The shirt you're wearing rides up and you tug it back down.

I laugh.

"You can't put down the fork and that's supposed to be my fault?"

You don't say anything because you're already too busy taking a huge bite. Your eyes close in bliss. You lean back in your chair and let out a pleased sigh as you chew. Your belly peeks out from under your shirt again at the movement but this time your hand goes to caress and squeeze the revealed pudge.

You make a little satisfied noise as you take a second bite, because you know I like it and because you just can't help yourself anymore. Before you even finish swallowing you take another bite, knowing that I won't be able to stop from teasing you.

"So greedy."

You smirk, patting your side so your soft fat wobbles despite already be so full.

"You made me this way."

I did. We both know it. With every praise and tease, pushing bite after bite past your lips. Teaching you gradually to associate this lifestyle with pleasure until you were craving it. But you were the one who wanted to go further, hooked on the hedonism and gluttony. Needing it all the time, even when I wasn't around, then begging me to unbutton your straining pants, all while desperately moaning for me to bring you more.

Your fingers drag and scrape lightly at the stretchmarks on your belly. You're teasing me. and it's working.

"Blaming me again?" My eyes haven't left your paunch, the way you're playing with it. All with one hand. You're still eating with the other. "With a full mouth, no less?"

You swallow, a little embarrassed. It's cute that you can still get flustered shamelessly eating as much as you do. But it's only a second before you're back to stuffing your face because when there's food in front of you all you can think about is needing to finish it.

"You just can't believe that you've done this to yourself," I continue, enjoying how insatiable you've become, "that you've slipped this far after what supposed to only be a little experiment? All that sitting around and constant eating while kneading palmfuls of your overtaxed tummy has turned you into this. It's so hot to see you lose control. How it makes you crave more of all it, more food, more fat..."

With the hand you've been fondling your fat, you slip a finger into your navel and whimper audibly.

You've admitted it a few times but every time I say it, I can tell it immediately makes you throb.

"You can't stop can you?"

You moan low and needy. Your nipples harden against the fabric of your shirt.

"You want more."

You nod, rubbing and hefting your tender tummy. A small burp escapes and you sigh.

"Always," you say breathlessly, "all the time, I'm so heavy now and it feels so good."

"Remember when realized you wanted this? And now you can't get enough."

Your hand moves lower at my words, and you begin to rut in your seat, panting intensifying, whimpering helplessly.

"Look what it's turned you into."

"Fuck," you whisper right at the edge, voice tight, until you stop, and for awhile, it's like you've snapped, as you focus ravenously on your meal. When you come up for air, you're groaning, an overfull stupor coming on in your half-lidded eyes.

I smile:

"We've conditioned you well, hm?"

You nod and rub your glutted stomach in wide circles, so full now your shirt can no longer cover all you, your earlier attempt at decency long gone. You stifle a burp, sucking in air.

"I'm so fat," you groan like you can't get enough of it. And you haven't been able to for months now, your entire wardrobe shows it. You'll need to size up again soon.

"Keep making me bigger."

I assess the damage of empty containers but I can hear you fine. I just want you to say it again.

"What was that?"

I want you to hear yourself. How you're begging and desperate to be fattened.

"Please keep making me bigger. I love getting fatter for you. I love what you've done to me."

You squirm when I pull a container from the delivery bag. A slice of pie you had added to the order when you were so hungry earlier and feeling confident about being able to finish everything with how insatiable you've been lately. Now you look at it and groan.

"You don't have to eat it."

"No.. I want to.. fuck, I really want to." You slap your stomach, then jiggling it slightly, leaning back. "I can't help myself anymore. I don't want to stop."

You lick your lips, biting the bottom one, your eyes full of lust and focused only on the food in my hand. A low impatient whine starts in your throat when you realize I'm taking my time.

"Letting go eating whatever you want, giving into decadence has made you so spoiled and demanding. Clearly," I tease taking the dessert from the container. "Maybe I should make it worse and feed you this last bit, hm?"

You make a desperate, excited sound as you squeeze your softened chest in anticipation.

I place a knee between your spread thighs and against your pudgy groin, for just a bit of teasing pressure. This is the first time I've touched you since your last meal. Your hips immediately respond despite your fullness and your hands go to the sides of your taut belly as I simultaneously press the treat to your lips. You open your mouth so willingly and greedily.

"Mmm, that's good," you say, mouth full, sluggishly grinding against my knee and squeezing your belly fat.

"You're eating so well for me," I praise. My cool fingers skim over and along your tender, heated skin. You tense in pleasure at the sensation. "Maybe I'll reward you later."

"Please," you beg, "I want to keep eating for you."

"Such a good pet."

I'm amazed how much you've changed since we started. Your body, of course, but also your mind.

"More," you demand and I oblige.

Your eyes are closed, head thrown back in ecstasy. You're lost in the pleasure, thinking of nothing else as you wrap your mouth another bite, the very picture of hedonism, thick thighs spread and your hands massaging your gut, plopping it docilely in your lap, double chin prominent as you eagerly and greedily accept another mouthful.

You've been eating all day with no signs of stopping.

And you know what?

Go ahead, blame me.

My friend forgot the word for ‘Pillsbury dough boy’ and while she was brainstorming trying to remember she poked my belly a couple times. Fuck.

Deny it all you want but you’ve become quite the butterball these past few years, and I’m not completely to blame isn’t that right?

Your eagerness and willingness to please, how a bat of my eyelashes was enough to always send you over the edge shoveling everything and anything into your mouth. Your lack of self control is truly what did this to you not me I simply just provided you the food and comfort you had complete control over yourself and how you fed… well it’s better to say how you over fed yourself this entire time.