Chapter 1

The smell of syrup and butter is the first thing I register, thick and cloying in the air. Then the weight. A deep, aching pressure low in my belly, a familiar anchor that pins me to the mattress. I try to shift, and a soft groan escapes my lips as the movement sends a ripple through the heavy shelf of my gut, the flesh of my thighs sticking together with a light sweat.

A low chuckle cuts through the haze. “Awake, piggy? Good. Breakfast is getting cold.”

My eyes flutter open. Tim is standing by the bed, a terrifying silhouette of lean muscle and cruel intent. In his hands is a tray. Not a normal one. A vast plank of polished wood laden with a stack of pancakes so tall it looks like a cartoon, each layer dripping with melted butter and a river of dark maple syrup. A side bowl heaped with scrambled eggs and bacon sits next to a giant glass of what looks like pure, heavy cream.

“Tim… I’m still so full from last night,” I whine, the protest weak even to my own ears. My stomach gives a low, audible gurgle, a traitorous rumble of interest. “I can still feel the pasta. Please.”

He sets the tray on the bedside table with a thud that makes me jump. “Please what, Fiona? Please force that first bite past your perfect, greedy lips? Please make you fucking well regret saying you were full?” He leans over me, one hand sinking into the bloated swell of my side. His fingers press deep into the softness, and I gasp. “Because that’s what I heard. That’s all I ever hear from this fat, hungry cunt of a body you’re building for me.”

His words are a slap and a caress all at once. A hot flush spreads across my chest. He sees it, his eyes darkening with pleasure.

“That’s it. Get wet for me, you filthy sow. Get wet thinking about how you’re going to guzzle all this down.” He grabs a handful of my hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to control, to tilt my head back. “Open up.”

I part my lips, a shudder running through me. He doesn’t use a fork. He just rips off a huge, sodden chunk of pancake with his fingers, syrup dripping onto my chest, and shoves it into my mouth.

“Chew. Swallow. Don’t you fucking dare spit a drop out.”

The sweetness is overwhelming, the texture soggy and dense. I work my jaw, my cheeks bulging, and force it down. It settles heavily on top of the oceanic fullness already inside me. I feel my gut distend further, a tight, round ball under the sheet.

“There’s my girl,” he croons, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “Look at you. You were made for this. Born to be my personal fucking dumpster.” He shoves another piece in, then another, not even waiting for me to finish the previous mouthful. Syrup coats my chin, my neck. I’m panting, breathing getting harder as the space in my torso shrinks.

“I can’t,” I gasp around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “Tim, I’m gonna burst. Please.”

“You can, and you fucking will,” he snarls, grabbing the glass of cream. He doesn’t give me a choice. He tips it against my lips. “Drink. All of it. I want to hear your sloppy, fat gut sloshing with it.”

The cold, rich liquid pours down my throat. I have to swallow in frantic, choking gulps to keep from drowning in it. It spills from the corners of my mouth, soaking the pillow. My belly gives another loud, painful groan, expanding visibly, the skin stretched taut and shiny. I feel impossibly huge, immobile. A wave of nausea mixes with a dark, throbbing pulse of arousal between my legs.

He drops the empty glass and slaps my belly. The sound is a deep, wet thud, and the resulting jiggle lasts for a full five seconds, the vibration echoing through my entire bloated frame. He laughs, a sharp, mean sound.

“Listen to that. A fucking seismograph. My little earthquake.” His hand slides down from my belly, pushing the sheet aside, and delves between my massive thighs. I’m so fat my cunt is almost buried, just a wet, hot seam in a valley of soft, pale flesh.

His fingers find me anyway. I cry out, a strangled sound, as two fingers slide into my soaking wetness. “God, you’re a depraived bitch,” he breathes, his face a mask of disgusted awe. “Your gut’s full to bursting and your stupid cunt is dripping. You love this, don’t you? You love being my fat, broken pig.”

“Yes,” I sob, my hips twitching uselessly, too heavy to properly grind against his hand. “Yes, Tim. I love it. I’m your pig. Your ***ing pig.”

“You’re nothing but a set of holes to be filled,” he grunts, working his fingers in and out of me with a brutal, perfect rhythm. “A mouth for my food and a cunt for my pleasure. And look what I’ve turned you into.” He leans down, his breath hot on my ear. “You used to be a skinny little nothing. Now you’re a masterpiece. Eight hundred pounds of proof that you belong to me. You can’t even wipe your own ass anymore, can you? You need me for everything.”

The humiliation is a fire in my veins. His words coil around my brain, and my orgasm hits me like a truck, a silent, screaming wave of pleasure that whites out my vision. My body seizes, my massive thighs trembling, my gut quivering like jelly.

He pulls his slick fingers out and smacks my cunt, the sting a bright, sharp counterpoint to the deep ache in my core. “Good pig. You earned your rest.” He stands up, looking down at me, a sweaty, gasping, syrupy mess sunk deep into the mattress. “Now rest up. Lunch is a whole pizza and a two-liter of soda. And you’re finishing every fucking bite.”