#sub feeder

it takes five months. barely. we’ve just finished the task that is showering together — me, hugging the wall, using a washcloth to get in all your rolls; you, working on the smooth expanses of skin you can reach — when you call me back into the room.

“i can’t—mmm.” you stop to gobble down the brownie i present you. “thank you, pup. look: i can’t reach. look how good you did.”

and you can’t. that huge gut of yours finally exceedes your wingspan. and wingspan is right. your arms are massive — upper arms swallowing your elbows, forearms starting to fold at your wrist. those thick fingers that couldn’t reach your lower belly five months ago? they’ve become gloves of lard, puffed up and reddish from stretching so fast. your chest droops down and out, spreading across the prize of the show. not to be outdone or forgotten, your thighs are the cellulite-riddled sacks framing your belly.

i drop to my knees to properly inspect. no other reason. and yep. maybe a palm-width gap (one of my palms, not the catcher’s glove you call hands) between the very tips of your fingers.

you pull in a sharp breath and try to pull in your belly with it. but i stuffed you tonight: a tray of appetizers, a three course dinner, two desserts—all your favorites, all gobbled up across a two-hour binge. your belly hardly moves an inch. i lean in close, push up the worst of your bloat to tongue at the stretch marks hiding underneath - the grain-lines of lard showing just how all your fat hangs. you groan, cradle my head to your gut as i kiss and tongue and bite at whatever i can reach.

you fall away from me, falling back to support yourself on your free hand. your poor hips try to roll toward me but all the food (to say nothing of all the lard we’ve packed on) pin them in place.

“c’mere, puppy,” you groan. i come up for air, almost as out of breath as you are. your face, disappearing into the collar of fat we call your neck, is already growing red. “lemme get comfortable—“ code for getting you somewhere your underworked muscles don’t have to support all your fat. “then you can worship me properly.”

your face, swallowed by fat as it is, should be cherubic. but your smirk is downright devilish as you heave and wheeze your way back along the bed — as i follow, eyes glued to your sloshing frame. you don’t even need me to get the leash.

It's getting even harder to focus. The spiral is drawing me in, filling every space inside my head. As it should. Of course, of course my head should be filled with nothing but this softness, this feeling of falling.

I don't know how long the headset is on. I don't know when I dropped to my knees, but I must have at some point, because when it's pulled off my face I'm on the floor.

As the headset is pulled off I whimper a little, sad at being taken away from the lovely spiral, the wonderful voices. Then suddenly, I don't care. Because he's there.

How could I have ever thought he was gross? A loser? He's so obviously perfect. I can't believe how lucky I am that he's my master. That I was made to serve him.

He looks down at me, a little concern troubling his perfect face, and smile up at him, desperate to know how I can ease his concern.

'How do you feel?' he asks.

'I'm perfect, master,' I say, happily. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'

His face breaks into a wide grin, and he leans back in his gaming chair, satisfied.

'Well, you should be naked, shouldn't you?'

Of course! One of my most important purposes is to be good porn for him. I pull my shirt over my head, wriggle out of my jeans, slip off my underwear. He holds out a hand I pass my underwear to him, of course, it belongs to him.

I present in the way I know he'll like, my thighs parted, my mouth open and my tongue hanging out, drool gathering at the tip. A tiny part of my brain wonders how I know what he likes - isn't this the first time I've been here? Why does this feel so natural? Then his thumb is in my mouth and those thoughts vanish. God it feels so tight to worship him.

He pulls down his sweatpants and boxers, then clicks his fingers and points at the space under his desk. I crawl there, happily, and then his hand is in my hair and his cock - his perfect, beautiful cock - is in my mouth, the heavy swelling of his gut resting on my face as I lap up the sweat from his body, savouring the taste of him.

I hear him hit his keyboard a few times, booting up one of his favourite anime porn games, but I'm too distracted trying to cockwarm him properly. I want to suck him off frantically, gagging as I take his shaft deeply, but I need to follow his direction. Right now, he's just grinding against my face, spreading my drool around my slack mouth as I lick at him with slow, deep strokes.

The anime girls on his screen moan, and his speeds up his rhythm against my face, fucking my mouth harder and deeper. When his cock hits the back of my throat I choke slightly, but I focus on relaxing my jaw, letting him use me like the fuck toy I am. I feel his shaft twitch, and he cums down my throat, the taste rich and salty and delicious. I swallow every drop, licking the tip clean as a few more drips squeeze from the tip and he lets out a deep groan.

I know he'll be sensitive after coming, so I stay in my spot on my knees and move to worshipping his beautiful gut. I kiss and lick across the surface, nuzzling my face into the swirls of dark hair. I slide my tongue into his deep belly button, nibble along the sensitive flesh of his lower gut.

I'm in heaven.

Pretty soon he's hard again, and he grabs my hair, moving me back to his cock and pressing a hand on the back of my head to fuck me deep and hard. My eyes water at the roughness, and I can't help but moan in pleasure. There's a mounting pressure between my own thighs, but that's not important right now. I need to be a good toy, a good pet. If he wants to use the rest of me later, that will be his decision.

He comes again, and pulls my head away after I've cleaned him off. He looks down at me, crouched under his desk, my eyes looking adoringly up at him, my face smeared with tears, drool and his sweat. A

He slaps me, hard, and I keep my adoring state locked on him. He hasn't given me permission to speak, but I want to thank him so badly.

Instead, he gives me another order - he's so considerate of my need to be useful.

'I'm hungry, slut. Fix it.'

Of course! He must have used so much energy fucking my worthless face, I've been so selfish. I spring to my feet immediately and rush to his kitchen, still naked.

I need to make him a proper meal, but he'll need snacks to tide him over till then. I pull open the kitchen cabinets until I find what I'm looking for. A family sized bag of chips that I pour into a bowl. A box of brownie bites I stack on a plate. A six pack of soda I carry in my mouth by the plastic ring like a loyal dog. He deserves so much better, but this will have to do for now.

I bring him his snacks, which he acknowledged with a grunt, his eyes already back on his game, though he's kind enough to slap my ass as I hurry back to the kitchen.

I pull an apron on over my naked body and start to work cooking him something more substantial, a thick stack of pancakes and crisp bacon, smothered in butter and drowning in syrup. God, I hope he likes it.

I make him a coffee and ice-cream shake too, I need to keep his energy up so he can game as long as he wants. The food seems to take ages, but finally every bite is perfect - as it should be.

I bring the plate and glass back to his room, eager to see my beautiful master again.

He's leaned back in his chair, eyes on the screen, one hand resting on his domed belly where his shirt has ridden up. He looks so gorgeous. I wait eagerly, seeing if he will be kind enough to let me feed him. He doesn't take his eyes of the heavy-titted anime girls finger fucking each other on his screen, just gestures for me to perch on the edge of his cluttered desk.

I do, careful not to disturb any of his snacks or figurines, and start cutting his pancakes into pieces and feeding him one bite after another. I love watching him eat. The soft jiggle of his double chin, the cute nipples of his moobs straining against his overstretched shirt. A blob of syrup clings to the corner of his mouth, and I reverently lean in to lick it up.

Soon enough the meal is gone, the drinks guzzled. My master - my god - heaves himself out of his chair and waddles over to the bed, reclining on his pillows like the king he is.

I move to kneel beside the bed, and he ruffles my hair, the affection meaning more to me than any bouquet of roses could.

Then, he clicks his fingers again and points at his stiffening cock. I eagerly climb up onto the bed with him and take him in my mouth again, worshipping every inch of his soft flesh. He flops backwards, watching me with a dozy, satisfied expression.