Chapter 1 - Funnel story

“Are you ready?” he asks, his hand outstretched. His eyes are brilliant blue, and as they light upon you, it makes you blush from the tips of your toes. He’s so plain with his desire, so unashamed, but it’s always been beyond you to be the same. To feel indulgent.
And yet, when he takes your hands and helps you to your feet, you can feel your heart pounding with anticipation.
The funnel lowers in front of you with a pneumatic hiss, and you open your mouth obediently for him to place it inside. He stands behind you, and when he reaches for the tube, you can feel him pressing against you. Every inch of him. It makes you blush all the more.
“We’ll start slow,” he says, and before you know it, the thick, viscous fluid is oozing onto your tongue. You hold it in your jaw, letting it collect for a moment in your mouth. The flavor is like strawberry cream, and so sweet you can almost feel the square grains of sugar scraping over your bloated cheeks. They swell, filling, until cream begins to dribble from the sides of your mouth, and you choke down a swallow, bobbing your throat. He brushes his fingers against your neck, underneath your double chin. His other hand caresses your belly, where your too-small shirt couldn’t hope to reach. The lower buttons are already undone; it won’t be long now before you take over this shirt just like all the others.
“There we are,” he murmurs in your ear, running his hands up and down your belly. His fingers find the stretch marks and trace over them, tickling you, but you can’t laugh–not while you’re still occupied with drinking down the sweet strawberry cream. He reaches up to the machine and turns the dial, and the cream starts coming faster.
As you gulp it down mechanically, you lose yourself in it all: his hands, the sweet flavors, the sensation of everything you’re eating gathering and growing in your gut. You’ve done this countless times, and each one seems almost better than the last; each time leaves you wishing you could do this every day. No – every moment of every day, a constant stream of sweets down your throat and hands on every inch of your swollen, massive form, growing constantly larger…
You cough, and come back into your body. What’s wrong with you? What are you thinking, imagining something so…indolent? The decadence flips itself on its head and becomes shame, and you open your eyes and look down past the funnel, at the massive girth hanging around your waist. The buttons on your shirt are beginning to strain, and the rest of you is utterly exposed, the impact of this, borne down on your body by his insistence, week after week.
“Careful now,” comes his voice from behind. You feel the fat on your shoulder blade jiggle at his touch. He hums, and reaches a hand around to press a finger into your belly, measuring the resistance. “Just about time,” he says, and reaches up to turn the dial to its max.
A strangled moan comes from you now, and it’s all you can do to swallow, again and again, as the cream begins pouring into your mouth at its top speed. You struggle to breathe around the tube, and have to force yourself into a rhythm, gulping down a heavy mouthful, then inhaling through your nose while the cream fills up your fat cheeks. Behind you, he laughs, and grips your breasts in his hands.
“That’s it.” He bounces the fat on your breasts, gently. “Don’t slow down, now.”
You wouldn’t dare. And, deep down, you don’t want to: your belly’s filling to its limit now, and you can just start to feel the fluid beat against its walls, forced to fight its way outward with every successive gulp that travels down your gullet. You can feel yourself growing in his hands.
“My little piggy,” and the words against your ear make you moan. You shut your eyes and your head falls back, onto his tall, strong shoulder, and he laughs at you as he reaches to grip your stomach in his hands.
“Look at all of this, hm?” he says, kissing the top of your ear while he speaks. “Look at all your gluttony. You must have been quite the pig, to get to this size.” He lets one side of your stomach fall–you grunt at the weight pulling down on you again–and slides his finger over a stretch mark. “Quite the pig indeed.”
It’s starting to hurt now, yet the cream doesn’t slow, forcing its way down your throat. You don’t stop either. Every nerve ending is on fire. The pain in your stomach makes you feel alive in your body like nothing else can. Sensing your excitement, he slaps hard at your belly, and you shout – mouth still locked around the funnel’s end – and arch your back against him.
This is it. This is what you’re greedy for every time you smell a whiff of sugar and cream. This is what you crave when you walk the town, and the whispered words of scandalized strangers make you bite your lip. When you wake up in the morning to enough food to feed a family of four; when you scarf it down, but know you still have room for so much more. Or when you’re recovering from a binge of gluttony that leaves you so wiped out you can hardly stand–even then, a voice in the back of your head whispers: Do this again.
And you’re here. And his hands are on you, and his lips are tracing your body, and your stomach is so heavy and swollen that you can no longer hold it up; he keeps it for you, protecting you from the weight until it’s time. The sweetness floods past your lips and you force it into your body, more, more, bigger, always bigger, and with your eyelids squeezed shut you see sugar plums and stars dancing behind your eyes.
This is your guilty paradise.