Don’t you wanna be adored?
I know you already ate yourself to over 320 lbs, but you know I will always want you fatter. If it wasn’t for me wanting to parade you around outside, I wouldn’t care, I‘d greatly enjoy stuffing your unrecognisably swollen face at double your current weight. I‘d get off on your belly hanging to your knees, if you could still stand up then. I would find it hot if you couldn’t.
Just a massive blob, impatiently waiting for me in his reinforced bed for his third feeding of the day - your second breakfast after your wake up funneling and of course, first breakfast. You‘d shift your lard around to show me your jiggles, you know how much I love it. You can’t do much more than make these hypnotic lard roll waves and wiggle your weak doughy arms a bit to show me how excited you are to be fed again. It’s all your favourites in one meal again, it’s greasy, salty and then a lot of sugar and I‘ll dotingly place every bite in your mouth as you struggle to breathe in between bites.
Be a good boy for me. A good fat boy, letting me fatten him into this bed and never out of it again. You’re the prettiest thing when you’re panting and sweating at the end of another feeding session and still ask me if there will be another cake today. Every day honey. You don’t have to ask me to dig out your buried cock from inside your fleshy fupa. You know I‘ll take care of it towards the end of each feeding.
When I‘m at work, I‘ll set you up with an extra snack table right next to you containing four meals worth of calories for a normal person, a litre of shake and a crate of sodas. I‘ll turn on the toy I placed between your legs, gently vibrating and massaging your fat pad for these hours I can’t be there. The camera is always on. I‘ll see you try to rock your hips to feel the toy more but the only way to achieve that is by stuffing your body tighter so it swells up again. I‘ll turn up the sound when I see that on film, hearing you whimper and groan while you keep obediently stuffing your pretty face.
I want to find you bloated and desperate when I come home. When my day was stressful, I‘ll immediately shove some burgers or doughnuts in your mouth that I got on the way home. I know you’re full, but you will wiggle your immobile blob body enthusiastically while I push more food into your packed stomach and moan softly in relief. The bed creaks and I kiss you to taste the sugar in your mouth from your long snacking shift. This is all you know now, you don’t know how else to be or what else to feel. You just want to be my perfectly spoiled obese toy, you want to make both of us happy and get excited every time I let you know how much I want you. I want you when you continuously prove that you will eat for me the rest of your life. It’s so romantic. Nobody has ever done this for me.
You‘ve been in a horny haze since you reached the mythical 200 kg, 440 lbs. That was the last time you knew your weight. I‘ve withheld that information from then on. I keep telling you I need just ten more pounds from you. It’s been two years of ten more pounds always. You can only waddle a few steps very slowly, it’s more like you holding on to something around you and then carefully dropping from one foot onto the other. I adore your fat thighs pinning your widening arse to the sofa or the bed most days.
But I‘ll schedule taking you outside regularly. You just need to make the few steps from the car to the place I called ahead to accommodate your size. Most restaurants in the area know us already, I am the lady with the hog-shaped husband whose bright red piggish face lights up when she orders him a feast. I‘ll watch you devour everything, have a wonderful meal myself and smile knowing I made another cake at home for your second dessert in bed. I hope everyone in the restaurant can see how proud I am of the results of my love and doting care on your body.
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