Kiki 2: the Swelling Throne

Chapter 1 - The Swelling Throne

The morning light spills across my penthouse, but it barely reaches the shadowed corner where my masterpiece lies. He’s a mountain now, my fat boy, a quivering monument to my will. His belly, a vast, glistening dome, rises and falls with each labored breath. I trace a manicured nail along its taut surface, feeling the heat of his overfed flesh. He stirs, his eyes fluttering open, already glazed with the haze of submission.

“Good morning, piggy,” I purr, my voice a velvet whip. “Ready to please your goddess?”

He whimpers, a sound that sends a shiver down my spine. His wrists, thick with flab, strain against the cuffs I no longer need but keep for the aesthetic. He’s too heavy to flee, too weak to resist. I lean in close, my lips brushing his ear. “You’re mine, aren’t you? My perfect, greedy hog.”

He nods, a tear slipping down his sauce-stained cheek. I lick it away, savoring the salt of his surrender. Today’s menu is ambitious—a towering stack of pancakes drowning in syrup, a vat of whipped cream, and a pitcher of chocolate gainer shake thick enough to choke a lesser man. I straddle his hips, my toned thighs a stark contrast to his doughy expanse, and begin.

“Open wide,” I command, shoving a dripping pancake into his mouth. He chews sluggishly, his jaw trembling from the effort. I don’t care. I force another, then another, smearing syrup across his lips. His burps are music, each one a testament to my power. “That’s it, fatty. Fill that tank for me.”

His eyes plead, but his body betrays him. He’s hard again, the fat bastard, aroused by his own degradation. I grin, pouring the shake down a funnel with deliberate slowness. The liquid gurgles as it fills him, his belly swelling tighter, shinier, a perfect orb of gluttony. “Look at you,” I whisper, massaging the straining mass. “You’re not a man anymore. You’re my creation.”

Hours pass in a haze of feeding and torment. I alternate between stuffing him and riding him, his massive frame jiggling beneath me like a sea of lard. He’s too exhausted to move, too full to speak, but I’m relentless. I want him to feel every calorie, every pound, every moment of his transformation. By evening, he’s a panting, sweat-soaked wreck, his belly so packed it rumbles like a storm.

“Sleep, my pet,” I say, patting his cheek. “Tomorrow, we go bigger.”

Days blur into weeks. His weight climbs—900 pounds, then 950. The industrial scale groans under his bulk, and I laugh, delighted. I’ve redesigned the penthouse to accommodate him—a reinforced bed, a custom feeding chair, a hoist for when his legs finally give out. He’s a fixture now, my living sculpture, too vast to leave, too broken to want to.

One night, I light candles and dim the lights, setting the stage for my favorite ritual. I’m naked, my chiseled body glowing in the flicker, a goddess atop her throne of flesh. I climb onto him, my hands sinking into the soft rolls of his sides. “You’re perfect,” I murmur, bouncing slowly, feeling his belly slosh beneath me. “My massive, helpless hog.”

He moans, a mix of pain and pleasure, his eyes locked on mine. I lean forward, my lips grazing his. “You love this, don’t you? Being my toy, my fat, useless pet.” He doesn’t answer, but his body does, shuddering under my touch. I feed him a slice of cake mid-thrust, watching him choke it down, his obedience absolute.

He erupts like a geyser, his overfed body shuddering before collapsing into blissful oblivion, utterly spent. “Perfect piggy,” I purr, savoring my triumph.