Hungry

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?

"Hey, so, I know we just ate dinner, and it was delicious, but....I'm still hungry...I just can't seem to get enough lately...I know I've gained some weight recently, but I don't care. I want more...and dessert too..."