work anon here, already read the new fill twice! how long has the pov character been planning dev's first feeding? it felt like a perfectly executed plan from the moment dev got "promoted". any thoughts on what a second round might look like for him, either from the same pov character or from one of the new hires learning about office politics and/or realizing they can get some petty revenge on dev?
and thank you for filling my prompts, i'm glad you like them!
You're completely right that the main character in the last story had been planning to stuff Dev the second it was possible. I like the idea of a second round with someone trying to scramble up the career ladder and earn some respect around the office.
You slump against the counter of the break room, sipping your coffee. Your friend is listening to you complain about getting passed over for promotion - again.
You've only been with the company six months, but everyone you started with has already moved onto a more exciting (and better paid) role, while you were stuck in your entry level cubicle.
Your friend finishes pouring their own cup of coffee from the fancy espresso machine, then turns to you with a raised eyebrow.
'Ive told you this already,' they say, taking a tiny sip of the still-scalding coffee, 'theres nothing wrong with your work.'
'Then what is it?' you question.
'Companies care as much about your vibes as they do about performance. Department heads don't want to know that you can deliver projects on time, they want to know you can grind the competition to dust beneath your heel.'
You snort-laugh at the dramatic phrasing, but you know they're not wrong. At your last performance review your supervisor had brought up that you didn't seem entirely meshed with the company culture. You drummed your fingers on the countertop in thought as you mulled it over.
Fine - you'd show them you could be cut throat. Then they'd realise you deserved a better position, a better office - and an invitation to one of those long boozy lunches you see the c-suite taking promising junior associates out on every week.
Luckily, you had a plan already forming. Earlier that day you'd seen someone from the floor above dragging that condescending asshole Dev to one of the employee wellbeing rooms for his first stress-relief session.
You'd never used one of the... executive relief employees like that before. For the last few months, you'd pretended not to notice them being led around in their collars and outgrown officewear, struggling to resist another thousand calories being pushed down their throats (in the case of the newer transfers) or happily bloating themself to the point where they couldn't move (those who had given up any resistance at all).
Still, that was exactly the kind of thing that would show corporate that you could fit in here - that you could be forceful, commanding, dominant.
It was time to make that man suffer for you.
As you walked the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor - the one with private rooms for stress relief you saw Dev being led to earlier - you tried to psych yourself up. You remembered every time he had been dismissive of you, every time he had spoken over you in meetings or taken credit for one of your ideas. You pictured him running a hand through the hair he clearly spent at least an hour on every morning or flexing in front of one of your coworkers, showing off his latest gym gains. He would make a perfect target.
When you get to the door of relief room 5 you can't hear anything from the hallway, bland you wonder for a moment if Dev has already been led out and taken somewhere to lie down and recover. That would be just your luck.
But, when you swipe your keycard and open the door you're greeted by a quiet whimper.
There he is, in all his - well, not glory. Tie undone and pushed aside. Shirt untucked. Hair messy and pushed away from his face. Dribbles of something creamy still around his cheeks and decorating his chin. The biggest change was eyes. Glazed and blinking slowly. The eyes of a mindless pet.
It was clear someone had already done the hard work for you.
Still, that didn't mean you couldn't take advantage of the situation. If anything this made your job easier. You could leave him a bloated, brain fucked mess with minimal effort. Perfect.
Dev shifted against his handcuffs as you entered, looking like he might say something. Before he got the chance, to crossed decisively to one of the mini fridges and cracked the door, perusing your options. Your eyes landed on a tray of two dozen profiteroles, oozing cream and glazed with sticky chocolate.
The decadent pastries were your all time favourites, but you never let yourself indulge these days, knowing you wouldn't be able to control yourself or stop at just one.
Well, now you could relieve that craving in a much healthier way. Healthier for you, at least.
When Dev saw you approaching with the tray of pastries his soft moans grew into a panicked whine as he struggled away from you. He did manage to speak now, though he clearly struggled around the sensory overload he had already been put through.
'Stop it!' he managed, thickly. 'I'm going to fucking - nng - explode.' His words were punctuated by a soft burp as the thousands of calories already packed into his belly churned.
You didn't bother responding, organising your face into an expression of haughty coldness that showed he was beneath you. Instead, you plucked the topmost cream puff from the stack and brought it to Dev's lips.
Dev turned his face aside, tried to pull his mouth out of your reach, but it was pointless. Even if he wasn't cuffed, his kneeling position and slow, sluggish movement made it impossible for him to get away from you.
You grabbed his face with your free hand and squeezed his chiseled cheeks, forcing his lips to pout and drop open. Then, slowly, with an air of ceremony, you pushed the pastry in.
Dev seemed determined to try and hold it in his mouth without swallowing, so, tsking under your breath, you moved your hand up and pinched his nose.
His mouth full of cream, his nose blocked, Dev had no choice but to swallow the pastry. After his desperate gulp he gasped for air, and you took the opportunity to push another pastry between his lips.
Already, you could feel yourself getting used to the power of standing over this man, forcing him to take whatever you chose to give him. You got why your coworkers liked this so much, why they all made such good use of the company stress toys. It was intoxicating.
Dev's struggling had grown weaker. He hung from the cuffs in defeat as you brought another pastry to his lips. Instead of fighting, he bit into it obediently, chewing and swallowing despite the clear struggle it was for him.
'Good boy,' you said, ruffling his hair. You weren't sure where that came from, but he leaned into your touch, accepting the affection eagerly. Well. If that's what it took.
Maybe you could show the higher ups you know how to lead with the carrot and the stick.
'You ready for the next one?' you asked, your voice cloyingly sweet. Dev's eyes looked panicked, but he opened his mouth obediently and chewed the profiterole slowly, swallowing the creamy mouthful.
'And again', you said, and again he ate. Slowly. Painfully. But willingly.
Mouthful after mouthful, calorie bomba after calorie bomb, the tray of pastries vanished into the former office hotshot's mouth.
Eventually, you reached the final decadent treat. Dev was panting, the buttons on is shirt straining against the distended curve of his stomach. You put the tart down and slowly, gently, unbuttoned the stuff cotton, letting his bloated gut hang free. You rubbed the sharp curve, feeling how tightly packed he was from the day's stuffing.
'Just one more for me, okay?' you saidm Dev shook his head, but it wasn't a request. You pushed the final bite into his mouth, rubbing his hair as he chewed and swallowed.
'That's my good boy, such a good job,' you crooned. 'And tomorrow, we'll do this all again'.
A look of panic crossed Dev's face as he considered what this new lifestyle would do to him after days, weeks, months of being treated this way. But he still leant into your touch, rubbing against your fingers, eager for the slightest praise from you, his obvious superior.
