A Man Has No Abs

I caress a hand over your stomach, watching how even the gentle touch makes the fat undulate.

"So much bigger."

"I already feel so fucking huge," you breathe out.

"That's because we're feeding you, pet." I give your belly a few light pats. It's okay. I know you always have a hard time thinking when you eat. "You're so adorable like this."

You try to shift but your the swell and weight of your gut keeps you from moving much. All you manage is to successfully collapse back with a whimper. But beneath that pain, your pleasure is obvious. You love what you've turned into. We both do.

"God, I'm so fat."

"Mhmm. Soft, too. You want more?"

"More of what?"

You're so overfed you're still not thinking clearly.

My smile is slow. Teasing. Knowing.

"More of everything. More of it all. More food, More fat. More of this," I say, like a spell while squeezing your hang. My thumb circles the rim of your belly button.

"Fuck," you say, arm reaching around to lift and heft your swollen gut, rubbing it gingerly. You're clearly drunk on the feeling as your head falls back.

We both know your answer as you exhale loudly. It sounds like the tail-end of a silent moan. The noise you make when you know you can't help yourself, the same one you make when you're determined to eat yourself into food coma, which has become more frequent. The one that shows the conditioning worked; it's clear from the damp spot growing on your underwear. You sound and look so hot like this. You groan, as your hand sinks lower, stroking and rubbing slowly.

"You've turned me into such a pig," you breathe, lost in the feeling.

"You're the one who wanted to experiment. Who said you just wanted to try this."

"Yeah, but I didn't do this by myself," you say, grabbing your overhang roughly. "Now look at me."

I take you in. Your folds. Your chins. You big arms and soft chest. The way you don't fit in your shirt, at my request, and your belly spills out of it and onto your wide thighs.

"I see you. All of you. And I want more."

I see your resolve waver at the lust in my voice. What that has meant in the past. And you really are overstuffed. Leaden to the couch. For a moment, I offer mercy, gently massaging the discomfort away and a belch slips out.

Then, I pull out a surprise. Something I was saving. Your favorite.

Your eyes widen in delight and desperation.

We've rewired your brain, after all.

Whatever's put in front of you, you eat. It's an automatic response at this point. You reach for the food with some difficulty over the dome of your engorged middle and I hand it to you. I pat your underbelly as you open the container and dig in without another word, feasting uncontrollably, punctuated by shameless, greedy noises. My hands on your belly as you eat is just another trigger to spur your sudden, ravenous hunger. You moan at around another bite.

"More," you grunt, shoveling it in faster. The container grazes a nipple as you lift your meal closer and you pause briefly to keep yourself on edge, whimpering and rutting at the sensation, fat wobbling. You know the rules so well. You're not allowed release until you finish. Until I say so.

My fingers lightly drag and scratch along your stretchmarks. You sigh, pleased, as you stuff yourself.

You're so obedient now. We've trained you well.