Chapter 16: The Throne

The new weight settled into her bones like a permanent season. A few weeks after the scale had flashed that impossible 824, the days began to feel indistinguishable from one another, a steady rhythm of chemical hunger and scheduled consumption. Then her birthday arrived on a Tuesday, which seemed fitting for something she had nearly forgotten about entirely.

Jennie mentioned it over breakfast, mainly in passing while scrolling through her phone. “Oh, right,” she’d said, not looking up. “You’re twenty-three today. We should do something.”

Sugi had just nodded, swallowing a mouthful of the protein-enriched oatmeal that was her first meal of the day now, always. The idea of a celebration felt distant, honestly. What was there to celebrate? Another year of being Sugi? That concept had blurred so much it hardly meant anything specific anymore. She was Chubby Cutie, she was eight hundred and twenty-four pounds, she was infrastructure. A birthday for that felt like celebrating a machine’s serial number.

Still, Jennie had that particular look in her eye by mid-afternoon, a familiar spark of contained excitement that usually preceded a new piece of content or a particularly extreme donor idea. She finished editing some footage and closed her laptop with a decisive click.

“Come on,” Jennie said, standing up from the kitchen table. “I have your present set up.”

Sugi pushed back from the table, the motion still smooth and controlled thanks to the muscle beneath everything. She followed Jennie toward their filming space, which was just the cleared-out living room most of the time.

The space looked different today.

All the usual equipment—the tripods, the light rigs, the backdrop—had been pushed against the far wall. The center of the room was completely empty except for a large shape covered by a heavy black cloth. The cloth was draped over something bulky and angular, reaching nearly to Sugi’s chest in height. A few power cords snaked out from underneath it, connecting to a surge protector on the floor.

“Okay,” Jennie said, turning to face her with a wide smile. “Ready?”

Sugi just looked at the shrouded object. It didn’t look like any present she could imagine. It looked industrial. “What is it?”

“Your gift.” Jennie’s smile widened. She walked over and grabbed a corner of the black cloth. “A custom build. Took a lot of sourcing and a few favors. I’ve been planning it since before the weigh-in.”

With a theatrical flourish, Jennie pulled the cloth away.

The thing underneath wasn’t just one object. It was a kind of apparatus, a single unit built from several distinct parts that together formed something utterly alien in the middle of her living room.

The base was a chair. Or it had started as one. It was a massive, oversized recliner, the kind they called a lazyboy, but it had been heavily modified. The frame wasn’t just reinforced; it looked like someone had welded additional steel bars along its sides and legs. The upholstery was a plain, tough-looking black vinyl, not meant for comfort so much as for easy cleaning.

The seat of the chair was missing.

Where the cushion should have been, there was instead a white ceramic toilet bowl. It was a standard residential model, seamlessly integrated into the chair’s frame so that its open rim formed the actual sitting surface. The bowl was spotlessly clean and dry. A heavy-duty flush handle was mounted on the side of the chair’s armrest, within easy reach.

Mounted on the right side of the chair, where an end table might go, stood a different machine. This one was all function—a gray metal box about the size of a small microwave, with a digital display and several buttons. A clear, flexible plastic tube coiled beside it, one end connected to the machine and the other ending in a tapered nozzle. The tube was thick, maybe half an inch in diameter.

And then there were the straps.

Heavy-duty nylon belts with wide plastic buckles were affixed to the chair at multiple points. One was anchored to the frame near where her ankles would go. Two more were positioned at thigh level. Another set waited across where her abdomen would rest over the open toilet bowl. The widest strap, with extra padding, hung from the high back of the chair, ready to go across her chest. They looked like restraints from a medical transport gurney or maybe from a psychiatric facility.

Sugi stared. Her brain tried to parse the individual components—chair, toilet, machine, straps—but they refused to cohere into anything that made sense as a birthday present.

“It’s your feeding throne,” Jennie announced, her voice bright with pride. She walked over and patted the chair’s sturdy arm. “Custom job. The frame is rated for well over a thousand pounds, obviously. The toilet integration solves the waste problem for extended sessions. No getting up.”

Sugi’s eyes tracked from the toilet bowl up to the feeding machine. The tube looked clinical and cold.

“The pump is industrial grade,” Jennie continued, walking over to tap the gray box. “It delivers a constant flow. We can adjust the rate from a trickle to… well, a lot. The slurry goes right into the stomach via the tube. It bypasses the mouth entirely.”

She picked up the loose end of the clear tube, holding the tapered nozzle between her fingers. “Nasogastric intubation. It’s a medical technique for when someone can’t eat normally. We’ll lubricate it and guide it down your esophagus. Once it’s in place, the pump does all the work.”

Sugi’s throat tightened at the words. She looked at the nozzle, then at the open toilet seat, then at the straps.

“The stream will be seventy-two hours,” Jennie said, setting the tube back down. “Non-stop livestream. Three full days strapped in here, being fed continuously. The donors have been funding the concept for weeks already. Pre-orders are insane.”

She walked around to the left side of the chair and picked up another piece of equipment that had been sitting on its other armrest. It was a virtual reality headset—a bulky black visor with thick padding around the eyes—and attached to it were a pair of large, noise-canceling headphones.

“This is for sensory control,” Jennie explained, holding up the headset. “Once you’re secured and tubed, this goes on. The headphones block all outside sound. The visor displays whatever video queue the donors pay to add.”

She placed the headset back on the armrest carefully. “If no one pays for a video, or if there’s a gap between submissions, the display stays black. You’ll be in near-total sensory deprivation until someone pays to interrupt it.”

Jennie turned back to face her, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned against the throne’s solid frame. “So that’s it. Seventy-two hours strapped down and plugged in. You don’t have to chew or swallow or even think about eating. The machine handles intake. The toilet handles output. The headset handles stimulus—or removes it entirely if they want you in the dark and quiet.”

She paused, watching Sugi’s face closely now. “It’s the ultimate content piece. Total surrender of control. Complete transformation into a pure consumption vessel.” A slow smile spread across her lips again. “Happy birthday.”

Sugi couldn’t move for a long moment. She just stood there in her loose housedress, looking at the apparatus that filled her filming space.

The clinical nature of it all hit her first in sharp, disconnected details: The sterile white of the toilet bowl where she was supposed to sit for three days. The medical-looking tube meant to go down her throat without her tasting anything. The heavy straps that would pin her in place so she couldn’t even shift away from discomfort.

This wasn’t like eating from a trough on all fours or doing a hot dog challenge. Those were performances with food she could still taste and control in some way. This was different. This removed her from the equation almost entirely except as a container.

A deep chill started somewhere in her chest even though the room wasn’t cold.

Then something else stirred beneath that chill.

The horror of it—the dehumanizing machinery, the passive role, being reduced to little more than a stomach hooked to a pump—didn’t just repel her mind.

It beckoned to something else entirely.

The dark current of arousal that had always run alongside her shame began to rise now, warmer than any chill.

Total surrender of control.

That phrase echoed in her head with Jennie’s voice wrapped around it.

Being strapped down so completely that she couldn’t refuse even if she wanted to later.

Having nourishment forced into her around-the-clock without any effort or choice on her part.

Existing for three days as nothing but a vessel being filled according to someone else’s schedule.

The terrifying finality of it felt like a door clicking shut on a room she had only ever peeked into before.

And she wanted to walk through that door.

The wanting was immediate and visceral and far more powerful than any horror about dignity or personhood.

She looked from Jennie’s expectant face back to the feeding throne.

Her voice came out quieter than she intended when she finally spoke. “When do we start?”

The chill and the heat warred inside her ribcage for another few seconds, a confusing tangle that made her stomach clench. She stared at the straps, each one a wide black band of nylon with its heavy plastic buckle. They weren’t just for safety, obviously. They were for immobilization. Her eyes moved to the tube, coiled and waiting like a transparent serpent, its purpose so purely functional it erased any notion of pleasure or taste. Then to the toilet seat, the white ceramic gleaming under the studio lights, a brutally honest solution to a physical reality she usually tried to ignore or aestheticize in edits.

This was a machine for processing a body. Not for feeding a person.

The horror settled then, cold and clear. It wasn’t about pain or fear of the tube itself, though that was there too. It was about what the apparatus represented: an endpoint. A final reduction. All the layers of performance, of messy enjoyment, of struggle and triumph and shame—stripped away. Leaving just the plumbing. Input here, output there, container in the middle.

She imagined being strapped into that vinyl and steel frame for seventy-two hours. No getting up to stretch her legs, which could support her now. No using her hands to feed herself. No tasting anything at all. Just the mechanical pump pushing slurry into her while she sat over a toilet in front of thousands of people.

It was the most dehumanizing thing she had ever seen.

A shiver ran through her, starting in her shoulders and moving down her spine.

Jennie was still watching her, leaning against the throne with that patient, knowing smile. She didn’t say anything else. She just waited, letting Sugi absorb it all.

And as Sugi stood there, shivering with that cold horror, the other feeling—the deep, dark current—began to heat the cold from the inside out.

Total surrender of control.

The thought didn’t feel like a threat anymore. It felt like a promise.

Transformation into a pure consumption vessel.

That wasn’t just clinical language. It was a fantasy she’d circled for years without ever touching its core. To not just eat, but to be fed. To not just gain weight, but to become a process, a function. To have her will removed from the equation entirely.

The straps weren’t just restraints. They were a guarantee. Once buckled, there was no backing out. No moment of weakness where she could push a plate away. The machine would feed her whether she was aroused by it or horrified by it or simply numb. She would have no choice.

The tube bypassing her mouth meant she wouldn’t even have the satisfaction of taste or the struggle of swallowing. She would be denied even those basic sensations. It would all happen to her, internally, secretly.

The toilet seat laid bare the animal truth of what she had become in a way no trough of slop ever could.

Every part of this was designed to erase Sugi and leave only Chubby Cutie as a biological system.

The horror twisted, molten now, pooling low in her belly.

It was terrifyingly sexy.

The arousal arrived not as a spark but as a slow, deep flood, warming away the last of the chill. It was a dark and complicated thrill, all tangled up with the dread, making both feelings sharper. The dehumanization wasn’t a side effect—it was the main attraction. The clinical precision of it made it feel more real, more serious, than any messy food challenge. This wasn’t playacting gluttony. This was engineering it.

She looked at Jennie again. Jennie’s smile had softened into something more like understanding.

“Well?” Jennie asked gently.

Sugi took a slow breath. The air felt thick in her lungs. Her heart was beating hard against her ribs, but not from panic anymore. From anticipation.

She nodded once. “Yeah,” she said, her voice coming out steadier than she felt inside. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

Jennie’s smile returned full force, bright and approving. “Good. Let’s get you ready.”

There were preparations first. Jennie had her change into a simple, sleeveless black smock that opened down the back, something that wouldn’t bunch or interfere with the straps. It was thin and left her arms and shoulders bare, which already made her feel exposed and strangely clinical.

She walked to the throne on her own, her steps measured on the hardwood floor. Up close, the scale of it was even more imposing. The vinyl smelled faintly new and chemical. She placed a hand on the armrest; it was solid and unyielding.

“Okay,” Jennie said from behind her. “Back up to it and lower yourself down. Take it slow.”

Sugi turned around so her back was to the chair. She reached behind herself, gripping the armrests for support as she began to bend her knees. The open mouth of the toilet bowl waited below her. It felt absurd and deeply wrong to be aiming her body to sit directly on it like this, outside of a bathroom.

She lowered herself carefully, feeling the cool rim of the ceramic make contact through the thin smock. She settled her weight onto it fully then, the bowl supporting her easily without any give or cushioning. It was an uncomfortably hard, unforgiving seat shaped exactly for its purpose. Her vast hips and thighs spread over it, completely covering the opening.

“Good,” Jennie said softly.

She came around to Sugi’s front with the first strap—the one for her thighs. It was wider than any belt Sugi had ever seen, at least three inches across. Jennie looped it over Sugi’s legs just above her knees, pulling it snug against the black smock and the soft flesh beneath until it indented her skin slightly.

The plastic buckle clicked shut with a loud, final sound.

The sensation was immediate and profound. The strap wasn’t painfully tight, but it was firm and utterly secure. She could flex her legs slightly at the knee, but any real movement—any attempt to swing her legs off the chair or stand up—was impossible now without undoing that buckle.

A strange calm began to settle over her as the reality locked into place.

Jennie moved to the next set of straps anchored at thigh-level on the chair frame. These were even longer, designed to go over her lap. Jennie pulled them across her lower belly and upper thighs, weaving them through metal loops on the opposite side before tightening them methodically.

Each pull took up slack. Each click of a buckle subtracted an option.

Sugi watched Jennie’s hands work with a detached fascination. Her girlfriend’s movements were efficient and practiced, like she had rehearsed this in her head many times already.

Then came the abdominal strap. This one was broad and padded along its inner surface. Jennie fed it through heavy-duty D-rings bolted into the chair frame beneath where Sugi was sitting. She pulled it up and across Sugi’s immense stomach, which rose like a dome from her lap.

Jennie had to lean into it to get enough tension. The strap pressed firmly into the softness of Sugi’s belly, compressing it slightly against the underlying mass. Another click. This one felt different. It pinned the very core of her physical self—the evidence of everything she had done—to the chair.

Finally, Jennie lifted the chest strap from where it hung against the high backrest. This one had extra-wide padding. “Lean forward just a bit,” Jennie instructed quietly. Sugi obeyed, bending from the waist as much as she could with the other straps already holding her. Jennie draped the strap over her shoulders like a sinister sash before bringing the ends down across her chest. The padded nylon settled heavily between her breasts and across her upper abdomen. Jennie pulled it tight from behind the chair, threading it through its buckle. When it locked, Sugi felt it everywhere.

The strap across her chest wasn’t just restrictive; it felt like an anchor line tethering her torso to the chair’s frame. She took an experimental breath. Her ribs expanded against the constraint. She could breathe fine, honestly, but she couldn’t slouch or slump or lean more than an inch in any direction. She was held upright and in place.

She was pinned.

A full-body awareness of her captivity washed over her then. She tested it subtly—a slight shift of her hips on the ceramic rim. The straps held firm. A small attempt to lift an arm away from the armrest. Her shoulder moved maybe two inches before resistance from her pinned torso stopped it. She could move her hands and forearms somewhat. She could turn her head. That was essentially all.

The horror was gone completely now. In its place was a profound stillness. A heavy, thrilling certainty. There was no going back from this point unless Jennie decided to unbuckle her. The decision-making part of her brain seemed to quiet down, shifting into passive mode. She was an object in a configuration now. She waited for what came next.

Jennie stepped back into view holding a small bottle of clear lubricant and the end of the feeding tube with its tapered nozzle. She squeezed a generous amount of slick gel onto her fingers before coating the first several inches of the tube thoroughly.

“Okay,” Jennie said softly, meeting Sugi’s eyes. Her expression was focused but calm. “This part might be unpleasant at first. Just try to relax your throat when you feel it. Swallow if you can. It’ll go down easier.”

Sugi nodded again, not trusting her voice. She opened her mouth slightly.

Jennie guided the lubricated tip past Sugi’s lips. The plastic was cool and smooth and tasted faintly bitter from the gel. It touched the back of her tongue. Her gag reflex twitched instinctively.

“Easy,” Jennie murmured. She applied gentle but steady pressure forward. The tip pressed against the entrance to her throat.

Sugi’s body rebelled immediately. A violent convulsion seized her throat muscles as they tried to reject the foreign intrusion. She gagged hard, a harsh choking sound tearing from her as her head jerked back against the headrest. Her eyes watered instantly. Saliva pooled in her mouth around the tube.

“Swallow,” Jennie instructed firmly, not withdrawing the tube but holding it steady against the spasming resistance. “Try to swallow.”

Sugi tried through another gagging convulsion that felt like she might vomit around it. She forced a dry swallow around the plastic invasion in her throat. It felt wrong and awful and deeply violating as it slid down an inch against clenched muscles before they seized again violently.

Another gag ripped through her so hard she saw spots for a second. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes now from sheer physical reflex. Her chest heaved against its strap as she fought for air around this thing in her windpipe.

“Again,” Jennie said patiently. “One more good swallow.”

Sugi squeezed her eyes shut tight against the tears and tried to focus past the choking panic screaming in every nerve ending telling her she was being suffocated poisoned invaded—

She swallowed convulsively one more time while pushing every mental command she had at her throat to open goddamnit just open—

The tube slid deeper suddenly with a sickening internal glide past some critical point where resistance gave way to horrible compliance.

The gagging didn’t stop entirely but became less violent as she shuddered around this unnatural column now descending into places never meant for touch or sight or intrusion from outside herself in this direction only meant for chewed food going down voluntarily not plastic forced down while strapped helplessly—

Her breaths came in ragged wet gasps around its presence taking up space inside passages meant only for air alone too now shared compromised violated—

Jennie fed more length steadily hand over hand until nearly two feet had disappeared past Sugi’s lips which stayed open helplessly slack dripping saliva down chin onto smock while tears continued leaking silently eyes still clamped shut face contorted in distress that hadn't yet found resolution into numbness acceptance anything else but raw animal protest—

“Almost done,” Jennie whispered soothingly one hand coming up briefly stroke sweat-damp hair from Sugi's forehead before returning hold tube continue feeding last few inches—

A final gentle push then stop tape already ready secure end near mouth so couldn't be coughed back up accidentally later during hours days ahead—

The physical violation complete now lodged inside where no one could see but everyone would know—

Sugi kept breathing shallow shaky breaths around its constant presence reminder every second from now on what she had agreed to become—

A vessel plugged in ready fill—

Jennie’s hands returned to her field of vision, holding the VR headset. Sugi blinked her eyes open, still wet with the tears from the tube’s insertion. Her throat ached dully around the foreign presence. She could see the thick, padded rim of the visor as Jennie lifted it.

“Here we go,” Jennie said softly, almost to herself.

The world vanished in a sudden, absolute black as the headset settled over her eyes. The padding blocked all peripheral light. A moment later, the heavy headphones descended over her ears, muffling the ambient sounds of the room—the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the faint traffic outside—before activating their noise cancellation with a soft electronic hiss that faded into nothing.

Silence.

Complete, total silence.

She was floating in a void. No sight, no sound. Only the physical sensations of her body remained: the pressure of the straps across her thighs, belly, and chest. The hard ceramic rim against her sit bones. The persistent, awful fullness in her throat where the tube resided.

And then a new sensation began.

A low mechanical whirr started up from the pump unit beside her. It was a soft vibration she felt through the chair’s frame more than she heard it through the headphones. A moment later, she felt it internally—a distinct, cold trickle beginning somewhere deep in her esophagus, descending further down, and then blooming as a cool wetness inside her stomach.

The feeding had started.

The slurry was room temperature, maybe slightly cool. She couldn’t taste it at all, which was somehow more disturbing than if it had tasted bad. It was just a sensation of liquid presence materializing inside her core, bypassing every checkpoint of pleasure or revulsion. A steady, metered trickle.

In the black silence of the headset, with no other input, her entire world narrowed to that internal trickle and the straps holding her fast.

Time became impossible to measure. It could have been two minutes or twenty. Her mind scrabbled for purchase in the sensory deprivation, but there was nothing to grasp. She was just a container slowly filling in a dark, silent room.

Then light exploded in her vision.

It was so sudden and bright it made her flinch against her restraints. Colors and movement resolved into a scene: a brightly animated cartoon forest with singing animals. The audio burst into her ears with cheerful, tinny music and high-pitched voices.

Some donor’s five-dollar submission, part of her mind supplied dully. A childhood cartoon.

It was disorienting. The shift from total void to this saturated, noisy fantasy was jarring enough to feel violent. She watched as a cartoon rabbit hugged a cartoon bear. The happiness was aggressive and meaningless. She had no context for it here, now, strapped to this machine. It felt like a fragment of someone else’s brain had been spliced into hers.

The video lasted three minutes exactly before cutting off abruptly.

The black silence rushed back in, even thicker and more profound after the sensory assault.

The trickle into her stomach continued its work. She was aware of a low-level fullness beginning to build there, a weight that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t painful yet. It was just… there. A fact.

More time passed in the dark. Her bladder began to signal its need. The awareness was distant at first, then sharper. She realized with a dull thud of understanding that she couldn’t get up to use a bathroom. She was sitting on one. The thought of using it while strapped in, while being fed, while potentially on live stream—it should have been humiliating. In the silent dark, it just felt like another part of the process. Another function of the vessel. After a struggle against years of ingrained privacy, she finally relaxed enough to let it happen. A hot rush into the bowl beneath her, the sound completely swallowed by the headphones. A momentary relief, then nothing. Just the cool ceramic against her again.

The pump whirred on.

Another burst of light and sound.

This time it was a pornographic video. Two bodies moving mechanically in high definition, close-ups of penetrations and contorted faces making exaggerated expressions of pleasure. The moans were loud and artificial in her ears. The images were explicit but felt completely disconnected from any arousal she might have once felt. They were just shapes moving in the void, as meaningless as the cartoon animals.

It lasted maybe ninety seconds before cutting out.

Darkness again. Silence again. The trickle. The growing fullness.

Her stomach was definitely distending now. She could feel it pressing outward against the abdominal strap, which held firm and created a new pressure point. The slurry was accumulating, a dense liquid mass with nowhere to go but to expand her from within.

Another video. This one was just abstract patterns—swirling fractals of green and purple that pulsed and morphed with no rhythm. No sound. Just silent, hypnotic geometry that made her eyes ache after a minute. Then black.

Time lost all shape. The cycle became her entire reality: void, then violent sensory intrusion from some stranger’s paid-for whim, then void again. The pump was a constant. The fullness in her gut was a constant that grew steadily.

A video of someone’s mundane home movie: shaky phone footage of a backyard barbecue. People laughing off-camera. The smell of charcoal almost imagined. A child running through a sprinkler. The sheer normalcy of it was the most disorienting thing yet. It felt like a message from another planet. It ended.

Her stomach was painfully full now. The trickle hadn’t stopped or slowed. It kept adding to the leaden mass already inside her. The pressure was intense, a deep ache that radiated through her core. She tried to take a deeper breath and found it restricted by both the chest strap and the sheer internal expansion crowding her diaphragm.

A new element appeared in her visual field. Transparent text began scrolling along the bottom edge of the blackness whenever there was no video playing. It was the livestream chat.

HappyBirthdayChubby!!! she looks so peaceful lol whats the slurry made of? $20 for another cartoon coming up her belly is gonna be HUGE this is art tbh wish that was me

The comments scrolled by in a steady stream, glowing green letters against the black. They were talking about her. They were watching her sit here in the dark being filled. Their words floated past like distant radio signals she couldn’t respond to.

Another video: a nature documentary clip about deep-sea creatures. Bioluminescent fish drifting in eternal darkness. It felt apt.

When it ended, she was left with the chat scrolling again and the relentless internal trickle. The fullness had passed from pain into something else—a kind of agonized saturation that was becoming her new baseline state. Her stomach felt stretched to its limit, a taut drum of skin and slurry. Every new ounce from the pump pressed against that limit, amplifying the ache.

Her mind began to detach as a defense mechanism. She watched the sensations from a distance. Oh, that’s pain in my stomach. Oh, that’s a strap cutting into my thigh. They were data points, not experiences she had to fully inhabit.

The chatter in her own head—the running commentary of shame, pride, anticipation—began to quiet. There was no room for it alongside this overwhelming physical reality and the jarring video interruptions. Her sense of self blurred at the edges. She wasn’t Sugi celebrating a birthday. She wasn’t even Chubby Cutie performing. She was the container. She was the process of filling.

As the first twenty-four-hour mark approached somewhere in the unmeasurable dark, she existed in that blurred state: agonizingly full yet detached. Dissociated. The chat continued its endless scroll in her vision, a river of external observation she could no longer connect to herself.

All she truly felt was the cold, relentless flow into her gut. And beneath even that sensation, quieter than anything else now, a growing silence in her own mind where thoughts used to be.