no responsibilities.

no routine.

no fixed times.

no duties.

just filled to the brim with good food, endorphins beaming from your little piggy brain and dopamine rewarding you for engorging and gobbling on anything edible within a radius of 2 meters from you... wondering what's for dinner.

you wake up at improbable hours, and then you eat, you hit up the pc and devote your hours to videogames, streamings, and food until you go to bed.

i don't even have to encourage you by now...

you're digging your own grave a bite after another.

you know, i see the posts you publish on your kinky socials.

you almost always say that it's me filling that ball of lard you have as a gut...

...but in reality, if I make you stuff once a week it's a lot. After all, I work full time and I'm often too tired to do much but cook for you a filling meal and then going to bed listening to some ASMR to fall asleep...

but you... you love to appoint the entire guilt on me.

you love to tell everyone that it's me rendering you so obese that you can't even walk anymore.

you love to make everyone think "boo hoo poor feedee, her wife is fattening her up!"...

...while in reality you panic if you don't eat for even an hour.

the other day you literally had a meltdown because we didn't have anymore cookies.

and two days before that, you begged me to find another job just so that you could order mcdonalds more often.

(i'm searching for it, of course...)

i'm watching your puffy body sink in the mattress and i can hardly recognize each body part as a human one...

you're deforming your meat vessel by adding so much lard it's becoming unrecognizable.

you're digging your own grave a bite after another...

i'll sleep all night, like always...

...and instead you, like every night, will wake up around 5 am and eat whatever you can fit in your mouth without having to cook it.

oh, my dear hog...

you are so lost in the folds of your own obesity...

Maybe a few months (or years. days blend together when you're bed-bound) ago, you could manage to roll over on your side, relieve your lard swaddled chest of your weighty breasts for a moment to breathe some air. Raise your arms above your head for a few precious minutes, allowing air to flood your sweat love handles. Maybe even stand and waddle the handful of steps to the kitchen for an evening snack. Now you have to remain still, completely, propped up against the headboard, arms splayed against your mountainous sides, lest you disturb the oxygen cannula stretched across your massive gut and past your widened hips.

As it turns out, grease sugar and salt make for very poor, very weak blood circulation. There's hardly any sensation in your hands. If I could've had your feet chopped off thanks to your rising glucose levels ages ago and you'd have no idea. And you're always sweating, waves of heat rocking your rolls and pudgy, swollen face constantly. Your fat makes for a good insulator when its cold out and the only thing protecting you from the elements is a thin bed-sheet, but the constant burning and perspiration makes can be overwhelming.

None of these sensations bother you, however, more than the constant throbbing ache in your apron gut. You require almost 3 times the amount of water than an average size person does to stay hydrated and alert (to which you are neither) but sugary sodas and frosted milkshakes are just so much more enticing (and dehydrating, leaving you both parched and sugar brain-ed). They trigger that vastness. That need in your stomach for more, a constant onslaught of calories.

I wonder if I'm like a ghost to you, sometimes. Wandering in, flipping you over and fucking you, feeding you, blessing you with food and drink like an angel every few hours. After the third stroke, your speech was impaired and I'm sure your brain struggles to comprehend that I don't leave you alone for days to starve, often no more than an hour or two at a time. Still, your sleep compressed eyes light up at the sight of me with two greasy fast food bags, a funnel and a pitcher, or your hot pink vibrator.

I cuddle close to you, pushing myself into your fleshy space. I feel your heart thumping beneath the folds, palpatations rising as I kiss your second chin softly. "Good morning, pretty girl," I stroke your sagging, lumpy breast and you attempt to wheeze out a greeting. "I made some zeppoles...you want me to bring you a nice, big plate?"

I see hesitation. A brief, flicker of self awareness. I almost expect a response you would've given when we first met. "I don't need it, baby, I'm trying to shed a few." "What, you trying to blow me up?" You know you don't need sweets. But the time for exercise and nutrition came and went. And you know that. As soon as the consciousness came, it's gone, and you're nodding at me, flushed and lustfully hungry. I rub your rough, bumpy stomach, skin taught and red. Stretchmarks disappear into your lower apron, trickling to the sides of your love handles. Your sausage fingers weakly grasp at a doughnut and I stop you, grabbing it from your weak palm and pushing it past your lips. You chew, weakly, peace briefly washing over you as fried dough and sugar trickle down your chins.

"Good girl," I hum as you moan, softly, circling your hard, bare nipple. "This is good. This is what you want."

Humping my vibrator after eating all day feels amazing

People are sending less money recently so i am likely going to pause posting free content here till someone comes through, im moving and need a couple hundred dollars for bills

people see you and naturally take pity on you.

you're so big, everything must be such hard work.

everyone knows you'll be panting and out of breath if you have to do things for yourself.