You taste chocolate. Its indulgent creaminess melts across your tongue as sleepy drool droops from the corners of your plump lips. You gulp down the sweet treat and your eyes slowly flutter open.
The first thing you see is your enormous fat gut trailing off beyond normal human proportions, burying your legs, bypassing your feet and stretching over the end of your canopy bed. It rises up so high you can’t see anything beyond its sweaty, wobbling horizon. In the foreground your multiple chins bob and bubble and overlap one another for a good 9-inches, displaying the messy modern art portrait of food you slopped down yourself during your 5th dinner last night. Your naked breasts are inflated with blubber and extend outwardly onto the great banks of your side-gut. If you wore a bra you’d wear a size 32W they’re that huge. Bordering the lower edges of your vision are your fat cheeks, bloated with pudginess. As you turn your head they bunch up, pushed in by your pillow sized shoulders. You can just about turn your head 45-degrees in either direction, nowhere near enough to survey your considerable hips as they dangle off the sides of your conjoined mattresses. However in your peripherals you can just make out the great mounds of weight which were once your arms, now immovable but comfortable in their squishy padding. Everything else is invisible to you, your gigantic ass, your colossal legs, all hidden beneath nearly 5,000lbs of beautiful lard. You haven’t even seen your toes or touched the floor in years.
Another truffle is slipped into your mouth then half-a-dozen more. Your lover smiles down at you and you smile back as you notice the silver platter of indulgent chocolates they’re holding. A further handful is crammed obediently into your mouth and your gut roars for breakfast. This is your life. Every waking moment of every day is spent here in bed, eating and gorging and glutting. Your lover takes care of you, making sure you’re fed everything you desire, cleaned and dressed when you demand and pleasured regularly. While you sloppily chew on pop tarts your lover leans over and sensuously kisses you, their tongue threading through, dancing with your own. As your eyes close in passion you feel their hands running through your messy food-matted hair.
“Good morning, baby, ready to get fatter today?”
But instead of responding you let out a great hungry moan. You’re fed so thoroughly throughout the day that any moment spent not eating is painful. Your stomach growls threatening as starvation overwhelms you. Already your servants are entering your opulent bedroom, bringing in trolleys and trays of food. Sausages and pancakes, waffles with syrup, home fries, ice cream, mountains of mashed potatoes, gravy, bacon, whole loaves of French toast smothered on both sides with peanut butter and marmalade and strawberry jam, 15-dozen bagels smeared with cream cheese, cooking bowls overflowing with scrambled eggs, several tubs of warm oatmeal, as well as nearly 140 boxes of different sugary cereals. To drink there’s chocolate, strawberry and vanilla milk, gallons of OJ, and numerous 4-litre bottles of pop. All of this is crowded into your face, mashed into a sticky indistinct bolus between your teeth, cramming your cheeks. You gulp it down but don’t even have time to breath as more is barrelled in. Your mouth is so full some of this grub doesn’t even fit, tumbling half chewed down onto your paunch which is quickly becoming a flood of drool and drink. After 40 minutes of unabashed feasting your stomach feels like it’s stretched to the limit. It grows hard with fullness, telling you there’s no way you’ll be able to get any more down you, but your lust for eating is far too great and you soldier on, swallowing anything put anywhere near your mouth with renewed enthusiasm. Your servants start to massage your hill of a gut, helping along your digestion. This is just the FIRST course of your breakfast, already from one of the kitchens you can smell the greasy air of the McDonald’s morning menu. After that you’ll get through yesterday’s leftovers (of which there are fewer and fewer every day) and dessert, which you have with every ingested instalment.
Despite the importance of this meal your lover doesn’t help. They have more important duties. There’s a distant straining sound and the end of your gorgeous great gut starts to rise from where it’s heavily slumped on the floor. The winch lifts it by about 3-foot and you can feel the cool air mixing in, soothing your warm sweaty crotch. Your lover crawls under. You giggle as you feel them peeling apart your clammy fat thighs, burrowing their way through. You moan at the feeling of their massaging hands upon your genitalia, their tongue, that tongue that serves so well, dancing around your sex. You moan as blood rushes. Your heart pounds. Tingles run through your entire bloated body. Your lover knows how to make you twitch. They know every secret spot to make you weak, every erotic inch, every fold, every crease, everywhere you love to be loved. Before long the ecstasy hits you like a lightning bolt. You’re utterly awash with pleasure, your blubber blushes as you cum like the rapture. Your lover stays down there for another couple of minutes, obeying your perennial orders to milk every last possible drop of pleasure. In that time you release a couple of relaxed farts right in their face, too enamored in your own gorgeous fatness and hedonism to care about anyone else.
Once they’re out they lower your gut back down and use the bed controls to sit you upright so eating will be even easier for you.
“What do you say, baby?” your lover cuts through your post-orgasmic feeding haze, kissing up along your belly, “ready for round two?”
You lick your lips. Time to eat!