I’m waiting for you in the candlelit feeding suite, wearing nothing but a black silk robe that barely contains my 42-30-48 hourglass and a smile sharp enough to cut diamonds. My auburn hair is loose, my lips are wet and red, and between my breasts hangs the little gold key to the steel cage that’s been locked around your cock for ninety-three days.
You shuffle in, Bill. My sweet, trembling Bill. Six months ago you were a fit 195. Tonight the scale flashed 412 and I came so hard I had to change the sheets. Your belly is a vast, glossy dome that leads the way like a parade float, hanging low enough that the underside brushes your thighs when you walk. Your chest has swollen into soft, heavy moobs that bounce with every step. Your thighs (once proud and muscular) are now pale, doughy columns that kiss and rub constantly, forcing you into that delicious waddle I masturbate to on replay.
“Kneel, piggy.”
The thick pillow I placed for your knees is the only mercy you’ll get tonight. You lower yourself slowly, belly folding over itself in creamy rolls, and the second your weight settles I’m on you.
I straddle your lap, letting my warm, satin-covered pussy rest right on the burning steel of your cage. The heat of your ruined erection radiates through the bars. I rock once, slow, just enough to make you sob.
“Listen carefully, Bill,” I breathe against your ear, licking a bead of sweat from your double chin. “Tonight I’m taking the last piece of your mind. From this second forward you get zero protein. Nothing that keeps a man strong. Only sugar, cream, butter, cheese, and dough. Thousands of calories designed to melt your brain and balloon your body until you’re my 650-pound house pet.”
I snap my fingers. The double doors open and my maids wheel in the first cart. The air fills with warm vanilla, chocolate, melted cheese, and something darker (pure sex).
I start with the funnel. A wide, clear tube attached to a five-quart pitcher of melted premium ice cream (triple vanilla bean, heavy cream, sweetened condensed milk, and melted Belgian chocolate). I slide the silicone bit between your teeth and buckle it behind your head.
“Eyes on me, Bill.”
I tip the pitcher. The thick cream pours in a slow, relentless river. You swallow frantically, throat working, cheeks bulging. Your belly inflates visibly, the skin stretching tighter, shinier. I watch the numbers on the digital scale under the pillow climb: 412.8… 413.4… 414.1… Every ounce registers like a victory.
When the pitcher is empty I pull the funnel and immediately replace it with a family-size lasagna I made myself (twelve layers of pasta boiled in cream, ricotta whipped with mascarpone and sugar, ground beef cooked in browned butter, four cheeses, and a full quart of heavy cream béchamel). I scoop it straight from the pan with a serving spoon the size of a trowel and pack your mouth until sauce dribbles down your moobs in orange rivers.
Your eyes glaze. That’s the moment I live for (when the carbs hit your bloodstream and your pupils blow wide like you’ve been drugged). I grind my wet pussy against your cage again, slow circles, letting you feel exactly what you’ll never have.
“More.”
Next come the tacos (soft flour tortillas fried crisp in lard, stuffed with refried beans cooked in bacon fat, cheddar that stretches in foot-long strings, sour cream so thick it’s practically butter, and a river of queso). I fold one into a dripping package and shove it between your lips whole. Grease explodes down your chin, over your chest, pooling in the deep crease under your belly. I smear it across your nipples and pinch hard.
Your cock tries to spurt inside its prison and only leaks a steady stream of clear fluid that drips onto the floor between your spreading thighs.
I keep the rhythm merciless:
An entire New York cheesecake eaten with a spoon while I ride the ridge of your belly like it’s a sybian.
A tray of warm chocolate-chip cookies the size of saucers, each dipped in melted Nutella and then in heavy cream before I force them past your lips three at a time.
A gallon ziplock of powdered mini-donuts shaken in cinnamon sugar until they’re white bombs of pure fat; I pour them straight into your open mouth and watch you choke them down like a starving animal.
Between courses I never stop talking, voice low and filthy in your ear.
“Feel that gut stretching, Bill? It’s never going back. Six hundred… six-fifty… maybe seven hundred if you’re a very good pig. You’ll live on this feeding throne. I’ll strap you in every morning and funnel breakfast shake until your belly is hard as a drum. Lunch will be trays of lasagna and mac-and-cheese made with five cheeses and a pint of cream. Dinner will be cakes (whole cakes) while I sit on your face and come over and over to the sound of you swallowing.”
Your moobs are trembling now, nipples swollen and leaking tiny beads of milk from all the dairy. I latch onto one and suck hard; you scream around a mouthful of buttercream frosting and the sound goes straight to my clit.
I slide off your lap only long enough to strip the robe. Naked, glistening, perfect 190 pounds of cruel curves. I climb back on, this time facing away, lowering my dripping pussy onto the mountain of your belly. The heat is obscene. I grind, riding the taut, overfull dome while I reach for the final course: a five-layer chocolate fudge cake the size of a car tire, still warm, swimming in ganache.
I cut a slice the size of a brick and turn around, straddling your chest now so the weight of my ass forces the air from your lungs in a wheeze.
“Open.”
I feed it to you by hand, smearing frosting across your lips, your cheeks, your double chin. When the plate is empty I lick you clean like a cat, then sit back on your cage and ride the steel bars while I come hard, thighs shaking, screaming your name (no, not Bill anymore).
“Pig. My beautiful, brainless, 650-pound pig.”
You’re crying, coming, leaking, lost. Your belly is an enormous swollen planet, so tight the skin shines like lacquer, stretchmarks glowing angry red in the candlelight. Your thighs have merged into one continuous roll of dough that trembles with every heartbeat.
I unbuckle the funnel gag and kiss you deep, tasting sugar and cheese and total surrender.
“Welcome home, piggy,” I whisper against your sticky lips. “Tomorrow we start again at 6 a.m. And every day after that until the only thing left of Bill is the name on your old driver’s license… and even that will be buried under five hundred pounds of soft, horny, carb-stoned blubber.”
You try to answer, but all that comes out is a low, broken moo of pure need.
I smile, stroke the vast curve of your belly, and reach for the next pitcher of cream.
Goddess Belle always finishes what she starts.
Goddess Belle
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