It’s about noon when I’m awoken early. The first thing I see every day is my gorgeous pink vista of stomach, its flesh immensity stretching endlessly before me. My Goddess gut is so seductively obese, every inch of me a mess of mass. I’m buried in blubber, a divine level of womanhood, the status I deserve. It’s my right to be a useless ball of fat living for myself. I spend all my time in my extra-large family sized bed, my extensive perfection spreading over every inch. I can’t move, not due to my size, I’m just too special and important to do things for myself. I was inanimate long before I was immobile, I refused to ever learn to walk out of principal. Though I can only see a small amount of my amazing body I can feel that my perfect soft skin is clean, for once not lashed in hastily slopped foodstuffs. Bae must have cleaned me as I slept, his mindless subservience making my impeccable pussy even wetter.
GRAAAAAAAARGRRROOOOOOOOWWWWRRRRRR
It’s my stomach, the reason I’m up so early is this awful hunger. I call for bae, I’ve been up nearly 5 seconds now and he knows I need my breakfast served before I’m even awake.
“FAGGOT!!!” My silk canopy curtains are frantically drawn apart as bae attends to me. He’s so hot, but there’s no time to waste. “Your GIRLFRIEND is awake!!” I scream, “That means FEED ME, retard!!!” My little man minion instantly takes up one of many cakes adorning my nightstand, prepared for breakfast. He places a whole strawberry tart between my impatient lips, I smack and slop through the crumbly sticky mess, spilling everywhere. My man runs to fetch my pre-breakfast cake trolleys, each one covered in cheese-cakes, pies, pastries and donuts. The sight of all those treats induces a Pavlovian reaction and I drool copiously down my flabby chins and breasts. He starts feeding me as I lay in decadent ecstasy. A girl as beautiful as me should never have to feed herself. I start with a platter of triple-fudge brownies, scoffing the whole mound in a single breath. I eat cupcakes and muffins, bowl after bowl of soufflé, endless sugar cookies, éclairs and cream puffs. My pet boyfriend continues feeding me until I’ve emptied the trolley, maids replacing it with a new cart of warm baked treats. Now I’m settled eating I can see to my other priorities.
“MIRROR!!”
“Yes, Vanity,” my boyfriend (an 11 out of 10) answers, obeisant, “perfect, wonderful, special Vanity. Here you go.”
He wheels it over, it’s like one of those flip chalkboards they use in schools (according to movies) except it’s a mirror. I admire myself. I’m fucking gorgeous. I’m way prettier than you or any girl you’ve ever met. Better looking than any celebrity. I spend literally hours just watching myself as I eat, adoring and enjoying my perfect youthful face, my many fold, my stretching belly. I am a treasure, nobody deserves me except me. Thick brunette hair hangs elegantly past my shoulders, framing my plump face. My chocolate eyes break hearts, they’re expressive and manic-pixie-ish. My dainty nose, between these Rubenesque cheeks, belongs on a kitten. My succulent plump lips are bimbo pouty, thick and betraying my airheaded personality. I love being ignorant, not knowing how to read or tell time, being so beautiful I don’t even have to know anything is such a turn on. My chins are sweet swathes of ice cream, each prettier than the last as they flap like mud slides down one another in a foot-and-a-half of pendulous blubber. My throat is bloated into a pink bib of hanging fat to catch my slopped gorging. I’m so amazing, to be just 23 years old and already 3,400lbs makes me unquestionably exceptional. Utterly everything about me is perfect. No man can help but fall in love with me.
My stomach is like a waterbed, it’s as wide as a California King mattress and twice as long. It rises, blocking anything directly in front of me from view even though I’m propped up on a bank of bear fur blankets. My Queen belly slops over the end of my bed, seductive, slithering serpentine outwards in search of food. It rests on its own pile of soft, downy, luxurious pillows like some sinister pet, feared and worshipped by all my underlings. My arms I can still move, despite being swaddles of pink thickness. My hands are like inflated rubber gloves, blubber, useless sausage fingers in diamond rings and swelling-swallowed bracelets. My legs are redwood tree trunks, melted igloos of sunless white spreads of butter. Still, my hips are wider than my dwelling, with their indolent flab rolling over each edge. I wear nothing but my ultra-sheer marabou hemmed sleep robe and matching fluffy bedroom mules. All of this fire is tied together by my platinum diamond tiara. Perfect.
My guy is gorgeous too, this is me we’re talking about. He’s a himbo stud, a model who works night and day to feed and spoil me. But enough about other people, I’m all that matters. I’m 6 dessert carts in and starting to get hungry. What an inconsiderate cunt my boyfriend is to make me wait for breakfast. I start to pout, putting on the waterworks.
“Why won’t you feed me like I deserve? You think I’m too fat? You think I’m not pretty enough or special enough?”
Terrified of damaging my self-esteem he yells for the servants to start with my breakfast. The ugly, poor maids wheel in cart after cart of delicious sausages, bacon, ham, home fries, pop tarts, crumpets, croissants, jams, syrups and a couple-dozen boxes of donuts. To drink they bring me 2ltr jugs of chocolate milk. I grab the donuts and instantly pile them messily into my awaiting maw, turning them into a shredded sluice of jelly and sprinkles. When bae sees me feeding myself he quadruples his servitude efforts, horrified at the notion of failing me. I squirt whipped cream into my mouth to teach him a lesson. He starts feeding me, cramming food into his special Goddess like a trash disposal.
65 or so courses later jam and goo and all manner of feeding detritus is slathered deliciously across my face, hands, breasts and hair. I deserve a special treat so I demand a sixth breakfast. Fortunately my thoughtful hunk already had one prepared and it is instantly delivered to my bedside. This kind of pisses me off since I was going to get it anyway, so I demand a seventh breakfast as well.
Two hours later all my breakfasts are depleted. Obligatory applause from my boyfriend and staff accompanies my every divine accomplishment, from finishing meals to taking huge shits. Constant adulation is such a turn on to me but I can’t get horny now, I’m too full. My stomach feels ready to split, every inch of me packed from my unbridled greed. I moan seductively in blissful paralysis.
“UGHHHH I’m sooooo stuffed…” I wheeze for pity. “Pizza’s here!”
Oooooooooooohhhh!! I immediately slobber, my stomach rumbling ready, my gastric juices gurgle and growl to prepare my gut. I forgot I have a standing order for 50 extra-large meat lovers’ pizzas this time every day as well as 80 loaves of garlic bread, 400 spicy chicken wings, a forest of mozzarella sticks, about 1000 stuffed mushrooms and to drink there’s 20ltrs each of garlic sauce, BBQ sauce, ranch dressing and onion dip. All of this is brought to me and thanklessly accepted into my poor, neglected abyss of an empty stomach. Just an hour later I’m done with this pathetic excuse for a ‘snack’ and immediately forget it, lying here basking in my own beauty.
Another good feature of this bed is it’s specially equipped so I may relieve myself whenever I wish without having to get up. That was a hard no. I take the first of many gargantuan dumps today (there are more while I sleep) thinking about how apparently I fill the industrial septic tank at least twice a day. All because I’m so disgustingly spoiled with food, mmmmmmm. What a good girl I am. I order my bimboy to wipe my ass, naturally he obeys his obese Queen’s command. It feels so good not having to do anything for myself, feeling this boy toy do the most disgusting job out of dedication to yours fabulous, I almost cum. Once he’s done and I’m grazing, letting my gut catch up, he sits at the end of the bed, entirely transfixed by my eternal loveliness. “Babe” I whimper seductively, bunching up my messy thick hair to frame my face, sweetly innocent, “take off my stilettos, they’re starting to feel tight”. He does as he’s told and removes my bedroom heels. “I need a new pair, those are too small for my perfect feet.” I know I don’t walk (eww) but I still like to wear high heels. Not only does it drive my man crazy with impotent lust but I just deserve to own beautiful, expensive things. “But you just had this pair made for you last week, princess, how can you have outgrown them already?” It makes me so fucking angry when this lazy faggot-cunt questions me. I scream at him. “HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!!! YOU WORSHIP ME!! LOOK AT ME, I'M A GODDESS AND YOUR ONLY PURPOSE IN LIFE IS TO SERVE ME, IDIOT!!! YOU’LL BUY ME NEW SHOES IF YOU’RE TOLD TO!!!” I’m red with anger, quivering and starving. This is the worst anyone’s ever been treated in history. “WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BRUNCH??? GO GET ME SOMETHING TO EAT, NOW!!!” The idiot rushes into the adjoined kitchen fetching several hostess carts of pre-brunch wedding cakes with 6 gallons of ice cream. I’ll punish him for his stupidity and disobedience later. He’ll have to make me cum but I won’t let him fuck me. It turns me on sooooo much to watch him long for sex. For now though I’m less concerned with his punishment and more worried about getting these measly 8-layer wedding cakes into my perfect pink round galaxy of a belly. I’m filling that septic tank three times today!