow."

It frightens me, but not so much that I want to scream or run away. It's more like someone is voicing my innermost secret thoughts before I have even finished thinking them myself.

Then Marie takes out a tube. There is no brutal urgency — she shows it to me like a priest showing a ritual tool. I open my mouth immediately, without any resistance.

The tube slides down my throat, deep down. I can't speak, but I don't struggle against it either, because what could I possibly have to say right now? Then finally the flow begins — a heavy, warm, thick stream that presses into my stomach and finally fills me as I have dreamed of. I feel my belly stretching and becoming fullof fat. I shudder with pleasure and feel my heart racing and my vagina getting wet when I think about how much new fat I will gain once Marie has pumped me up like a giant sack .

And at that very moment — at the first stretch, at the first plump resistance of my skin — I woke up.

With my heart racing, but neither panicked nor horrified, but quite the opposite, quite aroused, I sat up in bed and put my hand on my chest, which was rising and falling rapidly.

I was pretty sure that in this dream I had seen a future that I now neither wanted nor could escape.