tying shoes, picking stuff up off of the ground, buttoning pants, shirts, closing jackets
you scoot up in your chair to your desk and notice your chair pokes out further back because your belly prevents you from going further forward
you leave your jacket unzipped because, well, that's normal.. right? even if your gut is hanging out in the cold under your shirt, and it pokes out from the side since your jacket is left open
You love gluttony. You need it not to be forced, not put on for your benefit, but to be its own kind of unignorable compulsion.
You’re good at spotting this quality in people, this certain insatiability… and you’ve come to need it.
You first noticed he had this essential quality about him on your first date. You replayed the image of how quickly he scarfed down his carbonara over and over again as you lay in bed that night.
Feeling the heat swell in between your legs as you remember how he smirked at you as he walked you home; he tilted his head and asked “So you like chubby guys, huh?”
You blush in embarrassment at your own over-enthused reply, “Yes, actually I prefer them!”
He has no idea just how deep it goes…
In reality, you need hunger that can be likened to lust — innate and animalistic.
For him, it’s an irresistible instinct. He may try his hardest to fight against it, but it overtakes him anyway
He always cleans his plate and wishes for more. He devours what’s in front of him with so much delight that he overlooks the quantity.
One time, you two were sitting on a park bench when he admitted to you that he was once “as heavy as 290.” You blacked out after that, you simply don’t remember the rest of the conversation. All there was after that was 290. 290. 290. You hope your reaction wasn’t too incredulous.
Usually after a hearty meal, he’ll slowly rise from his chair and place a hand on his soft, protruding belly. Sometimes he’ll even let out a sigh of both contentment and resignation as he says, “Oof, I’m actually really full.” Or “I ate that way too quickly.” You wonder if he’s saying this just for you, if he secretly knows. You hope that he does.
You love to see his t-shirt pucker out at the hem, his belly pressing the fabric away from him. Your eyes can’t help but linger over the straining fabric around his soft center. After all, with any slight movement there’s a chance that you could see a doughy crescent of pudge peak out.
As you lie in bed together, you try your hardest to be casual as your breath hitches in your chest. It feels as though you’re conducting advanced calculations — if you drape your hand around the curve of his bulging mass will he notice? What if you place your arm directly underneath his plush overhang, is that more discreet? Will he notice how your pulse quickens? If you press the full plane of your palm against his taut yet supple midsection when he’s this full, will he be embarrassed? Does he realize how desperately you want him? How transfixed you are by his bulk?
When he turns over to envelope you in a hug, and you feel all of him pressed against every inch of you — can he sense your desperation for his flesh? Does he realize that no matter how much of him you get — no matter if you get to grab every fold, explore every cushy crevice — that it will never be enough? When you look at him, all you can think is squeeze, bite, taste, devour. Surely your eyes betray you. That’s why it’s so hard to meet his gaze.
He may be the one eating, but you are the one that’s always hungry.
You ache for his heavy thrusts. You thank some unnamed ancient god for his powerful shoulders and robust arms that allow him to enter you so forcefully. The brawn that lies just beneath his delectable, velvety layer of chub is a reminder of just how formidable he is.
And lastly, as he finally unleashes his load, as if to give you a parting gift, the muscles he was using to hold himself up and hold himself back relax. A heavy mound of roundness crashes against you. For a fleeting moment, you get to be pinned down by the weight of your own unmentionable desire. You don’t have to deny, you don’t have to evade, you don’t have to pretend. You can just be.
This is your own private, fat-fetishizing, chubby-chasing, adipose-admiring rapture.
Gods, I want to be addicted to someone getting fatter. All I can think about is kissing and kneading your fat, daydreaming stuffing you until you're fit to burst, knowing that it'll make you larger and softer. Just have your gains and your hedonism consume me until it's all I can think about, all I'll ever be service to
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