The leprechaun: part 3 of 3

Chapter 12

In his sleep, Patrick dreamed of a pleasurable evening on Fremont Street, in a 600 lb body, enjoying a lavish suite, with a balcony overlooking the excitement down below. It was a private party, exclusive to his closest friends from the feedism community; men and women alike. He was living like Hugh Heffner, or maybe just a Hugh Heft, and his would-be Bunnies were bubbly, plump little showgirls, dressed in cheerleader uniforms of green and white.

The cheerleaders adored him, and when they weren't entertaining his guests, they were planting kisses on his cheeks, or caressing his belly, which now spilled over his knees, reaching for the floor beneath the great chair that held him.

The mood at this party was electric, with excellent music and delicious cocktails. The flirting and adoration from his cheerleaders felt more and more real as the evening moved on, and as he ate, drank, and occasionally danced with his cheerleaders and his guests, he kept hoping for this perfect night to last for all eternity.

One of his cheerleaders---a short, fair-skinned, raven-haired, 300 lb girl with black eye shadow and matching lipstick---was getting particularly amorous with him, running her tongue gently across the base of his double-chin while her hands explored his belly and moobs, pinching and jiggling all the while. He began to hear a ghostly voice echo within his mind.

"Fatrick...Fatrick...", the spectral voice kept saying, a different octave each time.

The activity around him began to blur. He was waking.

Comfortably reclined on a pile of pillows, he slowly left this dreamy paradise for the real world, but the kisses and caresses never stopped.

It was Erin, standing to his right---at the side of the bed---waking him for his first day as a 600 lb man. She was wearing one of the black tank tops from the 'gym' drawer of his bureau. Below it, a pair of forest green, spaghetti string panties. The panties were hers, obviously, but with the black tank top, she looked like an Irish girl's parody of Little Mac, from the acclaimed Punch-Out video games he enjoyed playing when he was younger. He wanted to laugh, but his attention was stolen by the scent of freshly cooked eggs and sausage. He leaned his head forward, hoping to see where the scene was coming from.

Behind her was an end table on wheels, loaded with food items he recognized from the Amazon order he placed the day before; breakfast sandwiches, donuts, cookies, and a carafe of chocolate milk, speckled with beads of condensation.

"Ya musta been dreamin' good, if it took this long for me to wake ya", Erin said. She then drew his attention to the end table, slowly trailing her hand, like a showgirl revealing a prize on a game show.

"Your delivery came in", she continued. "I thought I'd fix ya up some breakfast in bed."

"Thank you", Patrick replied, as his waking eyes absorbed his surroundings. "Did the motor chair come?"

"Aye, it did. It's still folded up for now, but I got it chargin' in the livin' room."

Patrick was surprised and impressed. Erin managed to grasp quite a bit about electricity in these last two days, seeing as how she knew enough to charge the mobility scooter, and operate the microwave to prepare his frozen breakfast sandwiches.

He looked to his left, to where his night table stood, and saw the time on his alarm clock. It was 12:30 PM; once again, he slept late.

More cognizant now, he noticed the gentle caress on his belly had never stopped. He looked down, and even while the gelatinous fat on his chest had pushed against his double-chin, he could still catch a glimpse of how vast his belly had become. Erin finally pulled her hand away, but not before giving it a gentle pat.

"Sorry, laddy", she said, "it just felt so soft and comfortable, I couldn't help m'self. You're like a bed! Softer than the guest bed, even. You're gonna make a feeder-girl real happy if ya stick with this, ya know".

Yes, a feeder-girl, such a beautiful thought. Just minutes ago, in his dream, he was surrounded by them, and the thought of moving his life in this new direction had begun to manifest. It was an attractive, palpable option now, and not just a fantasy.

Further evidence of this palpability was hiding under his belly, inside the stiff poke of an engorged penis. Apparently, even the slightest bit of love on his belly was enough to get him started, and internally---in his thoughts---he asked himself why he wasted so many years as the feeder, when being the feedee was far more stimulating.

Once again, he found his thoughts interrupted by an empty, growling belly. The sound served as a signal for Erin, who then rolled the end table up to him, bringing a warm biscuit with egg, cheese, and sausage to his mouth. While taking a bite, his fingers took possession of the sandwich, and Erin then fetched a few napkins, placing them on the shelf at the top of his belly; in between his moobs, now the size and consistency of a wad of uncooked pizza dough.

Another breakfast sandwich would be brought to his greedy mouth, followed by one of the sprinkled, vanilla-frosted donuts. A sip of cold chocolate milk. Small pats with the napkins, to the edges of his mouth. Coffee cakes, covered in crumbs of brown and powered sugars. More chocolate milk, so cool and rejuvenating for a summer morning in Las Vegas. Gentle pats to his belly, from Erin, in between bites. Another few donuts, sprinkles falling onto his belly, rolling down to the bed. More of the breakfast sandwiches. More chocolate milk. More. More. More.

More.

Such a splendid way to start his day.

He was being properly fed---just the way he used to feed his partners---and he couldn't fathom how he lived this long without enjoying this side of it. Once again, he was in danger of burning his third wish, because he nearly wished to go back in time, and relive the last 15 years in the way he was living this very moment. 'Reading minds' was not one of Erin's many talents, thankfully, so if he kept his thoughts quiet, his final wish would be intact.

'Reading body language', however, was something she did quite well. Even at 600 lbs, with movements limited to his hands---traveling back and forth to his mouth---she could tell what was happening. The look in his squinted eyes, the deep breaths, the blushed cheeks, the aggressive chewing and swallowing...she saw it all, and knew he was rock-hard down below.

She began to grin, like Wil E Coyote, setting the perfect trap for the Roadrunner.

"Is it everything ya imagined", she asked.

"Close enough to it", he replied, still thinking of his dream. "All that's missing is a chunky little FFA in a cheerleader costume."

Her brow furrowed. She had taken offense, but Patrick was too absorbed in his gluttony to notice. She grabbed his belly by its edge, and lifted it up to see his penis. It was somewhat buried in his fat pad, but the head poked upright, like a thick candle, embedded in a vanilla cupcake.

"I'd say ya don't even need women no more, seeing how hard this eatin' got ya", she said, as she released his belly like a piece of trash, falling into the waste bin.

This minor outburst wouldn't go unnoticed, nor would it stop. Frustrated, she grabbed the box of donuts---a few still left inside---and abruptly dropped it onto his belly before making her way to the door. Patrick, now concerned, asked her to wait.

Still with her back to him, she stopped, and stood still. By the laws of her world---her fae folk---she had to obey. Until his last wish had been granted, she was in his service. Yet, she remained still, unwilling to face him.

"Erin, I'm sorry. Please. I'm sorry."

He would have gotten up, but he was not yet ready to move around in his new body, especially with a belly full of food.

"I was just thinking about my dream", he added, "that's all. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry."

Erin, with her back still turned, sighed. Her shoulders sank, as did her head. Seconds later, her head turned, and she spied him from over her shoulder, in the corner of her eye.

"No", she said. "I'm the villain right now. I'm s'posed to be takin' care of ya until ya make yer third wish. I'm sorry. Lemme go get yer shower chair."