You sit me at the kitchen counter and tell me to keep my hands folded in my lap.
“Tonight, you only eat what I give you.”
You begin with something warm and buttery. The outside flakes apart against my lips, leaving tiny crumbs behind, while the soft center melts across my tongue. I barely finish chewing before you bring the next bite closer.
This one is salty and crisp, followed by something thick and creamy that coats my mouth and makes me swallow slowly. You watch every reaction, choosing the next bite before I can even ask what it is.
Sweet. Warm. Crunchy. Soft.
You keep changing the textures, never letting me grow used to one before offering another. Whenever I instinctively reach toward the plate, you gently move my hand back into my lap.
“No touching. Let me take care of you.”
My cheeks warm as I sit still and wait for you.
Soon, my belly begins to feel pleasantly heavy beneath the counter. The waistband presses more firmly into my softness, and my breathing becomes slower as every rich bite settles inside me.
I whisper that I’m getting full.
You wipe a little sweetness from the corner of my mouth with your thumb.
Then you lift another spoonful—cool, silky, and covered in a thick drizzle that clings to my lips.
I hesitate for only a second.
“Good girls don’t make me ask twice.”
The sweetness melts slowly over my tongue while your free hand rests against my rounded stomach, feeling how full you’ve made me. I sink slightly into the chair, warm and heavy, waiting obediently for whatever you choose next.
You smile and bring the spoon back to my lips.