Pandora's Box
High Primistress
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2024
- Messages
- 27
- Location
- United States
For awhile I've fantasized about using food as a way to torture, and ultimately kill, someone.
First, I want to give someone an eating disorder.
I would tell them how much prettier they would be if they lost a few pounds. I would point out how many calories every little thing they eat is. I want to grab at the little flab on their belly or inner thighs and mock them, "Getting a little pudgy, huh?" I would start ignoring them when they spoke, barely even looking at them, unless they were fasting or eating a salad or exercising. I'd buy them clothes that were two, three, even four sizes too small, so they'd be bulging out of everything they wore. The only times I'd express any attraction to them would be after they'd starved for days, or when their tits or dick bounced around as they did jumping jacks.
Any time they would break their fast, or skip a day of exercise, or eat something high calorie, I would treat them worse than dirt. I'd tell them how disgusting and worthless they were. Depending on the type of person, and what would best get to them, I'd either leave and say I wasn't coming back until they were able to step on the scale and show they'd lost a sufficient amount of weight, or I'd beat them and tell them it was their own fault, that all they had to do to make me love them again was lose a few pounds.
I'd want them absolutely terrified of food. I'd want them to come to associate food with fear, and pain, and suffering. They'd lose the, say, 20 or so pounds I originally told them to in no time, and then some. Even once they reached the "goal weight" I set for them, their relationship with food would be so fucked that they couldn't stop losing weight. They'd go from 20lbs down, to 30, to 40, to 60. They'd faint often, I'm sure, and I would wake them up with a slap to the face or a punch in the gut. Before long they'd be skin and bones, ribcage poking out, ever little disc of their spinal cord easily visible through their skin, hair thinning, and skin cold like a corpse all the time.
Then, I want to make them gain it all back, and then some.
I would lay it on thick, really love bomb them. "I never meant for it to go this far, I was only looking out for your health! You're so skinny, I'm scared I'm going to lose you." I'd also make it clear they were no longer attractive to me at this weight either. Any affection I gave them before for losing weight would be entirely gone. I'd look at their bones in disgust. Any time they tried to cuddle with me or hold my hand I'd pull back and tell them I didn't want their bones pressing into me. I would point out to them, any time we went out in public, all the people staring at their morbid, skeletal form.
I'd pressure them into eating large meals, meals bigger than what anyone would ever normally eat. I would take them out to eat and order a giant dinner just for them, while I ate a small, healthy meal, and I would tell them how embarrassing they were and how ashamed of them I was every time they'd inevitably have a breakdown in public. All of the good, healthy food in the house would be replaced with complete junk, and I would pressure them to eat constantly. If I ever caught them throwing their food up I'd make them scoop it out of the toilet and eat it.
Before they knew it, they'd be up past their original weight. I would be sure to shower them in affection, they're doing so good, an eating disorder survivor! They would just keep gaining and gaining, and I would be sure to encourage it, feeding them more and more, worse and worse food. I'd balloon them up so fast their bones wouldn't be able to stand it, and they'd be in terrible pain all the time. The entire time they would hate their body, no amount of affection deprogramming the anorexic mindset.
I'd start treating them like shit again, too, especially once their mobility became impaired. I'd encourage them to go on walks with me just to watch them struggle in pain, and I'd only look at them as a nuisance, telling them it surely isn't that bad, that they're just being lazy. I'd make fun of the way they waddled around. I'd get furniture with extremely low weight limits just to watch them break it, and then laugh at them for it. I'd point out how I couldn't even see their dick/pussy behind their massive stomach, and if they were a man, make fun of their man tits and buy them a lacy little pushup bra.
Lastly, I want to repeat that cycle as many times as I can, until it kills them.
One day, suddenly, all the junk food in the house would be gone. I would tell them it was for their own good, that they'd gotten out of control and they were going to kill themselves if they continued on like this. I would feed right back into that eating disorder I helped establish. This time, it would be even harder. They'd be addicted to sugar and junk food, and exercise would be absolute hell. I would buy them clothes far too small once again, so not only would they be sweaty and in pain while they exercised, they would also be constantly having to worry about their tits popping out of their shirt or their pants riding down their ass.
Maybe one day I'd even take them outside and put them on all fours and tell them that, if they were really so hungry, they could, "Eat grass, like the fat cow you are." I would be sure to hold them by the hair with their face pressed against the ground until they ate enough grass for my liking. I could even make them do it in public. Let's say we're in the car together and I've made them starve for the last few days and they're begging me to let them eat, I would make them pull over, pull them out of the car, and make them eat the grass right there, on the side of the road.
Once they did finally lose the weight, they'd look ridiculous. Their entire body would be covered in the worst loose skin you've ever seen, all wrinkly and covered in stretch marks. They'd look in the mirror and cry, looking worse than they ever have before. They'd beg me to tell them I'm still attracted to them, and I'd say no. I would tell them, you know what, you looked better when you were fat. Then, I'd start the fattening stage up once again.
I would do this over and over until it finally took them out. Most likely, whether they're gaining or losing, they'd die from a heart attack. Maybe I would watch them faint during a fast, except this time no amount of hitting wakes them, or I would have a funnel in their mouth, pouring a fattening shake down their gullet, when they just stop drinking and the liquid spills up out of their mouth and drips down all over their face. Maybe they would just kill themselves, and I would find them hanging from the ceiling when I woke up in the morning, or with their wrists slit in the bathtub.
Whichever way is fine by me, really.
All that matters is that they would spend the last few years of their life in a constant hell, all because of something as inane as food. They would die hating themselves, never feeling good enough. There is something so amazing to me about enjoying a dead body I know suffered before it passed. The idea of running my hands over the dead flesh I helped destroy fills me with so much excitement.
I want to feel the changes I made, as the body grows cold. Digging my fingers into the stretchmarks, pinching and squeezing and manipulating the loose skin. Whatever stage they died at, morbidly obese or skeletal or anywhere in between, I would love the body I helped create. I want to cut it open and look at the organs that I so badly damaged. The stomach, likely expanded from being stretched out so many times, the liver, probably fatty from the weight gain, and the heart, of course, severely damaged from all the abuse.
I'd tell them, knowing they cannot hear me, that I finally loved them. That all the torture, the weight loss, the weight gain, all of it was for nothing, because in reality, I was never going to love them until they died for me.
I would give their cold, dead body all the love and affection and care they so desperately wanted from me, and they wouldn't be there to experience a second of it.
First, I want to give someone an eating disorder.
I would tell them how much prettier they would be if they lost a few pounds. I would point out how many calories every little thing they eat is. I want to grab at the little flab on their belly or inner thighs and mock them, "Getting a little pudgy, huh?" I would start ignoring them when they spoke, barely even looking at them, unless they were fasting or eating a salad or exercising. I'd buy them clothes that were two, three, even four sizes too small, so they'd be bulging out of everything they wore. The only times I'd express any attraction to them would be after they'd starved for days, or when their tits or dick bounced around as they did jumping jacks.
Any time they would break their fast, or skip a day of exercise, or eat something high calorie, I would treat them worse than dirt. I'd tell them how disgusting and worthless they were. Depending on the type of person, and what would best get to them, I'd either leave and say I wasn't coming back until they were able to step on the scale and show they'd lost a sufficient amount of weight, or I'd beat them and tell them it was their own fault, that all they had to do to make me love them again was lose a few pounds.
I'd want them absolutely terrified of food. I'd want them to come to associate food with fear, and pain, and suffering. They'd lose the, say, 20 or so pounds I originally told them to in no time, and then some. Even once they reached the "goal weight" I set for them, their relationship with food would be so fucked that they couldn't stop losing weight. They'd go from 20lbs down, to 30, to 40, to 60. They'd faint often, I'm sure, and I would wake them up with a slap to the face or a punch in the gut. Before long they'd be skin and bones, ribcage poking out, ever little disc of their spinal cord easily visible through their skin, hair thinning, and skin cold like a corpse all the time.
Then, I want to make them gain it all back, and then some.
I would lay it on thick, really love bomb them. "I never meant for it to go this far, I was only looking out for your health! You're so skinny, I'm scared I'm going to lose you." I'd also make it clear they were no longer attractive to me at this weight either. Any affection I gave them before for losing weight would be entirely gone. I'd look at their bones in disgust. Any time they tried to cuddle with me or hold my hand I'd pull back and tell them I didn't want their bones pressing into me. I would point out to them, any time we went out in public, all the people staring at their morbid, skeletal form.
I'd pressure them into eating large meals, meals bigger than what anyone would ever normally eat. I would take them out to eat and order a giant dinner just for them, while I ate a small, healthy meal, and I would tell them how embarrassing they were and how ashamed of them I was every time they'd inevitably have a breakdown in public. All of the good, healthy food in the house would be replaced with complete junk, and I would pressure them to eat constantly. If I ever caught them throwing their food up I'd make them scoop it out of the toilet and eat it.
Before they knew it, they'd be up past their original weight. I would be sure to shower them in affection, they're doing so good, an eating disorder survivor! They would just keep gaining and gaining, and I would be sure to encourage it, feeding them more and more, worse and worse food. I'd balloon them up so fast their bones wouldn't be able to stand it, and they'd be in terrible pain all the time. The entire time they would hate their body, no amount of affection deprogramming the anorexic mindset.
I'd start treating them like shit again, too, especially once their mobility became impaired. I'd encourage them to go on walks with me just to watch them struggle in pain, and I'd only look at them as a nuisance, telling them it surely isn't that bad, that they're just being lazy. I'd make fun of the way they waddled around. I'd get furniture with extremely low weight limits just to watch them break it, and then laugh at them for it. I'd point out how I couldn't even see their dick/pussy behind their massive stomach, and if they were a man, make fun of their man tits and buy them a lacy little pushup bra.
Lastly, I want to repeat that cycle as many times as I can, until it kills them.
One day, suddenly, all the junk food in the house would be gone. I would tell them it was for their own good, that they'd gotten out of control and they were going to kill themselves if they continued on like this. I would feed right back into that eating disorder I helped establish. This time, it would be even harder. They'd be addicted to sugar and junk food, and exercise would be absolute hell. I would buy them clothes far too small once again, so not only would they be sweaty and in pain while they exercised, they would also be constantly having to worry about their tits popping out of their shirt or their pants riding down their ass.
Maybe one day I'd even take them outside and put them on all fours and tell them that, if they were really so hungry, they could, "Eat grass, like the fat cow you are." I would be sure to hold them by the hair with their face pressed against the ground until they ate enough grass for my liking. I could even make them do it in public. Let's say we're in the car together and I've made them starve for the last few days and they're begging me to let them eat, I would make them pull over, pull them out of the car, and make them eat the grass right there, on the side of the road.
Once they did finally lose the weight, they'd look ridiculous. Their entire body would be covered in the worst loose skin you've ever seen, all wrinkly and covered in stretch marks. They'd look in the mirror and cry, looking worse than they ever have before. They'd beg me to tell them I'm still attracted to them, and I'd say no. I would tell them, you know what, you looked better when you were fat. Then, I'd start the fattening stage up once again.
I would do this over and over until it finally took them out. Most likely, whether they're gaining or losing, they'd die from a heart attack. Maybe I would watch them faint during a fast, except this time no amount of hitting wakes them, or I would have a funnel in their mouth, pouring a fattening shake down their gullet, when they just stop drinking and the liquid spills up out of their mouth and drips down all over their face. Maybe they would just kill themselves, and I would find them hanging from the ceiling when I woke up in the morning, or with their wrists slit in the bathtub.
Whichever way is fine by me, really.
All that matters is that they would spend the last few years of their life in a constant hell, all because of something as inane as food. They would die hating themselves, never feeling good enough. There is something so amazing to me about enjoying a dead body I know suffered before it passed. The idea of running my hands over the dead flesh I helped destroy fills me with so much excitement.
I want to feel the changes I made, as the body grows cold. Digging my fingers into the stretchmarks, pinching and squeezing and manipulating the loose skin. Whatever stage they died at, morbidly obese or skeletal or anywhere in between, I would love the body I helped create. I want to cut it open and look at the organs that I so badly damaged. The stomach, likely expanded from being stretched out so many times, the liver, probably fatty from the weight gain, and the heart, of course, severely damaged from all the abuse.
I'd tell them, knowing they cannot hear me, that I finally loved them. That all the torture, the weight loss, the weight gain, all of it was for nothing, because in reality, I was never going to love them until they died for me.
I would give their cold, dead body all the love and affection and care they so desperately wanted from me, and they wouldn't be there to experience a second of it.
