Guts and Butts

"Trendy," his feeder grins back. There's unmistakable pride there. Almost as greedy for him to balloon heavier and heavier as he is. His feeder grabs a third carton and adds it to the cart, this time glancing at the nutrition label for themselves. "Three thousand calories," they say, cocking their head to the side, sizing him up as though there's any doubt that every morsel in the cart is going to end up packed into his belly over the coming days. "I'm sure we'll fit it in."

Now he's thinking about it, too. How he's going to fit in all this eating. His appetite is growing, sure, but this is a lot of food. He surveys the contents of the cart a little closer, trying to do the mental math of how many days of constant snacking and nights of being so stuffed it almost hurts will be needed to eat his way through this. He thinks of how much tighter his clothes will feel in a week. In a month. At this rate, nothing will fit by the end of the year.

They haul their winnings to the checkout, he's watching as his feeder pulls out the items one-by-one, like it's a trailer for the feature film that will be his (over)feedings for the rest of the week.

There are the staples, sure. Eggs, bacon, pasta. Things his feeder will use to make rich, oversized meals.

But then there's the extra stuff; the supplemental calories that take him from overeating to overstuffed.

Peanut butter, which he keeps beside his bed to eat by the spoonful when he gets that itch to fit a few more calories in before going to sleep. It's gooey and thick in his mouth, but he constantly surprises himself how quickly the jar empties.

Heavy whipping cream, which his feeder seems to find myriad ways to sneak into all manner of food. Sometimes he can tell when it's been added by the itching he feels on his deepening stretch marks.

Coffee creamer, which he used to add copiously to his morning coffee, but lately he's taken to chugging down on its own. After trying it once, the feeling of letting it dribble down his fat face and chest after he's eaten as much solid food as he can, but knows he needs more to reach his belly's limit, has meant running out of creamer more and more often.

And, of course, the Premium ice cream, which he knows he'll be eating straight from the tub during work tomorrow. He'll probably finish it before lunch, but if he doesn't he can just drink the softened remnants.

Maybe the extra carton will get blended into a late-night milkshake, he thinks, letting his hands rest on the lowest part of his belly and thinking about his feeder pouring the creamy, fattening slurry down his throat as his strained belly wobbles against their lap as they're sinking into his.

He's lost in his reverie until his feeder's hand is on his middle, gently pulling him back. The groceries are bagged. And now he's even more hungry, from all this thinking about eating. Aldi shouldn't be erotic, he reminds himself.

He thinks about eating all the time, the grocery store and food take on whole new levels of meaning. He's thinking about what he can start eating in the car on the ride home, he needs something to snack on after all this walking and all these indulgent thoughts.