bagelmaker

I’ll hold it up to your lips and watch you hesitate just long enough for me to whisper that you know you want it, that you’ve been thinking about this all day, and that I know you want to open up and let me push that cold, creamy serving past your lips. Of course you’ll suck the spoon clean and try your best to hide your first little moan, but I’ll know. And it’s the only confirmation I need to keep the scoops coming until you stop caring about the people watching and just let your jaw go slack with your tongue hanging out like a greedy pet waiting for more.

I’ll reward you for your greed, giving you more scoopfuls the faster you eat until you’re eating so fast that ice cream starts dripping down your chin before you can swallow. I’ll lean over and wipe your chin with my finger before holding it to your lips for you to lick it off right there in front of everyone so they know exactly what you are. I want to see the shame and the lust fight it out in your eyes while your belly starts to swell under your tight little shirt, rounder and heavier with every spoonful I cram into you. I want to tip the tub up when it gets soft and pour liquid creamy, fat straight down your throat until it spills over and soaks your chest and runs down your arms and pools in your lap, and I’ll laugh while you choke it down and gasp and keep gulping because I told you not to stop. You’ll be far too hungry to stop and far too horny to process what I’m saying anyway~

I want to watch your body betray you as your hips start to spread and your thighs press together even thicker and your gut pushes out against your waistband until the buttons strain and finally pop. I’ll savor hearing that little snap echo through the whole parlor, knowing I’ve done almost too good of a job with you. Then I’ll turn and see the faces of the people staring, whispering behind their phones, and you’ll keep going because you know I don’t give a single damn about any of them. That all I see is you getting softer and hungrier and more mine with every pound that sticks to your frame like we’re sculpting a monument to gluttony through your body~

I’ll keep feeding you until the tub’s scraped clean and you‘re slumped back in the booth with your shirt hiked up over your swollen gut, your eyes glassy, your breathing heavy and your mind completely blank except for the need for more. I’ll pay the bill and haul you up out of your seat, watching you wobble on your feet because your center of gravity’s already shifted. I’ll walk you past every single person in the parlor with your belly leading the way and your clothes stained. They’ll stare at the way you waddle around with your face covered in cream like you’re a prized farmpet on display in the county fair. I’ll grab your under belly and whisper in your ear just how much worse it’s going to get, that this is just the first time, that I’m going to do this to you every week, every day if I can, until you can’t even fit through the door anymore and they have to bring the tub to the car.

It was just a simple *click* that sealed your fate, that first click of the leather collar around your neck marked the official boundary line between your old life and the beginning of your complete surrender. I remember those early weeks where your training was subtle but relentless, focused entirely on dismantling anything left of your discipline… any barrier to your gluttony. Every evening began with you dropping down to the floor, your whining constant while you learned the quiet art of waiting for permission to eat. You didn’t understand why you had to wait at first, but surely even you realized eventually the more you waited the more pathetically desperate you were to shovel it in your mouth. I had to teach you obedience and unbridled gluttony. The initial feedings did just that and were structured to push you past the point of comfortable fullness, coaxing your body to accept a heavy, dense ache that you’d never experienced before. Your mind struggled to process the transition, caught between the lingering memory of physical agility and the thick, sugary haze that began to settle over your thoughts after every rich meal. I noticed early on that you welcomed the moments where you were too full to think for yourself or do anything beyond nod your head to every command and open your mouth.

As the months blurred together, your will-power and self-control completely dissolved into a soft, docile compliance. You no longer questioned the leash or the growing frequency of the treats, finding a pleasant, internal quietness in simply obeying the commands. You didn’t understand it yet, but I could tell you wanted more food and less responsibility no matter what. Your body agreed as it adapted rapidly to the constant influx of calories, the smooth skin of your midsection expanding to accommodate the deliberate weight gain. The light, quick movements of your past slowed into a deliberate, heavy waddle as the fat began to spill over your frame. You watched your own reflection change, observing the way your clothes strained and split against your widening hips, quietly accepting the reality that you were eating your way out of your old identity. You never questioned it though, you just lapped up every command, every bit of praise, and every drop of whatever I fed you until there was nothing left. No longer a puppy in the making, but a morbidly obese puppy only a few meals, a few bites, a few commands away from getting off to her own gluttony~

And now look at you, a beautifully ruined, massively fattened puppy who only lives for the next feeding. You spend your hours curled contentedly on the thick, triple reinforced doggy bed, your enormous frame filling the space with layers of soft, doughy lard that make movement a chore not worth doing. Your breathing is shallow and rhythmic, just as mesmerizing as the deep, glistening red stretch marks that map out every little moment you’ve ever given in to gluttony. You’re far too big of a blob to even stand on your own two legs now, entirely content to remain on all fours where your massive, jiggly belly kisses the floor beneath you (and don’t think I don’t notice how you let it help support you when you’re past the point of full) Your thoughts have slowed to a peaceful, sleepy static, completely consumed by the bliss of your own weight keeping you trapped, holding you still as if to remind you that you’re nothing but a fat puppy waiting for her next order and next command~