Another excerpt from Ch. 22 of Weight of Him, with an introduction by @weirdw00d
“Now you’re ready.” I smirked.
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the strip of twenty food tickets, folding it once, then twice, before placing it in her hand. Her eyes lit up. “You’ve got one goal tonight,” I said. “Use all of them. Every last one.”
She blinked down at the tickets, then back at me, and something flashed in her expression, something worried and hungry and a little bit wicked.
“Dead serious. Pick any booth you want. I’ll take you there myself.” I leaned in toward her ear, put my hand on her hips and whispered, “But you don’t stop until they’re gone.”
She bit her lip. “I was wondering when you’d finally cave and let me eat something. I’ve been cravinnnggg funnel cake since we got here.” Her head rolled back as she exaggerated the word. Craving funnel cake? I couldn’t get over how perfect a little glutton she was. All for me.
“You waited this long to ask?”
“Only because you were distracting me with jewelry and spinning death traps.”
I grinned. Her grip on the tickets tightened. “Okay,” she said, determined now. “First stop?” She turned toward the row of food stalls, eyes landing on the bright pink glow of a cart just down the way. Her lips curved. “Cotton candy?” She asked, like she wanted approval. This was her night, there’s nothing I’d say no to.
I stood. “Lead the way.” And just like that, the game began.
We strolled toward the first cart like we weren’t about to rewrite her entire relationship with food. Cotton candy was an easy win. Bright pink tufts, spun sugar stacked into a sky-high swirl on a paper cone. She pointed without hesitation. “That one.”
I smirked and peeled off two tickets from the strip. The vendor handed it over with a nod, and I passed the cone to her like it was a trophy. She sank into the nearest bench without waiting, tearing off a wad of fluff and popping it into her mouth.
“Holy shit,” she mumbled through a mouthful. “This stuff is as good as I remember.” Her eyes closed. Pure pleasure.
I sat beside her, arms resting wide on the back of the bench, watching her devour it in sticky, happy handfuls. Her fingers turned pink, her lips tacky with sugar. She didn’t even notice.
“You always this enthusiastic about fair food?” I teased.
She licked her thumb. “Not usually. My parents used to flip out about this kind of thing. Like, ‘You really want all that sugar in your body, Juno?’” she mimicked with a high-pitched whine. “Fairs were for walking, not eating. Food was always the enemy.”
I studied her, her sudden openness, her eyes trained on the spun sugar, voice soft. “They make you feel guilty for wanting things?”
I had to keep from boiling. No wonder she was so self conscious. She’d learn in time that around me, there’d be no restricting, no calorie counting. I’ll encourage her to indulge as much as she can. And when, not if, she put on got fatter- I’d praise her for it. I’ll help this girl flourish into the round little glutton she was always meant to become, only with me, she’ll have no reason to feel bad about it.
I brushed the hair out of her face and stroked her chubby cheek, “Never feel guilty for letting go around me Juno. It’s okay to want to indulge. So indulge. Even if…” my eyes glanced down at her belly, sitting beautifully in her lap and my hands followed giving her a quick pat “well you know what could happen if you indulge a little too much.”
That got a little nervous smile and soft nod out of her then she was back to her treat. She finished the cotton candy in a few minutes flat, leaving only the cone and her sugar-coated fingers. Her gaze flicked up toward the next row of booths. “Okay, I have my next pick. Slushy. I need something to wash this down if you want me to keep going.”
“Want?” I repeated, eyes dark. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself well enough.” I reached over and kissed her cheek.
She blushed, stood, and handed me the empty stick. “Two down, eighteen to go.” I said following her lead.
The frozen lemonade slush stand glowed with a bright yellow sign and neon straws sticking out of half-melted cups. She tapped the glass where the largest size sat, filled to the brim and sweating. “One of those.”
I peeled off one ticket and paid. It was icy cold, big enough for two people, but she clutched it like she was guarding treasure.
“It’s so refreshing,” she said after the first pull, lips puckered, eyes shining.
“Good,” I muttered. “You’re gonna need it.”
We wandered slowly, her sipping as we walked, the massive slush keeping her hands occupied and her stomach settling for what was next. Every few feet, I’d glance down at her belly, noting the way it gently curved under her shirt, soft and familiar now. The sugar was already making her giddy, and I knew she didn’t realize how fast she was moving, how much she’d soon be putting away. But I did.
The lemonade slush was still in her hand, but the moment we turned the corner, her eyes locked on someone walking past, some frat guy in a Lockwood University hat with a massive jumbo corn dog in hand, glistening with grease and mustard.
Her head swiveled. “Where do we find that?” Her voice was breathy, almost reverent. I followed her gaze and nodded toward the red-and-white striped booth to the left. “Right there. Sit. I’ll get it.”
Three tickets ripped clean. The vendor passed me the corn dog wrapped in wax paper, hot and heavy in my hand, mustard in packets on the side. When I turned, she was already parked at a small table under the glow of string lights, licking the rim of her slushy cup. I handed her the dog, and she grinned like I’d brought her a winning lottery ticket.
She squirted the mustard, messy and thick, and brought the whole damn thing to her lips. Her mouth opened wide, too wide, and she took a deep, hungry bite with a moan so obscene I had to physically shift in my seat.
“Jesus, Juno.” She blinked innocently at me, lips glistening yellow.
“What?” she mumbled around a mouthful.
“Don’t make that face. Don’t make those noises.”
She paused mid-chew. “What face?”
“You know exactly what face. Like you’re trying to make me lose my shit right here.”
She shrank a little, bashful, chewing faster. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I muttered. “Just know I’m about to drag you behind the Ferris wheel if you keep sucking down that corn dog like you suck my-”
“Okay,” she cut in, cheeks flushed. I laughed low in my throat and leaned back, eyes locked on her. She devoured the rest of the dog in a few more bites, tongue swiping at the mustard clinging to the corner of her mouth. Every motion was casual. Natural. Like she always ate this way when someone let her. And fuck, maybe she did.
Her fingers crinkled the wax paper, tossing it into the trash without fanfare. She licked her thumb. “Okay. That one was a lot. I need something sweet again.” Her hands moved to her belly where they sat resting on her girth. God she was such a tease. What’d I wouldn’t give to see her rubbing that filling belly right now. Only solution: feed the girl more.
I stood and gestured toward the nearest dessert booth. “Donuts?” She nodded, grateful.
The mini donut stand offered a paper tray of six, each one bite-sized, piping hot, dusted with cinnamon sugar. Three tickets.
When I handed them over, she cradled the tray like it was sacred. Her fingers pinched one and she popped it into her mouth whole. And then another. And another. God, I could watch her do this forever.
She didn’t even chew right away, just let the donut sit there for a second, soaking on her tongue before her jaw started to move, cheeks puffed, eyes fluttering. The cinnamon sugar clung to her lips, her oversized tee quickly beginning to cling to her stretching belly, and there, absently, almost unaware, her hand drifted to her stomach, resting lightly. She rubbed it once. Soft. And kept eating.
I slipped away while she took a minute to recover, hoping to find something heavy and expensive to help my poor girl out. My eyes settled on a treat that I knew she’d love.
The turkey leg was massive, greasy, steaming, barbaric, and I nearly moaned when I handed it off to her. “This’ll knock out five tickets in one go,” I murmured, giving her belly a few soft pats. “Might as well while you’ve still got room.”
Juno rolled her eyes but took the foil-wrapped monstrosity with both hands. She was slower now, breathier as she sank into the bench. Her thighs spread, t-shirt looking less oversized and a little more snug.
I stood in front of her, arms crossed, watching her lips wrap around the drumstick. She tore into it like she hadn’t just eaten her weight in sugar and dough. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lashes fluttered with every swallow.
I noticed the change. Her body moved differently now, like she was full, like the weight of everything she’d consumed had started to settle. She leaned back a little more. Chewed slower. The slight sway of her shoulders, the faint wheeze of her nose when she exhaled, the way she absentmindedly rocked her hips forward for comfort.
She was slowing down. I loved it. And she didn’t seem to care about anything but the food. By the time she gnawed the last of the meat from the bone, her fingers glistened. I handed her a napkin and helped her up, hand flat on the small of her back.
“Six left,” I said, brushing a curl from her cheek. “Let’s pace you out a little. Something light.”
We crossed toward the churro cart under a string of twinkling lights. The air smelled of oil and cinnamon and deep-fried batter. Juno waddled a little slower now, arms lifted barely outward like she didn’t want to put any more strain on her middle . I didn’t rush her. I only watched, full of that dark satisfaction I could never quite name.
At the cart, I handed over a single ticket and took the warm, sugar-dusted churro. Then, instead of giving it to her, I held it up.
“Here,” I said softly, stepping close enough to feel the heat radiating off her overstuffed body. “No hands. Just bite.”
She blinked up at me, hesitant. But then she leaned forward and sank her teeth into the crispy end, lips brushing my knuckles. I lowered my other hand to the swell of her belly testing for fullness as I watched her nibble. My churro hand lifted slightly with each bite, until her mouth was near my fingers.
Her eyes fluttered closed. She chewed, slowly, and then opened again, dazed, drunk on food and attention. For the last bite I let my fingers linger near her mouth after she had already taken the last of the churro, just to see if she would- and she did. She wrapped her lips around my sugary fingers and sucked, cleaning them off like she needed every last bit. Greedy. I leaned in, brushing my lips over her temple. “Good girl,” I whispered.
Juno’s belly gave a gurgling protest. Her hand moved to rub the underside, but I beat her to it, palming the soft mound with reverence.
I wasn’t thinking about the crowd or how she looked. I was thinking about the last five tickets. And I was thinking, God help me, how she’d never looked sexier.
We wandered deeper into the fairgrounds, the sound of laughter and metal rides clanking behind us, the lights dizzying in their glow. Juno moved slower now, her breaths short, her eyes a little hazy. She was clearly reaching her limit but not once had she said no. And I couldn’t tell whether that was because of my expectations, or because of her own gluttony.
“Alright, what’s next?” I asked, voice low as I rubbed her back, steadying her as she walked.
She blinked up at me, lips slightly parted. “You pick,” she said, defeated but docile. “I can’t think straight anymore. I like it better when you decide.”
Fuck. Something cracked wide open in me right then. She was slipping under. Letting go. I could see it in the way she leaned against me without realizing, her steps uncertain but obedient. And that line, I like it better when you decide, it might as well have been a drug.
I scanned the nearest row of food stalls until I found it. Something excessive. Something decadent.
“Wait here,” I said, guiding her to a bench.
Juno slumped down, belly round and taut under her shirt, thighs spreading lazily. I didn’t miss the way she rested a hand on her gut, absently stroking it, soothing herself like she already knew what was coming.
I returned with a tray of fried Oreos, six of them, powdered and glistening with grease. I sat beside her, leaned close, and offered the first bite.
“Open,” I whispered. She did. And the second her lips closed over the sweet, battered pastry, her eyes fluttered shut.
I fed her slowly at first, letting her chew, swallow, moan softly as the chocolate melted on her tongue. But she was fading fast. Fullness pulling her under like quicksand. I had to coax her through every bite.
“That’s four,” I muttered. “C’mon, sweetheart. Two more. You can do two more for me.” She whimpered, a breathy sound that made my cock twitch, but she opened up. Took one more.
“One left,” I said, voice like gravel, thumb grazing the edge of her jaw. “You’re not gonna let me down now, are you?” She shook her head weakly.
I pushed the last Oreo between her lips and watched her finish it, slow and dazed, her head tipping forward against my shoulder when it was done.
Ruined. And fuck, I still wasn’t done. I stood, tossing the tray and reaching into my pocket. I pulled out the last three tickets.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, dragging my thumb along her cheek. “Don’t move.” She didn’t. Couldn’t.
A few minutes later, I returned with the grand finale, a funnel cake. Massive, dusted in sugar, layered with whipped cream and strawberries. And she barely reacted until she caught the scent. “Dylan, you got me funnel cake? That’s my favorite, but I’m not sure I have the room.” She groaned with whatever energy she had left, which wasn’t much.
“Do you really think I’d let you leave before stuffing your face with the one thing you wouldn’t shut up about? Come on,” I said, catching her hand and tugging her upright. We must’ve been a fucking sight-me, six-foot and lean, funnel cake in one hand, the other guiding a waddling girl with a belly so round it looked ready to pop. The tight swell of it pressed against her shirt, bouncing with every step, sugar dust clinging to her flushed cheeks. She whimpered under the weight, each step a slow protest, but I still steered her toward my truck and pulled the passenger door open for her.
I didn’t hesitate. I crawled in, catching her off guard. “Lap,” Juno blinked. I patted my thighs. “Come here. You’re not finishing this alone.” I said as I took her hand and guided her in on top of me. She climbed over, settling into my lap, thighs stretched wide, belly pressing hard against my abs.
I held the funnel cake in one hand, feeding her the first messy bite with the other, the powdered sugar clinging to her lips. My now free hand stroked her side, then slid down to her bloated stomach, massaging it in slow, circular patterns as she ate.
“That’s my girl,” I whispered. “No more hiding. No more pretending.” She groaned softly, leaning back as I fed her another piece. I kissed her temple, my mouth twitching into a dark smile. “You’re mine now. And we’re gonna do this a lot more often.”
She straddled me in the passenger seat, her body soft and heavy against mine. She picked up the the funnel cake to feed herself, too eager to wait, clutching the last few bites between sticky fingers. Her cheeks were flushed, lips sugar-coated and parted around ragged breaths. The ache in her belly had turned to something else entirely, need.
I let her take her time finishing it, rubbing wide, slow circles over her taut stomach. She moaned, both from fullness and the dizzying relief of my touch. She was wrecked, bloated, overstimulated, and I’d never seen anything more beautiful.
“Good girl,” I murmured, dragging my thumb along the stretch of skin just beneath her belly button. “You ate every last bite for me, didn’t you?”
She nodded, eyes glassy, dazed. Her voice was a whisper. “So full…” eyebrows pinched.
“I know, baby. You should be.” I leaned in, brushing my mouth against her temple. “You made me so proud tonight. You let me show you off. Let me claim every inch of you.”
Her hips rolled against me with aching desperation, hands gripping the headrest behind me for leverage. I slid my hand lower, between her thighs, teasing her over her soaked underwear.
“Say it,” I demanded softly. “Tell me what you need.”
Her breath hitched, her whole body trembling from the weight of food and lust. “You… I need you.”
“Who do you belong to?” I pushed, voice rough now, lips brushing the curve of her ear.
“You,” she gasped. “I’m yours.” That was all I needed.
I shifted beneath her, pressing up hard as my hands gripped her hips, her waist, her overfed belly. Her skin was warm and tight under my palms, every inch of her screaming surrender. I lowered my pants then slipped her shorts and panties to the side. I slipped in easy, she was so soaked. I guided her movements, slow and deliberate, obsessed with the way her body moved for me, how she bounced and jiggled and whined.
“You feel that?” I growled, fingers spreading across her gut. “Every bite you took… it’s still inside you. Every fucking ounce.”
She was panting now, her head tipped back as I rubbed circles around her belly button, taunting her with praise and pressure. “It’s too much, Dylan… I’m stuffed, I’m so stuffed.” Her moans were desperate, dizzying.
“I want you like this every night,” I said through clenched teeth, holding her flush against me, hips meeting in a punishing rhythm. “Heavy. Stuffed. Begging.” Her body trembled as I whispered filth in her ear, telling her how greedy she was, how badly she needed to be full, how perfect she looked when she gave in.
She let out a choked cry, her nails digging into my shoulders. Her body tightened around me, ready to break. “Don’t stop,” she sobbed. “Please, Dylan-don’t stop.”
“Never,” I promised. “You’re mine. I’ll never fucking stop filling you.” She didn’t flinch.
She came first, loud and helpless, body trembling as her belly bounced between us, so swollen and stuffed that she didn’t know what to do with herself. I followed right after, growling her name through clenched teeth as I bucked up into her, fingers digging hard into her soft hips. Our bodies stilled in a shuddering heap, skin damp, breath ragged, the scent of sugar and sweat hanging thick in the cab of the truck.
She didn’t say anything. Just stayed draped over me, silent, dazed, completely wrecked. Her limbs heavy. Her breathing shallow and slow. Her head rested on my shoulder, cheek damp, lashes stuck together. The cabin lights were low, casting that soft golden hue across her face, and fuck, she looked… ruined. My girl. My fucking masterpiece.
I every so gently lifted her off of me and set her down lightly as I slipped into the drivers seat, taking care not to disturb her overstuffed belly. Once I realized she was out, just like every other time I filled her with greasy, heavy, food, I slipped one hand back inside my boxers and the other moved over to my phone. I opened it and hit record.
“Special night,” I murmured to the camera, voice hushed like I didn’t want to wake her. Like she was some precious thing. “One trip to the fair. Eight courses. Four thousand calories. And she took every single one like a good girl.”
I angled the camera, slow and steady, tracing from her flushed face down the line of her throat to the mess of icing on her tee, the stretch of fabric over her distended gut.
“She has a bad habit of passing out after I stuff her so fucking fat” I added, my voice shaking from my stroking.
I reached down, lifted the hem of her shirt. Her belly rose like a dome, tight, high, still twitching under the pressure. I smoothed my palm across the curve of it. She whimpered softly. That sweet, humiliated sound she made when she was too far gone to protest.
“This is what devotion looks like,” I told the camera. “What submission looks like.”
Don’t forget to tune into my livestream over on YouTube this Friday at 8:30est!
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