The truck’s down, the day’s shot, but honestly, I don’t mind one bit. I’ve got you seated in front of me, belly full and round from the buffet we just gorged our way through. I know you want more—need more—so I’m going to hand-feed you cookies one after the other, like the spoiled, growing boy you are. My fingers linger on your lips before trailing down to that soft, heavy middle, rubbing slow circles over your stretched, bloated gut while you groan. This is the part I love most—watching you swell with every bite, knowing you're mine to fatten, pamper, and tease until there’s nothing left of the old you, and you've completely transformed into a slow, heavy, lard-engulfed hog with an insatiable appetite.
