Your pig was always immobile, even while it was still strong enough to stand on its own two feet — you just helped it look the part.
You remember when it first reached out to you, begging to be fed. “I love my belly. Love being big and round and soft. Just…too lazy to eat, you know? It’s…so much work to put food together, so much easier to just sit on the couch and veg out.”
It sent you a pic of its belly. Inactivity had given it a decent amount of pudge, but the biggest thing that stuck out was the potential: you could easily sculpt this pig into a more fitting monument to indolence.
That night you ordered the pig a couple of pizzas, made it pay on delivery, and had it send you updates on how much it could eat.
Poor thing couldn’t even get through one.
The last pic it sent before it started to complain showed three slices remaining, and a belly soaked in cum.
Oh, you could definitely make this work.
The next day, you went straight to the pig’s place after work. It’d managed to get through a few more slices over the course of the day, but there was still almost a whole pizza left.
And the pig wasn’t even eating — just jerking off to porn with bellies bigger than its own.
You sighed and brought a seat next to the couch, feeding the day-old pizza into the pig’s hungry mouth. Poor thing has trouble moving itself — no sense in making it do more than it can handle. Not like it won’t be properly immobile soon and you’ll have to do all this for it anyway.
It was only a few slices in before it started to protest about being full. You didn’t stop, of course — especially seeing how much harder it started jerking off when the next slice comes.
You certainly didn’t stop when the next slice brought it to orgasm, the pig’s cock firing a load up to its shoulder as it struggled to chew.
You certainly didn’t stop when you noticed the poor thing didn’t even try to eat its copious cum load. (The little things it couldn’t do on its own are the seeds of immobility, and you were there to encourage them to grow.) With a smile, you slid the next slice of pizza through a puddle of pig seed and fed it into its protesting maw.
Its dick immediately began to stiffen again at the taste of its cum, at the food still coming even after its climax, and you knew you had a good pig on your hands.
You made sure to dump back into the pig every drop of cum you could find — dipping the pizza in it while it lasted, then scooping it up with pizza-greasy fingers that your pig suckled on eagerly even while it moaned about its fullness.
You rubbed its greasy, cummy belly — still a lot of give to it. “You’re not full at all. Probably just satiety — appetite failure making you not want to eat. Luckily I’m here to take care of poor immobile pigs.”
“I’m not immobile yet!”
“Then get up and eat one of those bananas on the counter over there.”
A confused expression crossed the pig’s face as it tried to understand.
“Go ahead. Can you?”
“I’m so stuffed though. I can’t eat anymore.”
“Right. You can’t feed yourself. That’s a pretty strong sign of immobility. Doesn’t matter if the weakness is in your legs, your arms, your willpower, or your appetite. You’re immobile and I’m here to make sure you’re fed.”
“I am fed!”
“Yes, and now it’s time for dinner.”
“That wasn’t dinner?”
“That was yesterday’s dinner. Now it’s time for today’s. Just lie back and don’t worry about it, pig. I’m here to help you do all the stuff you can’t do on your own. And all the stuffing you can’t do on your own too, for that matter.”
The poor pig whimpered, knowing it couldn’t protest anymore. (Another immobility, you noticed, though you decided not to help the pig with that one.)
“Just put something on the TV and relax,” you said, getting up to check out the kitchen.
It looked longingly at the blank screen for a bit. “Sir…?”
“What is it, pig.”
“I — I might be too lazy to get up and turn it on.” The pig almost seemed ashamed to ask for help — as if it didn’t realize how much its need turned you on.
“Don’t worry piggy, I’ve got you.” You headed back to the couch with a two-liter from the fridge, passing it to the pig along with the remote.
The weeks and the months go by and you keep finding new ways for your pig to immobilize itself, becoming more and more dependent on your leadership and care. Every time it complains about having to move, you make sure it never needs to make that complaint again.
You see it starting to neglect its hygiene, so you take it on yourself to keep its teeth and hair brushed, to give it regular sponge baths on the couch, and to regularly change out its cum rags and blankets.
You notice it groaning heavily every time it needs to haul itself up to the restroom, so you start ordering diapers and keep it changed regularly.
(Really, you can’t blame the pig; the bathroom is all the way in the next room.)
As the pounds pile on, fifty, a hundred, a hundred and fifty pounds higher — you never ask your pig to get up and weigh itself, but as the chub’s ball belly starts evolving into a superchub’s much softer collection of rolls, the weight on its profile page has been creeping up past 400.
When you see your pig starting to struggle to lift its gut out of the way every time it jerks off — which by now is at least five times a day (morning wood, major meals, bedtime) — you shell out for an automatic masturbator. It leaves the little sleeve on its dick and the vibrator running 24/7 now, the pig’s mind awash in continuous self-pleasure as it steadily pumps cum into its diaper. With the pig’s one regular workout now obsolete, it can afford to quit recycling those cum calories as its weight starts to balloon much faster.
Each new show of immobility from the pig earns it an extra meal and a serving of its master’s cum, freshly fucked into one of the crevices of its body. (And given that “I really can’t eat any more today, boss” counts as an immobility, these bonus meals happen pretty regularly.)
The pig fills out more and more of the couch over the next couple of years. On the days it manages to sit up, its ass spreads across all three seat cushions — an increasingly weak mountain of flab.
Most of your day is spent growing your pig now, constantly stuffing food into its bottomless maw, the break between each meal only long enough to prepare the next one. It’s a comforting routine: the steady drone of the pig’s vibrator muffled by its diaper and the overhang of its belly; the endless soft rolls of lard you lean into, listening to the weakening beat of its heart; the everpresent scent of its musk, its cum, and its diaper; the twin streams of idle entertainment on the big TV and increasingly extreme porn on its phone; the creak of the couch as your pig leans in eagerly for each new mouthful; the way its spreading gut accumulates loads of your cum over the course of the day…
It’s a perfect life you’ve built here.
The final immobility happens gradually — the pig in its lustful haze always daydreams about it as a climactic moment, but you know better. Sure, a simple accident could leave it unable to get up again, but where’s the fun in that? You’re a feeder and you want your pig’s increasing inability to refuse food to be its undoing.
You start keeping track of the days your pig doesn’t even get off the couch at all. Every one of those days is a little victory for you, telling you you’ve successfully fulfilled all your pig’s needs.
It relies on your service — on your skill at caring for an eating machine almost four times your weight, according to the increasingly outdated number on its profile.
(The day the pig hit **Err** on the scale, you must’ve cum fifteen times just from humping its spreading flab as you crammed a celebratory cake into its gut. You don’t let it buy a new scale though — it’d just be one more temptation to try and stand up.)
A streak of two days on the couch is easy for it.
Beyond that, you have to start being observant of the little things it doesn’t even notice for itself: lowering the temperature in the apartment a couple of degrees so it sweats a little less, because when it gets sweaty it gets fidgety, and might even try to get up to air out its flab. It’s a little chilly for you, but anything to keep your pig comfortable — and repeat the streak of four days on the couch it reached the first time you tried this out.
You do everything you can to maximize the pig’s comfort. When it feels clean, it’s less likely to get up, so you start sponge-bathing it more often — once before bed, once on waking, every day — and make sure its diaper doesn’t stay soiled long. (No matter how much the pig protests it loves the feeling of being a helpless pig sitting in its own filth, in reality the first week you started doing this was the first time he spent a whole continuous week on the couch.)
You’ve been keeping track of the pig’s milestones, but you haven’t been telling it about them — you really want the big day to be a surprise.
Well. To have been a surprise.
And today, as the pig wakes up — its stomach growling with hunger, its hand reaching into its freshly-changed diaper to turn on its vibrator — it notices the decorations hung around the room, and a half-dozen friends who’ve helped keep the pig satisfied these past couple of years standing around, and asks what’s going on. “I didn’t forget my birthday again, did I?”
You laugh. “No, piggy. It’s the one-month anniversary of your immobility.”
“What? I’m not immobile yet…”
“Then get up and eat one of those cakes on the counter over there.”
A confused expression crosses the pig’s face as it thinks about moving itself. (It hasn’t had to since the day we pulled out the sofa bed for it. It was a shame to lose the sight of its rolls spilling over the edge of the couch, but anything to keep your pig comfortable.)
“Go ahead,” you nudge. “Can you?”
“Please don’t tease me sir, you know I’m too hungry to get up. I haven’t eaten in hours.”
A couple of his friends chuckle, already groping and grinding against the pig’s flab.
“Right. You’ve never been able to feed yourself. How silly of me to forget.”
You grab a cake and straddle the pig’s pillowy chest, thinking of that seed of immobility it had all along as it tries to milk your cock for extra sauce. Steadily you nurtured it, day by day.
And now your pig will never get up again.