Is it bad that all I can think about is stuffing myself for the whole weekend whilst my partner's away? Grease dripping down my chins, so high I can barely process how much I've eaten. A bloated sphere of a belly growing fuller, wider, fatter by the second. Binge-watching TV just to keep my brain numb as I force concerningly large portions down my throat, silently squirming and begging for there to be more.
It makes me sad when the food runs out. Yes, I might be too stuffed to stand, but that feeling goes away soon enough. The food will digest, I'll be able to walk around again and I won't have this heavy orb that I call my belly weighing me down, swaying and jiggling violently with every step I take. Breathing will be easier, but who wants to take full breaths when short, sharp ones are the real sign that you've truly outdone yourself this time? Who wants to breathe deeply when your lungs could be crushed by the sheer amount of visceral fat suffocating them instead? Who wants to stand when your muscles could be left to atrophy and leave you immobile a lot sooner than you thought? Who wants to be skinny when you could have no other choice but to grind against your own rolls to make yourself cum since you can't reach to do it properly anymore? Who wants to be slim when you could be funnel fed 24/7, turning yourself into a super-morbidly obese slob who's days away from their next heart attack?
Who wouldn't want to ruin their health and become the fattest, greediest hedonist alive? I sure as hell do...help me make it happen?
prguitarman
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
tangentwithtanner
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