Chapter 1 - barely awake

This piece is described by its title.

Sweet, sexy, naughty, with some experimental prose.

-

Like much of my work, this is one of an ongoing series; however, this series is related by theme or style, not necessarily by characters, setting, or plot.

-

Until I can think of something better, I've decided to add a BDSM scale to all my stuff. It ranges from 1 to 10, where a 1 is mildly kinky and a 5 is solidly BDSM. A rating of higher than 5 is probably extremely naughty. If you aren't sure you like this stuff, I encourage you to find something with a rating of 3 or below.
-
This story's BDSM rating is 1.5.

-

Comments and critiques are greatly appreciated!

Enjoy at your own risk! 0.o ;p XD lol



- - -
- - -
- - -



Brief Encounters - Sleepy Pleasures



- - -
- - -
- - -



I wake, my eyes still closed. Strong fingers stroke a mess of soft curls from my lips. Warm breath to my cheek, his firm will nuzzles my tummy roll.

ardent, demanding, deliberate and full of purpose, sweet and sexy and utterly stimulating

I smile, and lips are upon mine, kissing me. Our tongues meet and embrace. I moan softly to what is and what is coming, and to all that is unsaid.
I feel his large muscled form move across and behind me in an instance of silence, lithely wrap itself, toned limbs, around my new circumference.

Kisses on my neck, and fingers in the fat of my hips, the heat of him--his hard burning body pressed firm up against me--start me flowing, as well he knows.

His hand is bold at my vertex of newly fatted inner thighs, and I am off.

I lift reflexively: tumescence immediately takes the space, fitting in, there against me, so close and hot, but frustratingly--again to his intention.
He doesn't penetrate, aware of my want, he just presses, presses into my pubic bone with his length, thickness stimulating my lips and my anticipation, making me ever hotter, wetter, his;
those fingers continue to move with passion, skill, and seeming sweetness--before I know it I am yelping a little at his most fervent and precise intentions, strokes of every type and mean.
I am close already, but I know what he wants, what is coming, what he has planned for me, his owned feedee.

He eases back, just enough, and I whine involuntarily--'breakfast' appears at my lips: a straw.
"Drink, my darling piggy," he whispers and growls, like some great dragon:
a demon lover, a dark desire, a feeder, a man. His feet slip beneath mine,
massaging and urging there with some unholy rule.

I sip. And sip. It's his signature, and deep--a mixture of ingredients meant, with all brash love and intention, just for me:
Pure cream; Molten chocolate in; Others... I no longer know or think. 'Heavenly' rich.
It has two unhidden, unabashed purposes: the first, to make me fat; the second, to force me to acknowledge the first,
and then to live in that knowledge, immersed in it,
that I have no will to stop him, no will to balk, and that I have,
out of gluttony and lust,
surrendered all.
He is my feeder. He will unceasingly make me fatter. And I cannot, will not, but let him.

There is no time for shame and no room for it in my soul with him there, literally filling it. Filling me.
I drink the luscious pure liquid fat down rapidly, knowing my reward is at the bottom, just a few gulps away. As I hear it hit, his fingers play my favorite rhythm and I come gratefully, quakingly in his hand, his lips at my ear kissing and speaking words seemingly tailored to the darkest naughtiness of my soul: of my chubbiness, my fat, of what people see... and of my inevitable and unchecked, unashamed and glorious, freefall descent into loving and forced obesity.
"My little pig," he teases, "my greedy girl..." he moans passion into me.

I sigh as the peak at last subsides, but he is still there, he is always there,
and before my mind has even returned, his fingers are already pinching my soft furred lips of my femininity insistently, aggravatingly, stimulatingly: something he knows to move further 'neath my will. I struggle lightly for a moment against him, against what I know he wants, will do to me.
But he holds me tight and bites my neck as I know he knows I love and I feel myself spasming again moistly,
warm and soft and wet and pleased, and pliant now in every way, now around his firmnesses in my intimates, bodily and of my mind.

His shaft presses manipulatively, just parting me with its dorsal aspect, and without meaning to I am pressing my shoulders and hips and bottom back against and down on him as his fingers speed up frustratingly delicately once again. And after a minute, I find out why, why he is teasing me, torturing me, tormenting me through pleasure--the intensity of it at times nearly unbearable-- to mine, with his,
as another straw materializes against my other parted lips. I hesitate barely a moment--a holdover from some era when guilt, or I, had any semblance of what could be called 'control' over my will--as my hormones overwhelm my senses and I drink once more. Only, this time it is not some 'mere' pint container, weighing down the mattress before me. My eyes finally flutter open, but it is dark, very dark still. I don't know how much he's put there, but I know already that I will not stop myself, and that I cannot stop him. No matter how much some quietly defeated part of me still wonders vainly if I could, if I only had the will, I drink. I drink and drink, the creamy, filling, fulfillingly light sweet, and savory, flowing into me, perfectly balanced, and he ever keeps me on the edge, filling, bringing more and more inside me that will never leave, now he has me. I know I will never again lose weight, that he'll never deem to let me, and, as I think it, I gush around him again, and he pulses invariably in response. I am his angel, I know, his muse, his art, his favorite piece of his. He plays his piece like music, with fingers gracing instruments, mixing metaphors in my mind, or alternately massaging through my tummy flesh, his art already started, through that part of the literal half of me, half a hundred pounds of... 'me'... which he has mercilessly and unhesitantly, forcefully and unstoppably deposited, on what was once thin, and normal, 'beautiful' me.

I am full now, it is so rich, but now his ace in the hole finally takes its place; I always seem to forget how big, and by now I am so swollen it is so tight it's completely overwhelming. It is time, decades, waves of pleasure and pressure later that I again hit bottom, coming meekly, feebly to consciousness. "Half a gallon, my love," he speaks to me, my soul, my body, almost moaned with longing and lust and pride, in a husky love brogue seemingly made just for me, "with the pint, near two pounds of pure new beauty we've fitted to you, on your will, you just ingested, gained. 'Fat for fat', My piggy-lovely." I murmur-moan into his whispered ownership, his control. I am. I am owned. I am his, his to love, his to keep, his to punish and to please, and his to do with as he please. I am his. His will is mine, and I belong to him. And, I know, he belongs to me.

His body tenses around me, at me, inside me and I push close, as close as I can get to him, and then even closer, wrapping his arms all the tighter around me, through my new fat. His fat. He speeds up more in response, loving, insistent, passionate, fingers, pulsing muscles, and hard fucking love. As we near the brink he bites me, my neck, collar, again hard, and I his muscled shoulder, blood at my lips, primal at prime, as he squeezes my fat ass and back against him and presses into and around my clit and to my deepest depths and I break suddenly, violently, screaming an unconscious moan that would sound to any other of a forlorn and delirious surrender; I come around him, his responsive member pulsing inside me and then at my peak releasing hot loveliness of my favorite all within me, deep inside, virile and fertile and feral.

"My fat, plump angel," he murmurs at my ear now, nuzzled his nose and breath in my mane, "my precious little dame."

He has made me fat. His arm shifts and my fat belly, my belly's fat, flows around him, nearly over it now, his lines of coiled muscles contrasting with the softness they've relentlessly created. It is his fat, I know, and I relish. He owns it. He made it, with love and passion, coercion and manipulation and deepest fucking control. He wants it, and me, and always more. Demanding, determined, jealous and proud.
I smile.
My fat is his choice and his responsibility, his guilt and lack thereof.
He kisses my ear and nuzzles me again, and moments later the fat and pleasure and heat have combined to put me back in my productive sleep, productively producing acres and ounces of new joy for him to love on his love.

Asleep again, I dream of muffins and bacon and blueberries that I know are the next thing I will sense in the world, to awaken me when next I am.



rewrite from a couple of weeks ago XD
Hope you enjoy!