It started as a bratty little request: as you ate your pie, I would spray whipped cream on each forkful. It made you feel like royalty, issuing a command to your servant. It made you feel utterly pampered and indulgent. You couldn’t stop teasing me for my obedience.
You kept eating, and the cream was sweeter with every bite. At first it helped to slide your dessert into your greedy gut. But with each thick gulp it was harder to force down. It was such a tiny sum of extra calories, but things were getting tight. You swore you could feel the cream bubbling and expanding inside of you, forming a tight ball in your swollen gut.
You picked up another forkful and raised it to your lips, but I poured whipped cream on before you could get it in. You couldn’t help but whine at the sound. Our eyes met. Yours, frustrated and almost pleading. Mine, the picture of innocence, with only the slightest gleam of satisfaction.
You refused to give in. You commanded me to rub your belly, trying to keep control. I obeyed, but no amount of massaging could undo the damage you were doing. You forced down bite after bite, each one heavier with cream than the last. It covered your cheeks. It was running down your chin. It was all you could taste as the last chunk of pie, dripping with cream, landed in your taut belly.
After a strained swallow your mouth was still overfilled with cream, but you couldn’t possibly manage another swallow. Your lungs heaved as you panted, moaning and whining with every heavy inhale. I just smiled and leaned in. You felt your cheeks flush as I raised the cream to your mouth.
“Don’t worry, there’s still a little left.”
