Chapter 3 - drinks - part 2

She continues to ignore him and begins eating, scraping the side of the pot gratingly and intentionally, pulling the edge of greasy fried cheese up and popping it in her mouth. Her small yet fatty breasts and upper arms sway as she does.

He hardly realizes it when he is suddenly up against her ass. She presses back against him, eating a hotdog open-mouthed as she piles a spoon with macaroni. His trousered tip is fit against the cleavage of her ass--fresh, mocking cellulite surrounding him. She smells strong and intoxicating up close--the bath had never happened, of course. He feels his mind fuzz in primal elation even more as his nose is now in her hair, her neck, his hand sliding down her decadent, lazy, supremely soft potbelly, beneath it through her nest of soft fur, to her waiting lips. They drip her lust around his fingers, already soaking wet, and he knows he should mock her for it, but he can't. He nearly growls in her hair.

"I love you," he says as he breathes her in even more deeply, as deep as he can, trying to hold the scent of his woman in his mind and his nose and his soul, causing his mouth to water and dick to reach its absolute hardest and shake almost violently with desire. His exhale is ragged, his immediate inhale deep and quaking and full of need, breathing her back in instantly with the very last of his barely gripped restraint--and it slips, abruptly and with finality, away--as he hears her breath match his in timber, shuddering against him in waves of softness, even as she shoves another 200-calorie ladleful of carbs and fat and cheese and grease between her lips, into her body, where it will stick and stay in her indulgently made burgeoning curves.

Slacks are lost to his ankles as her hips twist the way a woman's can, opening against him--beckoning, begging, longing, pulling him inside--and them both moaning hard together, eternities of restraint burned away in those briefest, intensest, most precious moments.

"I know," she gasps, moans, finally in response, as he begins moving inside her. She is trembling and whimpering fervently now, hands propping her against the counter, as his tip slowly moves right to the very edge, stretching and pulsing against and inside her, before returning, seemingly now even larger than before. He holds the grip of her hips firmly, debauched chub squishing out between and around his hard fingers, as he reaches forward, past the discarded serving spoon, and lifts mac and cheese out the dish by cupped, brimming hand and up to her mouth, pressing with what-should-be-surprising tenderness against her lips, "I know this is what you want," and--eyes firmly closed and mind firmly in nirvana--she immediately eats, as his other arm slides up to her chest and pulls her gently against him, forcing his tip firmly against her G-spot.

"My fat piglet," he whispers into her ear, now lovingly, his own mouth watering at her odor as he feeds her by hand over and over and fucks her slowly, sweetly, his arm around her waist and hips and gripping her mons as he teases her clit, simultaneously using it in its purpose to incite her to eat even more. She would always be his. He'd make her as fat as he liked, however he liked, and she fucking loved it. Tormenting each other like some sickness out of who's afraid of virginia woolf: Him an OCD neat-freak inevitably meant she'd become the opposite in loving spite. Taking her from her own once clean and structured life, causing her to become this, a slob just to control him, a fatty just to fuck with his mind and his balls and his nerves. He truly hadn't had a glimmer of this only a few moments back, when they'd moved in together here. And now she is almost more than half again the waifish weight she once was then, much less when they'd been married, now bulging everywhere before him, around him, her indolent mass mashed against him, covered in crumbs and sweat and rolling piled lumps of homemade softnesses.

As he kisses her neck, his tongue sliding across the very start of soft neck roles, surrounded by her hair, he tastes jam dried to her skin.

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The pot is empty, the hot dogs gone, and as she feels him swell in finality against the tight walls of her cunt, his hot nut imminent inside her, fingers gripping in pleasure against her lips and pearl, eking out the last wonderfully aching steps over their rise, she finally comes hard... so hard... so fucking hard... scream-moaning without shame or care or thought as of some drawn out animal noise, tears in her eyes and down her cheeks and mingling into the sweat of her lover dripped over her, and the sensations gripping her, from nose to toes, pussy to brain, all white light, covered in foam, as he sprays inside her, over and over, pulsating and gyrating unbearably, ecstatically, as wave after wave of pure pleasure replace each other ad infinitum in her mindless, burning-hot, lust-soaked brain.

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She sits at the table now as he holds her, kissing her. He's mixed in half a pound of chocolate sauce, and now holds her carton, tipped in his funnel, he keeps for her above the liquor cabinet, to her lips as she drinks. He's making her so fat she can't stand it, yet she absolutely fucking loves it.

He nibbles her neck and cheek and pulls her hair as he forces the last of it into her. "You are getting so fucking fat. And you stink like old sweat and sugar and pussy and cum. You really have no fucking shame anymore." Teeth, and then lips, wrap around her earlobe, then plump and very-blushing cheek, then jawbone, and collar. The liquid spills around her lips as they twist.

It runs down her soft young breasts, starting their inevitable, perversely- and overwhelmingly-arousing journey to become sagging and fat, hugely deformed by the lard he's stuffed in her.
It flows around her belly, so soft earlier, now domed obscenely, almost grotesque... utterly sexy--she knows, though, that by tomorrow it will again be soft, because all of what they've done to her, what she's eaten, what he's force-fed to her, will have become even more fat rolls of sexy, form-fitting and -encasing adipositic flesh.
It streams, cold and yet twistingly erotic around those things which had made her so: her long-unshaven, willful slit, and her husband, fingers even now playing at her, coaxing her closer and closer to the edge of another fervent and fantastic, fattening, deviant, utterly pleasurable and nourishing peak.
And finally it drips down her legs, in chocolate drops and rivulets, to swim around her bare and unwashed feet.


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)*: End. ;-}



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By this deviant tale, I hope you're pleased.

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Thank you for reading.