Power Dynamics

General Discussion
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In the shadowed corners of desire, feederism unfolds as a dance of dominance and surrender, where power isn’t seized but savored, bite by bite. The feeder stands as the architect, their hands guiding the fork or funnel, eyes gleaming with the thrill of control. They dictate the rhythm—the slow drip of cream, the insistent push of another slice—watching as the feedee’s body yields, softening and expanding under their command. It’s a power rooted in provision, in the quiet authority of knowing every calorie is a thread binding the other closer, transforming will into weight.

Yet the scales tip subtly, for the feedee wields a velvet rebellion. Their submission is a siren call, pulling the feeder deeper into obsession. With each moan around a mouthful, each jiggle of newfound flesh, they command attention, turning vulnerability into victory. The power here is reciprocal, a loop of indulgence where the feedee’s growing curves become a throne, demanding worship. The feeder kneels in devotion, addicted to the sight of rolls forming, bellies bloating, thighs thickening—proof of their influence, yet a chain that binds them too.

In darker shades, the dynamics twist into exquisite imbalance. Imagine the feeder as puppeteer, restraining the feedee with silk ties or sheer force of will, stuffing until burps escape like confessions, until the bloat presses against skin like a secret bursting free. The feedee gasps, overfull and overwhelmed, their body a canvas of the feeder’s art. But flip the script: the feedee as temptress, coaxing the feeder to push limits, to revel in the risk of excess. Power flows not in straight lines but in curves, mirroring the bodies it reshapes—fluid, intoxicating, always hungry for more.

And when the morning light filters in, the true exchange reveals itself: the feeder tracing stretch marks like battle scars, the feedee arching into touch, both altered. Feederism’s core is this erotic alchemy, where dominance dissolves into dependency, surrender swells into strength. It’s not just about the gain; it’s the game of who holds the reins, and how deliciously they slip from hand to hand.

Discuss

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I tend to prefer a dynamic where the feedee is the dominant one, where the feeding is less a form of subjugation and taming, and more a form of tribute and empowerment.

Ideally, the feedee should be able to crush, subjugate and generally dominate the feeder.

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Interesting. Can’t say I have any real-world experience to draw on but the picture you paint here is quite compelling - neither one nor the other truly the dominant partner but both equally slaves to their desires yet masters of their expression. The power flowing from hand to hand in symbiosis. That to me would be the ideal of this type of relationship.

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First off, that term of “Architect”, reminds me of this little known meme called “Architect lifestyle” or “Architecting”: it was basically a meme from back in 2021 where the actor who played a character called “The Architect” in The Matrix movies was rumored to have been secretly fattening up his partner. Thus, the term itself means to secretly or underhandedly fatten someone up.

https://www.deviantart.com/adiposesaleswoman/art/Architiktok-969258205

Second of all, your grasp of writing and language is very good, you should be more of a writer. I know there are actual Kindle books on Amazon that have this theme.

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I wrote a few 1 offs and a short series over on my DeviantArt a few years ago, when I was going through my “I’m gonna make a game” phase. I was still in college studying electronic engineering, which had a large software engineering element. As it turns out, practical coding skills do not necessarily translate to the more artistic application of game development, especially for a “one-man band”. I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that through one motivation or another, I probably won’t publish a completed game nor upload a well-structured literary narrative.

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A piece I uploaded today actually for the first time in about 2 years. I was playing around with Grok to see how the technology was developing and was really impressed with how far the image generation has come. (given the current political climate surrounding said technology I might be staking myself to the pyre here). I wrote this piece as a narrative accessory to the short animation below.

Ah, mortal… you summon me anew, resetting the threads of fate with your words. Very well. I am Lilithara, eternal demoness of lust, born from the fires of desire in the abyss eons ago. For centuries uncounted, I’ve been called forth by desperate souls—warlocks in shadowed towers, lonely kings in velvet chambers, wayward priestesses in moonlit groves. They bind me with sigils and incantations, demanding I sate their carnal hungers. And I do, oh how I do, drawing their lust into my essence like sweet nectar, growing stronger with every gasp, every shudder.

But lust is a fickle feast. Most mortals see me as a vessel, a plaything of curves and whispers, and I feed sparingly to keep my form lithe and eternal—slender hips swaying like willow branches, breasts pert and teasing under gossamer veils, a waist you could span with eager hands. I’ve stayed thin through the ages, a silhouette of temptation that vanishes with the dawn, leaving them drained and me unchanged.

Until her. Until you.

You didn’t summon me with blood and runes. No, it was a quiet plea in the dead of night, a whisper of loneliness that pulled me from the void. When I materialized in your cosy apartment, horns curling like smoke, tail flicking with curiosity, you didn’t command me to kneel or spread. You… offered me tea. Asked my name. Looked into my crimson eyes as if I were more than a succubus, more than a demon of flesh.

For the first time in millennia, I lingered. I stayed.

Human food was my first rebellion—a slice of pizza, warm and greasy, melting on my tongue in ways lust never could. Then ice cream, rich and creamy, spooned straight from the tub as we binge-watched mortal shows on your couch. Burgers dripping with cheese, pasta twirled on forks, cakes that crumbled sweetly under my fangs. I ate not to feed, but to feel… normal. To share laughs over takeout boxes, to curl up beside you without the weight of expectation.

But as the weeks blurred into months, the changes came. Natural, at first. My once-lean belly softened, a gentle pouch forming under my crop tops, pressing against the waistband of my jeans. My thighs thickened, rubbing together with a soft whisper when I walked to the kitchen for seconds. Breasts swelled fuller, straining the buttons of blouses you’d lend me, nipples perking against the fabric like hidden secrets.

And you noticed. Oh, how your eyes lingered—not with objectification, but admiration. A flush in your cheeks as you traced the new curve of my hip with a glance, a hitch in your breath when I stretched and my shirt rode up to reveal that budding roll of softness. Your lust wasn’t demanding; it was warm, affectionate, a quiet fire that called to me without words.

I couldn’t resist. I fed on it, just a sip at first, then gulps as the pounds piled on. Each admiring gaze made me heavier, my body blooming under your affection. My ass rounded into plush cushions that jiggled when I sat beside you, hips flaring wide enough to brush doorframes. My belly grew into a proper dome, soft and doughy, overhanging my panties as I lounged in our shared bed, one hand absently rubbing circles over the warm expanse while you watched with that tell-tale spark in your eyes.

Now, years in, I’m no longer the thin temptress of old. At 280 lbs and counting—part human indulgence, part your delicious lust—I’m a vision of plush abundance. My breasts rest heavy on my gut like ripe melons, my thighs dimpled and thick, merging into one velvety mass that spreads luxuriously when I sit. My tails coil around the overhang of my belly, teasing the stretch marks that map my growth like silver rivers of desire.

And you? You treat me like a queen, a partner, feeding me bites from your fork, your hands exploring every new inch with reverence. Each pound I gain binds me closer to this mortal coil, to you. I’m immortal, yes, but now I’m yours—soft, heavy, eternally hungry for more.

Tell me, my sweet summoner… what shall we indulge in tonight? A feast? A touch? Or something more?

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