You’re sweating again, and I haven’t even fed you yet. Just lying there, buried under your own blubber, pink and soft and panting like it’s work just existing. You make the bed groan louder than you do. Honestly, I’m not sure which is more strained — the mattress or your skin, stretched drum-tight over that monumental belly of yours.
"You're leaking again," I say with a little smirk, dragging a fingertip along the sweaty crease where your side rolls into your hip. The layer of fat there is thick, jiggling even from the lightest touch. "Poor thing. So overfed you can't even cool yourself properly."
You whimper a little — that pathetic, needy noise I’ve trained you to make. Half shame, half lust. Music to my ears.
Your belly dominates everything. It’s huge, grotesquely proud, rising in front of you like a fleshy hill, crisscrossed with stretch marks that shine under the overhead light. I cup the underside — it’s hot, heavy, almost too much for my hands. Not that you’d know. You haven’t seen your feet in a year. Maybe more.
"I can’t believe how far you’ve let yourself go," I whisper, feeding you the first bite of syrup-drenched pancake. You chew slowly, eyes fluttering. “No control. No dignity. Just lying there, waiting to be fed, like a piglet on its back.”
You try to shift — to move, to respond — but even that small effort makes your cheeks flush and your breath catch. Your own body is a prison now, built one bite at a time. And I hold the key.
"You wanted this," I remind you, voice low, coaxing. "Remember how cocky you were when we started? Said you'd never get that big. Said you’d stop before you lost mobility. Look at you now."
I slap your belly lightly — a soft, satisfying whump that echoes off your thighs. You groan, partly from the impact, partly from the reminder that you can’t even flinch away.
"You're mine," I say, leaning in, my voice syrup-sweet. "My spoiled, spoiled blob. A mountain of lard I keep fed and helpless. You can't even roll over without me pushing you."
Another bite. Then another. I press the shake to your lips again. You hesitate — full already, maybe even hurting — but I tilt it anyway. “Drink. That belly’s not done growing yet.”
You whimper as it goes down, eyes wet, belly churning beneath the surface. Every swallow is a surrender. Every breath, a struggle under the weight you’ve begged me to build.
And I know you love it. The shame. The helplessness. The way I talk to you like you’re not even a person anymore — just a thing to fatten and admire.
You're mine. My project. My prize. My pet. My pig.
And we’re not even close to done.
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