mouthwatering

I don’t have kids

I don’t spend money on nicotine

I don’t gamble my money away on sports

I’m not reliant on a chat bot for all my life functions

Never let her have guilt nor feel doubt about her ability to consume a second dessert. Make it easy, make it guilt free and relieve her of the burden of standing. Walking, no more cruel boundaries of physics. Objects not in motion gather more pleasure. Nest her in hobbies and remotes. Indulgence every request until she doesn’t know she asking for sweets, crackers, soda. Freedom from wasted energy. Let her keep every gram, every ounce of it. Make her expanded waistline hot. Poke her exposed fat before she eats. Get her stoned and put her favorite snacks in easy ready.

Don’t let her current size deny. She’s an ever growing person. Fat to obese. Thin to chubby. Curvy to rotund. Free her from fear of taking up space. Free her from a trim figure or need for fitness. Make it easy to eat herself fatter and fatter. Set her free from the fear of outgrowing chairs or getting too fat for booths. Let her figure spread out wide and free until it takes up every inch it wants, every inch it needs. Celebrate every set of her new freedom with food. Get her stoned make her cum until her desires are free. She can’t restrain them now. She looks at you with the ecstasy of someone set free from the burden of choice and petty restraint. Your her Id there with a treat, a cake, her favorite sandwich.

You free range her in public your fattened trophy wife. The eyes on her judging, mortified for her, the slight glint of jealousy. It all makes her wet because she now free from caring. The humiliation she’s always wanted but was too restrained to get is there. She can be fat in her tightest dress. Her tiny crop top or her mesh see through top. Her flesh is literally liberated as her clothes struggle to contain her. Bursting with beautiful flesh she realizes she’s surpassed needing to run. The need for complete mobility a thing she tastes the first bits of freedom from. She’s free from any fear or humiliation that would stop her. Being so completely fat, herself, she’s free. Nothing but an out of shape fat girl. Words like butterball and blimp start to be accurate.

Perhaps she hits that lovely point of no return as she starts to get truly rotund. Her belly starts to get in her way just walking or moving. Arm chairs aren’t an option. You watch her loose the fear of being that type of fat girl as she looses her figure to rotundity. You help her let go of that last bit blocking her true self. That burden of a somewhat intact figure to a totally gelatinous form. She’s got nothing in her way now because she has nothing to loose. Her self control drops as the scale goes up. How can you truly worry about being bigger when you’re already the fattest girl at every engagement. You’ve helped her see each humiliation is a freedom because it turns her own rids her of unneeded self control. She’s finally eating intuitively ravenously even as she now doesn’t have the burden of remembering a world without constant food, constant indulgence.

Finally you help her select a scooter make her true freedom more calm and easy. Why be embarrassed that’s so limiting the scooter will let her keep her freedom. The biggest freedom of them all as she admits the need and savors the 5-10 foot rule of never needing to traverse a larger range to get to her scooter. Without all this pesky limiting thoughts she can enjoy and lean back into what used to horrify her (secretly drew jealous) when fat girls went by in scooters or had immense waddles. She no longer has to wonder what it’s like to be that fat she is now and getting fatter.

God this is hot. 🥵🔥

Imagine you win a free 3 course meal every day for a year from your favorite restaurant. The first couple weeks are wonderful. You're saving money on food, the commute isn't terrible, and you don't have to cook when you get home from a long day of work.

"Hungry? Awhhh, my poor, sweet piggy. Open up, I have just the thing for you!" Reaching over to the table beside the couch, I grab a container of macaroons. They are all different colors and flavors.

I present a pastel pink one in front of your mouth that smells faintly like strawberries, and you eat it in one bite. You close your eyes and sigh dreamily. My face is giddy with happiness as I eagerly ask you, "How is it??" You chew and nod. I squeak with happiness. "I bought them today, just for you! Want another?"

Before you can even answer, there is a chocolate macaroon between your lips. It tastes heavenly. My hands begin to rub your belly again, exploring all your rolls and stretchmarks. You sigh contently, popping another cookie in your mouth. Then another. And another.

Suddenly, a can of whipped cream appears and I have my finger on the nozzle, a mischievious look on my face. You part your lips nervously. The tip goes in, and suddenly your mouth is filled with thick sugary cream. You swallow, and more continues filling in.

My hips are moving now, rubbing my thin panties against the front of your jeans. "Keep going piggy...the entire can needs to be gone..." I breathlessly whisper. You notice my blue eyes grow uncharacteristically darker. Your belly is starting to slowly bloat up, growing tighter and more firm until we hear a rip and your fat belly bounces out, just about knocking me off your lap. The realization that your pants are torn from holding in that massive gut set in and you moan.

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.

There is a dress code of formal wear of course, and the wait staff start off very aloof. They insist that you finish everything on your plate, and that you can’t leave until you’ve eaten every course.

The dishes are small but plentiful, and each is distinct but complimentary in flavour and texture. The variety keeps you going, as well as the glass of wine by your side that’s being constantly refilled.

And, as you eat more, the waitstaff seem to grow more… familiar, with you. A slight smile or a kind word eventually evolving into brief touches to your arm or back. This only serves to further motivate your indulgence, even as your fitted formalwear grows tight about your stomach.

Somewhere along the line the encouragement of the waitstaff becomes more blatant, their smiles twisting into smirks as they brush a hand against your belly and whisper for you to keep eating, placing eager forkfuls against your lips.