sage

the biggest I’ve ever been 😳

"Did you even move today?" you ask as you toss your keys onto the counter and set some bags down next to them.

I've got my ass planted in the middle of the couch, wrappers and crumbs and half empty containers of food on either side of me. I'm balancing my bong on my gut, ready to take another hit. My tshirt is riding up, giving you a great view of the bottom half of my hairy sphere of a belly. I struggle to sit up, legs flailing out and arms moving uncoordinated and ineffective. I feel like a turtle on its back. You walk over to me and place a hand on the apex of my gut and press down firmly, halting my movement.

Your hand snakes its way over my belly and down to my side as you sit down on the couch next to me. I'm groggy and the room is spinning (and god, I'm so full, when did I get this full?). I let out a burp and you give me a look, a predatory one. You slap the side of my swollen gut and tell me, "No, no. Don't get up."

You swing a leg over me and straddle my lap. You're fighting my belly for space when you lower yourself down, and you wouldn't have it any other way. You run both of your hands under my shirt and up my torso.

"I had the worst day at work," you tell me, cresting my shoulders with both hands, and running them back down my body to rest underneath the hang of my belly. You grip my fat and dig in, like you're kneading dough, "You're going to help me unwind."

Before the moan even has the chance to leave my mouth, you're placing the bong to my lips (wait, when did you take it from me? how is it filled with smoke already?). I don't hesitate, just let the smoke fill me up again.

"Good boy," you murmur into my neck as you arch over me and begin grinding up against my gut.

You're getting off on my gluttony, literally. I've stuffed myself so full that you can rub yourself against me and feel the pressure of all the food and fat inside me, pushing back against you, sending you over the edge and into orgasm in a matter of minutes.

I am rock hard and dripping in my shorts, watching you come down panting, sliding yourself back to rest on my knees. You lean forward and kiss me, then grab my chin.

"I'm going to get changed," you say in a low voice. "And when I come back, we're gonna fill up that hungry belly of yours."

I catch about half of what you said, just enough to be alarmed at the promise of being stuffed even more than I already am. You're out the door and into the bedroom before I can protest though. I know you won't let me come until I've been filled up to your satisfaction. I feel my stomach rumble (in protest or in hunger, I can't tell).

Stuffed. Fat. Beached.

It’s obscene. You’re obscene.

And you keep choosing this again and again.

Food. To push more inside your swelling gut.

To make yourself heavier. Softer.

Fucking makes me salivate just looking at you. I want to run my hands all over you. Not to help. But to make you worse, to coax you further down the path you’ve already walking- no, waddling down.