You are under me, pinned flat, swallowed by softness, crushed by curves. My belly settles on your face and chest, heavier with every bite I take. I do not stop eating, not for you, not for anyone. Grease, crumbs, bits of food—they all rain down on you because you are not my guest. You are my plate. Every moan, every laugh, every mouthful, I am feeding me and feeding your fetish at the same time. My weight is the story. Your struggle is the soundtrack. You are trapped, claimed, used for my pleasure while I stuff myself and talk about getting bigger, fatter, unstoppable.