devotee

"More," she rasps, voice wrecked and breathy. "Please… fuck, give me more."

I lean back against the counter, smirking, cock already thick and straining against my jeans as I watch her unravel. I scoop another greasy handful—fat glistening, edges curled and crisp—and drop it onto the growing mountain on her plate. "Slow down, greedy girl," I murmur, though we both know I don't mean it. My voice is low, rough. "You're already a fucking mess."

She doesn't slow. She lunges, fingers sinking into the warm pile, snatching strips and cramming them past her lips. Grease smears across her chin, drips down her neck, soaks into the collar of her shirt. She moans around the mouthful—deep, animal, throat working visibly as she swallows hard, cheeks bulging obscenely. Her tongue darts out, chasing the salty rivulets running down her fingers before she licks them clean with long, filthy strokes.

"I can't—" she gasps between bites, voice muffled, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk in heat. "It's too fucking good. I need it. All of it."

I step closer, looming over her. My hand drops to the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, not quite pulling—yet. "Then keep going," I growl softly. "Stuff yourself stupid for me. Show me how feral you get."

She shivers violently, bites her lower lip hard enough to leave marks, then dives back in. Another handful disappears—chewing noisy, wet, shameless. Her free hand drifts to her belly, pressing against the soft swell that's already starting to push outward, taut under her palm. She rubs in slow circles, whimpering as the pressure builds, the bacon settling heavy and hot inside her.I can see it—the way her stomach rounds further with every swallow, skin stretching, the faint outline of fullness pressing against her shirt. Her hips rock subtly in the chair, thighs clenching, like she's grinding against nothing, chasing friction from the sheer gluttony.

"You're mine like this," I say, voice dark and possessive. I reach down, grab her wrist—the one coated in grease—and guide her sticky fingers to my mouth. I suck them clean, slow and deliberate, tasting salt and her skin. Her eyes flutter, a desperate little whine escaping. "Look at you. Panting, leaking, belly bloating just from pork fat and my hands feeding you. You're not stopping until I say—or until you pop."

She grins through the mess—teeth shiny with grease, lips swollen—then leans forward, pressing her whole upper body closer to the plate like she wants to crawl into it. Her breasts squash against the table edge; her breathing turns ragged. Each greedy bite makes her moan louder, body trembling. Grease slicks her chin, drips onto her cleavage, pools in the hollow of her throat.

I keep feeding. Handful after handful. Watching her throat bob, her belly distend, her fingers shake as she rubs the growing dome of her gut in frantic circles. She's feral now—eyes half-lidded, grunting softly with every swallow, hips twitching like she's close just from the stretch and fullness.

"More," she begs again, voice hoarse. "Fuck—make me take it all. Make me yours."

I smile, dark and hungry, and reach for the last of the pan.