"Good boy, you ate so much for me. Look at that belly," she whispers, grasping the flesh that spills out over the waistband of your pants. You give a groan in response, the pressure inside your stomach making it hard to breathe. "You're getting so big... turning into a strong, big man..." Her hand moves up to your upper abdomen, where it's the most distended. The applied pressure of the food against your stomach wall makes you shift uncomfortably, your heart racing in your chest, moans slipping past your lips.
"I'm- so full-" you gasp, interrupted by your own burp. At this rate, you were going to become bed bound with how much she was feeding you. Each container of food was placed strategically to have you snacking on sugar, salty saturated fats and carbs throughout the day. Her extra helpings regularly left you so full that you could feel your abdomen being forced outwards further into your lap. On those evenings, she shushed you and gave you some antacids, telling you it's okay, that this is a good sensation, that it's your body finally getting comfortable with normal sized portions.
"It tasted so good, didn't it?" She coos, rubbing her small hands against the large expanse of your stomach. She gives it a tentative pat, testing how full it is. The flesh bounces far less than it did that morning, resounding with the moist sound of flesh on flesh and a drum-like 'thunk.'
"I'll love you at any size, you know that, right?" She asks, lifting your chin with a gentle grasp so that your eyes meet hers. Her gaze is maternal and comforting. It's her subtle way of being dominant; She never forces you outright to stuff yourself, but for her praise, you keep eating past your limits. The way she rubs your stomach and pinches at your fat ligaments—your arms, thighs and moobs—has you groaning. She teases you occasionally, especially when it comes to your chest. "You look like a woman with those fat breasts of yours," she'd whisper, cupping each in one hand, beginning her ministrations on your nipples. They'd only grown more sensitive with every pound gained.
"Do you like getting big for me, baby?" she asks. You don't have to think about it at all. You nod your head, not even bothering to halt the chewing motions of your mouth. Maybe in the beginning, you were doing it for her, but now you were addicted to the feeling of being stuffed. The warmth of a full belly, of hands worshipping your gut, of eating everything and anything at any time of day. "You just can't help eating so much," she laments playfully, watching as you give in to your base desires, letting yourself be taken over by gluttony.
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