#feedisum

1. You eat what I give you.

No guilt, no hesitation, no negotiating. I plan it, I prepare it, I bring it to you.

Your job is to enjoy it and get softer for me.

2. You play your games and stay at your computer. That’s your little world.

You can game, stream, scroll, post pics — especially progress photos. People online get to see what I’m doing to you.

3. You will work, but it stays at that desk. Home only. Headset on, belly touching the edge of the table, snacks nearby.

I don’t want you out running around when you should be growing.

4. You do small chores, and that’s it. Just enough movement to waddle around the house, to make you feel useful —

but nothing that interrupts your main purpose. Watching you try to bend, reach, or catch your breath is part of the charm.

5. Everything else? I handle it.

Errands, planning, money, cooking, scheduling, cleaning, all of it. Your life becomes soft, easy, structured, and taken care of.

Your existence becomes very simple:

Eat. Relax. Grow. Be mine. As long as you follow these rules, I’ll take care of absolutely everything else —

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Its a admin job, handling customer complaints, consumer rights, health and safety but occasionally I come into the local stores. Honestly, it’s pathetic. The way the other managers hover around the sample trays like starving dogs. Have they no shame? No self-control? I mean look at my shirt, it's baggy on me.

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Oh, for heaven’s sake, they expect me to taste this new burger. Fine. Someone has to have a refined palate around here. One bite, and that’s it. Just one—

…alright, perhaps two. Quality assurance is important. I have to be thorough

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The nerve of that girl in accounting, staring at me when I finished the whole thing. It was research, nothing more. If anything, it proves I’m more committed than the rest of them. And this little pinch at my waist? The dry cleaner’s fault, clearly. They always over-press my suits.

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“Joining the burger belly club?” they jeered. Me? Ridiculous. I’m still slim compared to them. I told them so, right to their greasy faces. And then I drove home and… well, I deserved something after that ordeal. A bag of fries in the car. A shake. Comfort, not weakness. Not weakness.

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I caught my reflection today and… no, it’s the lighting. My face is not rounder. Neither are my legs or hips or anything. I sucked in my stomach (not like I need to) and my breast button popped. ... Yeah it's just a little hormonal boob growth. ... Yeah

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I… I don’t know what’s happening. My blouses gape at the buttons no matter how carefully I dress. Customers glance at me when I take my lunch — as if they expect me to be eating. And yes, I order more than I should, but that’s because I have to know the menu inside out. It’s professional.

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hormones, water weight, the heaviness of winter. By summer, it will vanish. I am not like them. I will never be like them. This is temporary. Entirely temporary. Who even designs these uniforms? Made for stick figures, not real women. This is just a little seasonal softness — gone by spring. The customers that stare at me are simply jealous.

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This always used to be a little tight but now it can't even cover my gut...