Darling

“Goodness, when did you get so soft?” I ask, my hands already finding their way to your clothed sides and giving them an affectionate squeeze.

You squeak in surprise. It's early in the morning, and you're standing in the kitchen halfway through a bagel slathered with a generous layer of cream cheese.

“No, no,” I say quickly, noticing the worried look on your face. “I'm not insulting you. I'm just asking a question.”

You don't answer. Instead, a warm blush slowly spreads across your cheeks. I doubt you expected to be fondled like this before 9 am.

My hands continue their slow, absent-minded exploration, tracing gentle circles around your sides before drifting lower. You lean into my touch almost imperceptibly.

My hands, beginning from the top, slowly make their way to the lower half of your tummy, my favorite area, the chubbiest part of you. It’s when I get down to the hem of your shirt, allowing my hands to sneak underneath, do I hear another noise escape from your lips. I grin even bigger. 

“God,” I murmur, shaking my head. “What have you been eating to get so plump?”

You know it's a rhetorical question, but you answer anyway. “Everything you put in front of me.”

The admission makes me shutter lightly.

Thinking back, it really has been everything. The desserts I baked just because I felt like it. The leftovers you insisted shouldn't go to waste. Some treats in the bedroom. The extra portions that somehow found their way onto your plate whenever we shared a meal. Eventually that turned into me out right shoving plate after plate in front of you, with a simple command “eat.” Oh, I know you love when I say that.

“Oh? Is that so?” I feign innocence, grabbing another handful of your love handles. I give it a soft jiggle.

You must really love the way I touch you because when I brush my hand against your crotch, I can feel you growing already. It’s 8 am and here you are getting rock hard for me. It’s your turn to shutter now. My hand brushes against your front once more and then I pull away. 

All gone in an instant. You look at me with a look of confusion as now both my hands have returned to me, no longer exploring your figure.

“How about I make us a proper breakfast?”

And there I am, already pulling out bowls and ingredients. You know I love making things from scratch. It takes time, yes, but I love putting all my love and effort into every step.

Flour, eggs, sugar, milk, butter, salt, vanilla…

A few other things, mixing, and now I’m dropping blueberries onto the batter as they cook. Pancakes. One of your favorites. 

I’ve already asked you to take a seat, and you have, but you’re watching me with the most adorable, dumbfounded gaze.

I really don’t care for sides like eggs, bacon, sausages, or hashbrowns, but I know you enjoy a full breakfast. So I go out of my way to fry you a few eggs, exactly the way you love them, and roast a few sausages.

When your pancakes are done, I slide them, thick, onto a plate, and your eggs and sausages on another.

I’ve made a few for myself too, but I’ll worry eating those later.  Right now, you are all I care about.

I sit next to you, yet you don’t move to eat yet. “Oh?” I tilt my head, “Did you want mommy to feed you?”

You nod without any hesitation.

“Good boy,” I purr. You know I love it when you want things like this. 

Scooting my chair a little closer, I slide my fork into one of the pancakes before using a knife to cut off a generous piece.

I hold it out toward you, and you lean forward to take a hearty bite.

The next piece gets a little more attention. I spread a bit of butter over the warm pancake before drizzling it with syrup, watching it soak in.

It’s easy to numb my brain when I’m with you like this. Falling into a rhythm of feeding you. I love it. You love it. Maybe we love it too much because the consequences are clearly showing on your waist.

Every so often, I pause so you can work on your eggs. A contented hum escapes you after the first bite, and the sausages earn an even more enthusiastic reaction. And then we return back to the stack.

As the size shrinks down, I dip my finger tips into the syrup. “A reward,” I say. I take them to your mouth and allow you to suck on them for a few seconds, “Good job~” 

I pull up your shirt and admire the work I’ve done. I love the way your belly pushes out over your shorts. 

I sink my head down and begin to kiss your tummy all over. My kisses turns to nips. Nips turns to bites and soon enough, I’m making out with your belly button. My tongue sliding in and out. My hands travel up and knead your belly, eliciting small, yet sexy moans from your throat.

“Mommy,” you say in a whiny tone, catching my attention. “I’m not finished yet.”

My eyes drift over to your plate. There are only a few bites left.

I smile, “You’re right. Mmm you’re so good for mommy,” which earns another flush in your face.

Between the last few forkfuls, I deeply relish in tasting the sweet mixture of blueberry and syrup as I kiss you on your lips.

“All done!” I proudly announce, watching the last bit slide down your throat.

My hands travel down to your belly, then your thighs, and finally your crotch. Have you really been hard this entire time?