I wanna be so fat I look like a balloon animal. You love to feed me until my belly overflows this year’s cuttoffs, rubbing me, telling me just how sexy I’m getting.
Months go by and I finally get a decent look at myself at the new mirror my feeder installed in the living room. I’ve developed a moon face. My upper arms hang over my elbows. I love that even my forearms are fat! Today you have me dressed up as a super morbidly obese cheerleader. My tits stretch out the bralette. I’m squeezed into the skirt. I couldn’t even begin to squeeze into the panties they gave me. They would be eaten by my enormous fupa. I couldn’t be happier about it. I waddle into the bedroom and strike a pose for you. We haven’t even started yet and I’m starting to sweat. “Give daddy a B!” “B!” I strike the pose. “Give me a L!” “L!” I raise my arms. My heart is starting to pound.
“Now jump up and give me a B!” I haven’t attempted a jump in about 250-300 pounds ago. And I don’t remembering it end well. He pokes his finger into my sagging middle. “Come on now, give me a B. You know what we’re spelling, don’t you? He sticks his finger inside my navel and begins to fondle it.” “Bimp.” I whisper. You start to nip at the flab that fills my neck. “Go on and give me that B!”
I attempt to jump. I should have known better. My legs didn’t have the strength to support my weight. I wobbled, lost my balance and hit the floor. I shook the room when my body collided with the hardfood of his kitchen. Every inch of me wobbles. He stands over me and tells me that pizza is on the way. “I love that you remind me of a massive tub of marshmallow fluff.”
