Big-Banksy

You might slip back into your old vegetable munching, fruit nibbling ways for a bit, but then... When you're desperate to cum... You'll always beg me to whisper in your ear about all the things that would change if you got fatter. How you'd outgrow the gym. How you'd start wheezing up a flight of stairs. How you'd need help off the couch. On and on, until cum, having a mind blowing orgasm to the roleplay where I taunt you for being a fat, virgin, loser.

Then... just like that... you find yourself desperate to get high every night, and to eat until you feel your gut weighing you down on the couch so the roleplay feels more real. You beg, you stuff, you cum. You say it's for me, but we both know the truth, it's for *us* baby.

Viktor Lyapkalo Artwork: 'Blowing bubbles' & 'Evening' Painted 9 years apart.

It’s a perfect winter night.
The kind where the snow is piling so high you can’t even see the mailbox anymore.
The fireplace is crackling, fairy lights are twinkling, and the only sound is your soft, stuffed breathing and the occasional clink of another tray hitting the coffee table.

You’re sprawled across the couch, belly already resting heavy on your thighs, sweater riding up because nothing fits anymore.
Me curled against your side in fuzzy socks and an oversized sweater, feeding you warm cinnamon rolls one slow bite at a time, licking the icing off your lips between kisses.

Outside it’s negative twenty.
Inside it’s eight-thousand-calorie heaven.
Hot cocoa with heavy cream.
Fresh baked cookies every hour.
Mac and cheese so thick the spoon stands up.
Pizzas delivered straight to the door because neither of us is moving until spring.

Every snowstorm is just another excuse to keep you pinned under blankets and calories love.
Every blizzard is another week I add to that glorious gut.

You’ll gain and gain and gain, soft, warm, sleepy, spoiled, until the only thing colder than the air outside is the idea of ever stopping.

And when the snow finally melts…
you’ll still be mine, rounder, heavier, happier, and completely unable to remember a time when winter didn’t taste like butter and my voice telling you “one more bite, baby.”

Hypothetically, of course…
but tell me you’re not already hungry for it.