Chapter 1

“Wake up.”

Your eyes open with a start. It’s rare that you sleep deeply any more, not when there’s so much to be done, but your nights have been extremely disrupted and your days are even busier than usual. You look at the clock and wince. You swear you’d just closed your eyes for a moment, for the most fleeting little afternoon nap. But an hour has gone by and that can only mean…

“Pig’s hungry, Emma.”

The words make your stomach flutter with a thousand urgent butterflies. There is movement behind you. The enormous, soft, warm wall of lard that you have been so recklessly resting against undulates and shifts. Heavy, laboured breathing, the kind you might attribute to a bull with a red rag in its sights, accompanies this movement, and caresses your neck in hot tendrils. You have fucked up, sleeping away your afternoon like this, because now Pig is awake, and Pig is hungry, and if you don’t set things right soon, Pig is likely to…

With the sound of clinking metal, you feel the chain that is attached to your collar being wound through fat, swollen fingers. Each time it wraps around that pudgy fist, you feel yourself being tugged closer in, and you turn quickly to face your captor before you end up being dragged up backwards. It’s easier to move with the chain than it is to let him pull you - he may not have the strength to stand unaided any more but when he puts his weight behind that chain there is no hope of overpowering him. Each link may as well be forged out of his craving, his desire. Everything eventually yields to what Pig wants. Your breath leaves your body as he pulls you by the neck up to his face; your slim figure being engulfed by each of the thick rolls of blubber that the two of you have been cultivating together. You look down into his dark eyes - there is little of the man left in them at the moment. There is only craving, there is only hunger, there is only Pig.

“Pig’s… hungry… Emma,” he repeats, almost growling, and you can’t blame him for the tinge of aggression that is seeping into his tone. It’s been years since he was truly hungry. It must be unbearable. He must be in agony. Your heart aches for him as you see that bright greed in his eyes; looking at you like a wolf looks at a lamb. He needs to feed. He needs you. His thick tongue darts out of his mouth and licks his lips expectantly. “Feed Pig.”

You have heard that command so many times but the effect they have on you has never once diluted. It’s like touching a match to kindling, you feel your own desire come alight inside you and you are struggling to your feet at once, nodding frantically in response. There is a large hostess trolley next to the bed, covered in empty trays and the scraps of the last feast. As you stand, chains clinking, Pig shuffles towards it, grunting with the effort of moving himself even these few inches. Stretching as far as he can, he attaches the end of your chain to the handle and locks it. The key hangs around his neck on a cord. If you were to wear this key it would hang down nearly to your legs, but on him it barely reaches around the thick rolls of his chins and neck, resting in the middle of his chest. He sinks back down, seems to sink into himself, resting his huge, meaty hands on his belly. You’re not moving fast enough - you’re taking too long to admire the view and although he smiles smugly at the look of adoration you are giving him, his voice is no less softened when he barks “NOW!” at you.

You hurry to the kitchen, your chain now rattling against the side of the trolley. You long to be back in the bed with him, touching him, fussing over him, drinking in the almost liquid soft fat that threatens to overspill the mattress, but you know you will not be welcome back unless you are bringing a full trolley. This is how it has been for months now - while Pig is in charge your world does not extend further than the reach of your chain. The time before this, when you could focus on other things than the whims of his appetites, is a distant haze, barely remembered by either of you. There are framed photos of the two of you in the hall - at the beach, at the park, at a restaurant, him so enormous and round that you look like the number 10 as you stand next to each other… but still, he is standing in them, and that seems like a lifetime ago.

The rest of the house is pretty dark. It’s not exactly neglected, but it no longer appears lived in. Since your love has ended up bed bound, it’s not often that you actually spend time in the other rooms, mainly going between the bed and the kitchen. The sofa sits all but forgotten now, but there is still an enormous crater of sunken cushion from where he used to sit. You smile as you look at it now. You would come home and there he would be, just where you left him, taking up the entire couch, watching TV with a slightly glazed expression. The only thing he was ever truly focussed on would be whatever he was currently shovelling into his fat face. He would look up when you walked in and beam at you, looking at the bags you were carrying greedily. His appetite had seemed out of control back then but it was nothing, nothing, compared to this endless yawning void that it is now your job to try and fill.

“EMMA!” he bellows from the other room, “What are you DOING out there?”

You hurry to the kitchen, chiding yourself. Your love is hungry. You need to fill him again. Lucky for you, there’s always something on the go in your kitchen. Huge slow cookers sit on the counters, each filled to the brim with a family sized portion of something savoury and delicious. Every morning you set them up and turn them on, and when they empty, you fill them again. You take the pot out of one of them and place it directly on the trolley, putting a ladle next to it. There isn’t much point in leaving anything behind. Pig will want to eat until his belly stretches, and the amount of food that it takes to do this nowadays is monumental.

The pot is full of chilli and you take a moment to whip up a saucepan of queso on the stove. While it simmers, you fill the deep fryer with french fries. The sound of the fries hitting the hot oil fills the room, sounding like a huge downpour of rain, and you hear an appreciative groan from the bedroom the second they are submerged. If you listen closely you can make out the wet slurping of him sucking down drool. That Pavlovian response is so deeply ingrained now, he simply cannot help himself any more. His mouth isn’t the only thing flooding with juices. Your pussy is aching at the sound of his urgent greed. You are just as conditioned as he is by now. The cold links of the chain brush your nipples as you work, sending little shivers throughout your body. You grab the box of beef from the fridge and slap down a trio of smash burgers onto the grill, the coup de gras. The trolley is finally full, groaning with food, and you top the whole thing off with a few two litres of soda from the cooler.

As you push the feast back down the hall, the percussion of the rattling plates is joined by the most glorious bassline - the sound of excited grunts and snorting, desperate gasps coming from behind the bedroom door. You push it open and your whole body sings as you see him once more, your Hog King, writhing in the bed, his useless feet kicking as he struggles to sit himself up and look at the feast his little chef has prepared. His piggish eyes are glinting like dark flints in his doughy face. As he takes in the sight of everything you have brought him, you see his fat fingers twitching on his chest. This is a reflex from a time gone by - you know they are reaching to tweak nipples which have long since rolled underneath his enormous soft tits, consumed by the huge rolls of his body. His mouth is streaming now, he’s almost thrashing on the bed as you approach with his food. Sometimes when he looks at you with lust in his eyes, you feel like a cage diver facing a Great White. You feel the same way now, but the water has been chummed, and he… must… feed.

You bring the trolley right up to the bedside, and as you reach over him to grab the bed controls and sit your immobile King up, you can feel him unlocking the chain that has tethered you to the trolley. He is winding it in those swollen fingers once more and when the bed begins to slowly tilt him towards you, he gives that tether a gentle tug, bringing you in close to his vast chest. You can see yourself reflected in his eyes, your expression a look of blank servitude that you would never once have expected to see on your face.

“Pig slave,” he growls in your ear, “You kept me waiting.”

His mouth falls open, a dark, wet pit into which you have been steadily emptying your entire life. You do not waste your breath apologising. The only way to make things right is to do what you do best. You bring a burger to his lips and watch as he takes an impossible bite. The noises that he makes when he eats are utter heaven to you. You have never seen a sweeter sight than the sight of your love enjoying his food. He grabs the burger from your hands, holding it in a tight fist, and dunks it into the queso dip all the way up to his wrist. Sauce falling to the bedsheets in fat drops, he brings the dripping handful to his face and mashes it in, lathering his chins in cheese. His eyes roll back in pleasure, and you feel the fervent, anxious panic at the thought of him being hungry slowly subsiding. Everything is as it should be again. As he eats, you do your chores, cleaning him, helping him piss, changing the sheets below him, and massaging his grossly distended gut as he carries on cramming in his food. He gasps in relief as you burp him and pulls you close once more.

“Pig needs to… *URP*... Pig needs to cum, little slave,” he murmurs around his huge, rattling breaths. His eyes are half lidded, he looks almost on the verge of passing out, and the trolley is only half empty. “Make Pig cum.”

The only strength he seems to have left is in the hands on your chain. He is holding you in tightly, there is no choice but to do exactly as he tells you… but you are chained to him by so much more than just this collar. For you, whatever your Pig wants is law. As you slide under his heavy belly, you can hear him continuing to gorge. His fat pad is a huge slab of quivering lard that you trace with your fingers until you find the sunken hole of pleasure that his cock has retreated into. You kiss this hole as though it is his greedy mouth, your lips brushing the entrance in long, loving strokes. Your tongue delves inside until it reaches his cock, and you hear him groan loudly through his food. He is always wet, always dripping in pleasure - every moment of gorging is also spent fucking the folds under his belly until you come to finish him off. He snorts and squeals in ecstasy above you as you shower him in love. You can feel the chain at your neck growing tighter, cutting off your air, but this hardly bothers you, you have but one focus nowadays and it is never your own wellbeing.

There is a crashing noise above in the outside world that startles you, but Pig’s grunts of pleasure do not waver so you remain down there, drowning in fat, until he cums for you, bellowing like a wild boar. You finally emerge and see that he has pulled the whole food trolley down onto the bed - his chest and belly and the rest of the bed is covered in a layer of chilli and cheese that he is scooping into his mouth with both of his hands, his fingers playing in pools of food on his chest. He looks as though he is making snow angels. You climb his belly, your naked breasts trailing in the sauce, your curves sliding over his rolls, and feel one of his strong hands clamp down on your arse, squeezing you like a ripe peach. You have been such a good girl, you can tell. When he has finished eating perhaps he might stay awake long enough to eat you too.

If not… well, you know he will wake again soon.

And Pig will be hungry.