I don't want to rush to an early grave. I'm not itching to die. I'll gladly take as long as it takes, be around as long as I can - the longer I do, the bigger I can get after all. I want you to have all the time to love on me you can.
But.
I don't want you to slow down. I don't want you to hold back. Being fat will kill me eventually; dying is an inevitability in life, and the health problems that come with my size will be a factor. But up until that very moment, I need to know you're going to keep going. That I'll never be big enough, that you'll always want more of me. That you'll keep doting on me and spoiling me and pampering me and stuffing me all the same, that you want me to have that pleasure and bliss until my final breath. All the health problems become so erotic because they're signs of how far we've gone, how obsessively committed you've been. How much love and affection you've poured into me to the point my body can barely handle it much longer. I'd be happy knowing that's what did me in, and that I got as big as I could for you in exchange.
















