Chapter 1

ctified Obesity

Lift your belly. Show me that fat pussy. Yes. Struggle with your lard. You sow; self indulgent sow. Gluttony has now consumed you. The irony is rich. Not as rich as one of your buttery love handles though. You know you’re so wide that the queen sized mattress doesn’t have much room left either side of fat swaddled thighs. I do love how your fat just spreads and smothers any surface it relieves its burden onto. Pendulous tits; how delightful. Fat, full and falling down the top of your stomach. Sacks of stretched skin and fat. Your stomach, or globular belly should we say. A monster, behemoth, giant of consumption. There is a greed that gnaws from within that furthers it’s crusade to grow, expand and develop further larded rolls. That life saver ring of fat that cushions your jaw, softens any facial definition and props your head upon your breasts. Packed cheeks and puff lips breathing with a determined rhythm; merely to cope with the cardiovascular requirements of a massively obese cow. Your bum is underneath you laying prone on your fattened back. I know it’s form, feel and size. This I’ve studied hard. Globular cheeks of inefficient piston like fat. Rounded masses wobbling towards food. Their rate of rippling is always amusing to correlate with your hunger and desire for food. The sway, shuffle and waddle of your walked naked through the house. Bent over a kitchen bench forcing your face into a triple layered jam sponge cake or passion fruit cheesecake. Every smacked landed on your beautiful bum feels like my hand sinks into your fat; engulfed by your physical engorging. I look down. Your struggling arms and reddened face indicates your heart is working hard to give you strength. During my mental indulgence you’ve dutifully been holding your precious belly up expectantly. The belly you serve; who controls you and controls me. Between us we serve it. It’s girth and form even dictate how intimate we are. Today’s realisation is stunning; you’re too fat for missionary. I look, rub and touch. I know your plush pussy is there, but too much belly and thigh fat has engulfed my view. With a final relieved exertion you pull your belly up that bit more. Can any effort at your size really make a difference? No. No plump bush to be seen. Have you fattened yourself to this point? I point out the predicament. Excitement runs through you and me. Have we achieved this? Your insatiable gorging; my intentional goading. Encourager or enabler? My role would depend on your mood. Feeder or feedee? These roles sound almost intentional. Or are they roles for unrestrained lust for food in your case and fat in mine. We are both greedy, self absorbed and fixated. A world reduced to expanding flesh and form. Body modification; without control. A roulette of genetic DNA that decided where your fat laden body should carry your desires. Your body decided to be round; proportionate; an archetype of feminine obesity. Delicious. Opulent. All the above has lead to your immense hips, drooping belly apron, swollen thighs, giant backside, blimp like breasts and fat swaddled back. An apple shaped erotic sex pot of lust, gluttony and consumption. Rounded cherub face, melon tits, barrelling belly and wide sumptuous thighs. My own breathing is ragged and intense as I control my urge the fuck the living daylights out of you. The erotic intensity of your obesity and the way it inflames my raging cock is incredibly powerful. How does your softened and passive frame elicit such passion. Those pinned arms with that sagging slabs of upper arm fat encasing their theoretical muscle. The way your panties disappear rapidly as they eat into your fat and then are eaten by your rolls. Your body literally consumes everything including my obsessive attention and lust.

You’ve given up so much to enjoy this. Normal mobility and activity has been traded for a funnel and lavish worship. My hardened cock serves to inflate your ego and belly while my caress and enabling sees your fattened maw full and never searching for filling. Watching the stray crumbs and dribbles of weight gain shake rapidly cascade down your tits. The sausage fingers on your fattened pad like hands grip the funnel. Yes, consume, devour and savour those fattening calories. Fuck I adored your mid 200lbs body. Everything was and firm. Bum, breasts and belly. Wobble but not jiggle. We fucked so much; probably so much you almost lost weight from the intense sessions of sex. But we got you there. Obesity caught you. My severe over feeding and enabling caught you. You need for validation and desire captured you. How I pounded your padded pussy all this time. With every gathered pound, accrued kilo and added inch. I’d thrust that much harder into your obese bulk. The waves of fat crashing into me. Fuck; the overwhelming feeling on my senses is too much. Almost as much as your struggle to fill your burdened lungs with air due to your sheer fattened figure. I love watching you meet people who haven’t seen you for a while. How amazed they are at how fat you’ve become. Awkwardly hiding their shock and surprise at your size and girth. Your laboured movements and exaggerated comical effort to waddle. The nearest chair creaks and groans as you uncontrollably collapse your weight onto its under engineered design. No one envisaged someone as fat as you sitting their meaty bum on its structure. Oh how I love the way your fat spreads when you sit. The sea of gelatinous thigh fat rushing towards each other and filling all possible space with its calorie created volume. Those luscious thighs are further obscured by that demanding and voracious belly of yours. Oh how it growls with its sinister and sexy tones. More; more; sate my needs, my size, my desire.

Clothing too is more functional than fashionable. Pure naked glory is a preference at home. In public, once loose, now strained sun dresses are mercilessly stretched across your billowing body. Underwear is destroyed with bras obliterated by your bulging breasts. Thongs outrageously tight and cutting into adipose. Disappearing into crevices and rolls. Fabric hopelessly trying to contain your bulk. No fucking chance. I love your lacey fat girl lingerie. The cute triangle piece of fabric that’s meant to cover your crotch is an entire tents worth of material. So much that a skinny size 8 would use it as an entire body suit.

You sit there at the family function. Tits bulging out, overflow boob flops over the edge of your bra and dress. The darkened imprint of your heavenly and abyss like navel shows through. Food is scoffed and I dutifully bring it to you under the gaze of judgemental eyes and concern. How their judgement and hushed critiques would fuel our impassioned fucking later. Those condescending questions where the questioner is elevated with illusionary authority and superiority. “Oh she’s so young, how is she so fat?” Or more critical, “she’s let herself go!” Or the speculative pregnancy is another good one, though at her size those more ignorant would question the physical possibility. I get messy, smear some chocolate and sugar dust on your fattened cheeks. Be piggish; delightfully obese; succulent sow. Show those who judge our love, lust and desire for each other. The fat you fill yourself fills my cock with unbridled desire and need. The need to feel my pelvis slam into fattened bum cheeks so large that my absorbed into a larded eternity. Where waves of velocity run through your immobile flesh. Fuck; this feels raw; animalistic; primal and true. I wonder how it is I am turned on and driven to obsession by the image of a wobbling obese woman. As society drools over what is slender and slight, I crave the over flowing and ever expanding sight of my ssbbw feedee. I don’t even know what is most intoxicating. How willingly my fat porker has given into her greed; how fat has changed her; how my lust to touch, stroke and explore her grows along with her scale. Milestones are reached through destruction. There is something bizarre to this process and obsession. The solidly slapped arse cheek that almost leaves an imprint of my hand in its shape. The broken clothing that splits, screams and stretches before giving up any illusion of decency. The immensity and difficultly of need multiple chairs, bigger cars and a chair for the shower. Watching my fat darling struggle brings me morbid joy. There is a submission here to her size and looming obesity. What level will she reach? Do we really have control anymore? Have we lost out in this fat Faustian pact? Once we demand weight gain we can never stop. I say we; I am part of this but I am not bound by the hundreds of pounds on my frame. The trust and feeling of need also compels me, excites me and invigorates my senses. The accepted immensity of fat feedee lured me to provide more to feed and tempt.

Beds, chairs and couches all break and collapse. The serenade of snapping and splintering wood under the pressure of hundreds of pounds of flesh. The broken frame, spectacularly collapsing during a session of vigorous sex. Imagine a butterball riding on top of me. Sticky fat suctioning itself to my svelte body. Lungs and limbs straining to hoist itself up and down. An irregular rhythm attempts to pound itself into a orgasm. Ragged breath gasps for air as the winded and puffing reddened face of my favourite fat female gulps for air. Pinch and grab the supple fat. Nibble and gnaw, suck on a nipple and watch you gasp. The heat is trapped by glue laden belly as it pins both of us down. My dick lost amongst the draped thigh fat and moist and plump fupa cushioning the attempted thrusts. Some more donuts and the only hope I’ll be filling is your cavernous belly button. I’ve fucked you in there before and I’ll do it again. On top of your domed gut are your pancakes tits that surge and follow the contours of gravity.