I can’t wait until everyone finally sees the swollen gut you’ve been growing straining the seams of your clothes. I can’t wait to watch them politely pretend not to notice how you waddle, how you breathe just a little heavier than you used to. Let them wonder how the slim man they knew ended up so disgustingly overfed.
They’ll never know what happens the second we’re alone — how you whine with relief as I loosen your belt and free your hot, festering gut from your tight, overstretched jeans. How I handle the slope of your densely packed belly and whisper praise into your folds. How I nibble at your overhang, your thickened thighs, your soft, swollen chest. Every inch of you blown up beyond recognition, marbled with stretch marks, radiating heat after being stuffed to the point of pain.
The fact is you ended up like this because you fell for me.
Because you needed to please me. You lived to get me off. And with every ounce of fat you gained I became more and more turned on by you. Because every bite is another step further from the man you once were, and deeper into the greedy, gluttonous thing I’m shaping you into.
You belong to me. Your hunger belongs to me. Your rolls, your chins, your heavy-lidded daze after one too many servings — all of it is mine. You’re swelling for me, thickening under my hand, growing so fat you can hardly stand up.
And no one will ever suspect me. All they see is a sweet, doting girlfriend. Perhaps they even feel bad for me. They’ll never see the relentless feeder behind the pretty, innocent girl. They don’t see what a pig I’m raising — the soft, obedient, food-drunk mass who keeps eating and eating, desperate to please me.
Because what they don’t know is you’re not just getting fat,
