#get fatter

You groan, tired and helpless, pushing yourself upright with both hands while your belly sloshes around unpredictably — a completely separate entity from you. You’re already winded. We haven’t even started the day.

“Good morning fatass” I coo, leaning in to kiss your sweat-damp temple. “Enjoy being able to get out of bed while you still can. It shouldn’t be long now.”

You shoot me a look, half blushing, half flushed from the movement, and try to get to your feet. The swaying of your body with the slightest movement is unavoidable now. You don’t walk at all; you waddle. You don’t step; you haul. All that lard packed tight onto your thighs, slapping and jostling against itself, belly dragging you downward like an anchor of pure fat.

I trail behind you as you lumber toward the bathroom, and I can’t stop smiling. The way every inch of you bounces and sways. The slow, rhythmic harmony of your belly chafing on your thighs and the floorboards creaking is hypnotic. And when you finally pull yourself into the shower and plop down onto the shower chair, you let out a huff that can only be interpreted as a sigh of relief. Because we both know you barely made it. 

When you come out, you use your gut to ground the towel in place around your waist, and you sit on the edge of the toilet. I hand you your socks and wait. Watch. You try to lift your leg to cross your ankle over your knee, but your belly presses up into your chest. You have to lean back to breathe multiple times, and I can’t hide the fact that your immense struggle at the simple task of putting on socks is making me squirm with pleasure. You roll them half on and you’re left red-faced and gasping. I can see the sweat pooling at your collarbone.

“You ever think about how permanent this is?” I say as I pinch a lump of your triple chin between my fingers. “How this isn’t weight you can ever lose? It’s your whole life now. You’re never getting smaller. There’s no ‘bouncing back.’ Your body is ruined, baby. Completely useless except to me. And all because you're such a hopeless, impotent glutton.

I want you to constantly feel that you're taking up space. You know, that feeling where your brain hasn't quite adjusted to your new size; where you find yourself bumping into furniture or doorways... that you could swear were wider just two days ago. I want you to start noticing that your kitchen counter seems higher than it did before... Or maybe, your gut finally hangs so low that it kisses the countertop when you're looking for a snack. I want you to wonder why all of your clothes suddenly seem to have shrunk in the wash. After all, the nice pair of jeans you just bought must be poor quality... The button flew off the second you sat down, but it's not like you've been eating enough to stuff a stoned linebacker, right?

You haven't been eating much at all, have you? Some avocado toast for breakfast... Followed by two mcgriddles and a huge iced coffee. A salad for lunch... accompanied by a triple decker burger and a massive basket of cheese fries. And dinner, since you ate so healthy and light during the day, you treat yourself to a pizza... Or two... Or three. And fuck it, why not some ice cream too? You've been good, you deserve a treat, don't you? You couldn't possibly have outgrown your clothes eating like that. That's crazy!

But yes, I want you to feel heavier.

Not only in the sense that I can fit my entire head beneath your massive tit, but in the sense that you can *feel* yourself growing... Stretching... Spreading wider. You can feel your supple, cellulite dimpled flesh getting softer, bathing you in a cozy blanket of lard. I want you to feel weighed down by your body, to question why you should ever have to get off the couch... To ever have to do anything beside eating and getting fatter.

Yes baby, I want you to feel heavier.

a drive? just for him? wow! I'm shaking! updates biweekly, let's fill his mouth and tummy with sweets, okay?

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