Hungry

Go to bed stuffed. Wake up starving.

- being fed at certain times like every hour without having to think about when ur gonna eat next and one less thing to thing about

- having a feeder who know all your taste preferences, ur go to orders and flavour profile so you know if there’s a place that sells Mac and cheese as a side they’ll know to get that, and the fries and the soda cup must be a large

- not worrying if ur belly can hold it all or your comfort because ur bae will take out your belly when the waist band is too tough around your belly button. Unbuttoning your pants so you can eat that extra meal, and unzipping them so you can comfortably digest. Rubbing ur belly in circles and grabbing your rolls kneading it like dough so all your burps aren’t trapped and having max space for more food

- lotioning your belly with oils and butters so it’s xtra stretchy and the stretch marks are u comfortable or you feel like ur gonna pop

- getting you a scooter when ur shopping or having a day out after lunch so you can eat and stroll and just relax when ur gut gets too big and heavy

- kissing you after you let out intense belches being proud of you that you trust them enough to feed you take care of and cherish you for both of your enjoyment

...........

I imagine he’s told this by his mom or brother or something, and his brain short circuits.

He thinks about his girlfriend begging for him to hold up his belly to push onto his cock. Begging for it. He thinks about how there’s so little of his lap left, his girlfriend sits on the shelf of his belly and sighs on impact like it’s pleasuring her. He thinks about how giggly she gets when his hand can’t fit in the Pringles can and he has to feed them to him when he’s too tired to tip them out.

Their relationship didn’t start by two feedists meeting wittingly, but it’s evolved into something.

His girlfriend laughs, answers for him.

Back home, his girlfriend convinces him to just take it easy. The diet doesn’t have to start immediately. He’s hand fed a sleeve of cookies, bag of chips, an extra large pizza stacked with toppings, a box of onion rings, a box of fries, and a pint of melted ice cream to soothe his nerves.

What do you think of the view? ...I'm not getting too fat, am I?

I know this is such an inconvenience to you, and it’s a massive favor, but please, spare me some of your time and attention? Let me do this? Not to sound really greedy but I also want to kiss you a ton after and call you my gorgeous, handsome boy.

I know, I’m asking for so much. I completely understand if you don’t–

Yes? Really? Wow. Okay. Thank you. You’re not going to regret this, I promise. You’re so sweet and kind, thank you.

You’re so warm. Can I touch you? You feel lovely. You’re so gorgeous, I feel like I don’t deserve this… You think I’m the gorgeous one? Don’t be silly. Who told you you weren’t impossibly, drop-dead gorgeous? Just look at you!

Huh? What’s this? These are the brownies. Well, yes, I made a full tray just for you. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind? I knew this was too good to be true. I’m sorry, I’ll get off your lap and I’ll throw–

To settle their tummy after all that food is the excuse. Them moaning it’s too much, no they can’t eat that as the feeder insists, gently and encouragingly, “It’s okay, baby. That’s okay. There we go.” The feeder slides the first chocolate (example) in slowly, pushing with a finger tip. The feedee chews slowly, whimpering, and once they swallow, the feeder smiles even wider at them. It’s fond and delighted. “There we go, doesn’t that make your tummy feel all better? After all that grease and cheese, having some of your favorite chocolate settles everything down, doesn’t it?”

“Mm. Yeah…” Another. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Another. “Oh…”

“Seventeen more to go, baby. You’re my good [girl/boy/baby], you’ll do this for me, won’t you?”

“Yeah.” Another. “Mm…”

“Good?”

The feedee closes their eyes, still chewing. “So good.”

His feeder eyes him up. He’s reclined as much as he can be, and between his legs is a tub of chocolates he’s powering through during his rant. A family bag of chips lays discarded next to his hip. He needs the contrast– the sweetness to cleanse his palette from the grease and salt. What a refined palette he has.

“What’s the sensitivity on the watch?”

He huffs. “I put it on high. You know I don’t always move my arms when I walk. The dumb thing costs all that money, but it wasn’t even counting it.”

Waddle, his feeder’s brain supplies. Waddling isn’t in the code.

“Are you sure it’s not counting you putting your hand to your mouth?”

He glowers, wiping melted chocolate from around his mouth with a thumb, licking it off. “You could at least be supportive instead of being such a dick.”

“You’re right,” the feeder decides. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

“It has to be all the chemicals they’re pumping into the food. The – uh – additives, or something.” As he rubs the stretch-mark addled side of his fat gut with his free hand, he adds, “America has a weight problem.”

“Because of the chemicals,” his feeder recites, trying their best to make sense of the truth.

“Yeah. At this rate, no one has a chance of losing any weight at all. Hey–”

“Yeah?”

“Can you get me that coke bottle from the fridge? I’m parched.”

“The… liter bottle? I thought you were on a diet.”

“It is diet,” he retorts. “Besides, everyone knows drinks don’t count. Everyone needs to stay hydrated. Staying hydrated doesn’t mean calories.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go get that now, okay?”

“On your way back, grab my pen too, okay? I think I left it next to that baking tray you used earlier. All that ‘America / chemicals’ talk has bummed me out.”

“Sure thing.” So the feeder grabs him his liter of coke and the weed pen from beside the empty brownie tray. “To dieting,” they cheers, handing him his requested items.

“God. Yeah. Wish me luck. I fucking need it.”

His feeder eyes him up. He’s reclined as much as he can be, and between his legs is a tub of chocolates he’s powering through during his rant. A family bag of chips lays discarded next to his hip. He needs the contrast– the sweetness to cleanse his palette from the grease and salt. What a refined palette he has.

“What’s the sensitivity on the watch?”

He huffs. “I put it on high. You know I don’t always move my arms when I walk. The dumb thing costs all that money, but it wasn’t even counting it.”

Waddle, his feeder’s brain supplies. Waddling isn’t in the code.

“Are you sure it’s not counting you putting your hand to your mouth?”

He glowers, wiping melted chocolate from around his mouth with a thumb, licking it off. “You could at least be supportive instead of being such a dick.”

“You’re right,” the feeder decides. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

“It has to be all the chemicals they’re pumping into the food. The – uh – additives, or something.” As he rubs the stretch-mark addled side of his fat gut with his free hand, he adds, “America has a weight problem.”

“Because of the chemicals,” his feeder recites, trying their best to make sense of the truth.

“Yeah. At this rate, no one has a chance of losing any weight at all. Hey–”

“Yeah?”

“Can you get me that coke bottle from the fridge? I’m parched.”

“The… liter bottle? I thought you were on a diet.”

“It is diet,” he retorts. “Besides, everyone knows drinks don’t count. Everyone needs to stay hydrated. Staying hydrated doesn’t mean calories.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go get that now, okay?”

“On your way back, grab my pen too, okay? I think I left it next to that baking tray you used earlier. All that ‘America / chemicals’ talk has bummed me out.”

“Sure thing.” So the feeder grabs him his liter of coke and the weed pen from beside the empty brownie tray. “To dieting,” they cheers, handing him his requested items.

“God. Yeah. Wish me luck. I fucking need it.”

What do you think of the view? ...I'm not getting too fat, am I?