GhostBelly

You look miserable, staring up at me with those puppy dog eyes that usually get me to give you whatever you want. Not tonight.

“Give me a color, baby,” I say, another bag of takeout clutched in my hand. I planned it so the orders would keep coming every so often, just in time for you to finish the last.

Your eyes widen. “I’m already so full…” You trail off with your eyes wandering to the straining handles of the plastic bag.

“Not what I asked.”

Another pause. You search my face, looking for anything to let you know when this might end.

“Am I being….punished?”

“Not what I asked.”

“Green.” The word is mumbled, your face turning red.

“Good boy.” I start unpacking the bag, setting pints of ice cream on the tables surrounding you. You groan and shift in preparation. I wonder what it would take for you to break. It’s never the intention - I want you to do well - but I still wonder. We never did find what your limits might be.

“So I am being punished.”

I don’t look up and instead smirk at the handful of spoons provided. Wont be needing those.

“Yes, you are.”

“I knew it.” I hear your voice harden with fresh resolve. “Is it because - ”

“Because you’ve been an absolute brat this past week? Goading me in public and in front of our friends, whining that you’re not gaining fast enough, that I’m not doing my job properly. That I don’t push you enough. And I told you last night to be careful, remember? You decided not to do that. So here we are.” I grin at you, all teeth. I hadn’t meant to let that all out at once, but that resolve in your voice wants me to scare you.

You match my hard gaze without flinching. I’m impressed, in the back of my mind, but I’d never let you know. I pop the lid off one of the pints. It’s chocolate with thick swirls of peanut butter - your favorite. I’m not a monster, after all.

“So what we’re going to do now,” I begin, picking up one singular spoon, “is I’m going to feed you this ice cream until it’s gone or you tap out. Do you understand?”

The pleading eyes from before are gone, and you actually have the audacity to smirk at me.

“Yup.” You stifle a belch behind your fist and settle even further into the couch. “You know,” you say, while I break ground on that first pint, “I’m glad you’re finally being the pushy feeder I deserve.”

I don’t dignify that with a response, but the smug look on your face lets me know you’re aware you hit the mark. I shove the spoon into your mouth.

The first one goes down easier than expected, but there’s still three more melting on the table. I tip the second one down your throat and you’re panting halfway through.

“Give me a color, babe,” I say gently.

“Green,” you say, and I put the carton back up to your lips.

“Don’t make yourself sick,” I murmur. You answer by tipping the pint further back as you continue to chug. You finish it with a thick burp and let your head fall back onto the cushions.

“Fuck,” you say, low and strained. You’re almost comically bloated, your upper belly straining so far forward I don’t think you could sit up if you tried. I take that as an invitation to climb onto your lap with the third pint of ice cream.

“We’re not done yet.” I wait a beat, giving you time to use a safe word if need be. When it doesn’t come, I hold up the carton. “Open that smart fuckin mouth.” You do. I tip the carton back, watching your throat swallow all those calories.

“It’s my fault, really,” I muse. “I let you get complacent. I let you think you had control, that you could dictate what you eat. I realize that now.” About a quarter of the ice cream is gone. “But that’s not true, my darling. You forgot you have no say, no control, no ability to tell me when or how much you eat.” I slap your distended gut with my free hand, the words spilling out of me now. “You think you’re not gaining fast enough? All brakes are off now, baby. I’m going to fatten you up like the fucking hog you are.” I grab your belly hang and shake. “This belongs to me. You belong to me.”

You moan around the carton, some of it spilling out of the corners of your mouth. Your eyes are squeezed shut but I feel you rock hard beneath me.

“So greedy and pathetic,” I say. “If your mouth wasn’t full of ice cream I bet you’d be begging for me to fuck you.” I pull back when half of the carton is gone. You moan and take labored breaths, lungs crushed to make any space for your stomach. You mumble something.

“Speak up, pig,” I say, giving you precious moments to rest.

“I said I didn’t mean it…” you trail off and burp, eyebrows furrowed.

“Didn’t mean what?”

“What I said about being the feeder I deserve.”

“Oh yeah?” You nod and I almost feel sorry for you. You must be at your limit or at least very close.

“You’re always the perfect feeder, knowing exactly what I need. You handle me so well. Please, baby…” You trail off again with a hiccup and I can tell that the motion hurts.

“Please what?”

“Please don’t feed me anymore, I’m so full. I promise I won’t say any of that stuff again but I can’t take any more.” And there are those eyes.

“Color,” I say, already knowing the answer.

“Red,” you answer. I put the ice cream down and slide off your lap, scooting in next to you without jostling you too much. I pull you to me so I can rub your belly with your head on my shoulder.

“You’re so good,” I murmur, not taking my hands off you. “So good for me, baby. You did so well.”

A groan in response is all you can manage. We’ll sit here for a while until you’re able to stand and get in the shower, where I’ll help you get cleaned up and snuggled back on the couch for the rest of the evening. We’ll talk about the scene and the rush I felt forcing you to eat so much and what that might mean moving forward.