You sit in your recliner. It's where you are most of the time. It's where you can sit comfortably.
You have a laptop tray, but it rarely holds your laptop. Most of the time it holds plates of food.
It now rests on your swollen belly that fills up your lap. I can't help but stare at the fat that fills the space beneath the tray.
You shovel food into your mouth like a professional. Every few minutes a loud burp erupts as you make more room. Consuming calories is your job. It's your most important task. At least, you act as if it is.
I know the sound of the "last burp". The one that shouts,"I've eaten everything... but in a few minutes I'm going to ask for more."
But the question is the same, every time, "Do we have anything sweet?"
I make sure to stock the house with sweets. Hiding them from you for when you really want them. If I just left them out, they'd be gone in a day. And the last thing I want is to have to tell you, "No, honey, we don't have any desserts."
But it's happened before. To the chagrin of my wallet. You have done your job: eating more food than most. The least I can do is make sure you have sweets. Even if we have to order pints of ice cream for delivery. I always feel bad for the delivery driver... ordering ice cream to be delivered before it melts.
Once you are done eating. You start to tease me. You know I'm staring at you. You know your fat, full belly is sexy. Your eyes look deep into mine and your lips curl in a seductive smile as your hands reach down to the sides of your fat belly. You lift each side, one at a time, adjusting your fat in your almost nonexistent lap.
I was planning on going to sleep at this point. After all, I have work in the morning. But how can I go to bed when there is a 360lb fat man in the living room; burps erupting every few minutes?
You haven't broken eye contact. I approach; standing in front of you, between your spread out legs. I lean over and grab both sides of your belly fat. I trace the lard down from the sides to your crotch, tickling stretchmarks on the way. I can't help but smile myself when I feel that your belly is touching the cushion beneath you, between your legs. My eyebrow raises and you feel pride at what a fat man you've become. Your chubby hands grab mine and encourage me to jiggle you.
But it's a two way street isn't it? You pull apart my bathrobe, revealing my breasts and dark blue boyshort panties. I feel you pull me towards you... your face deep in my tits. You inhale my smell: pheromones that have teased you for 20 years.
You want to go to the bedroom. You're so full, and so fat, all you can think of is fucking.
But the act itself has become difficult. We require pillows in ANY position. If you lay on your back with me on top, your hips hurt after only a few minutes (although I love touching and jiggling your belly in that position). With a lot of experience, we know that if you stand by the edge of the bed with me laying on my back, orgasm for you is possible. I still need to be on a pillow, hanging off the end of the bed... you standing over me, with your fat belly spreading atop of me and pushing me away. You grab my small legs which rest on your shoulders and use all your strength to pull me closer, to feel your dick deeper inside... warmer, pleasured, safe.
But I'm in a balancing act. If you undock, I'll need to react quickly, planting my feet on the floor before I fall.
We have it good, don't we? Both of us find fat sexy. You love your ever expanding body, and so do I. I have to remind myself of that sometimes. It has become so regular and so normal that I forget what mainstream society would think. But, I have never cared what mainstream society thinks. We live an ideal feedist life, and it's what I've always wanted.
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