Via realhildesoroy

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Via realhildesoroy
I've had this ongoing fantasy of being my office's communal pet pig. Everyone's blubbered up little toy to fatten, play with, and abuse to get their stress out and get through the day.
In the mornings come the sweets. Donuts, muffins, scones, and every sticky, sugary breakfast treat that can be carried in those familiar pink boxes gets delivered to my desk. People take turns shoving a few pastries in my mouth before wiping the sticky mess from their fingers onto my too-tight shirt, a couple of them give my belly a few firm slaps before heading to their desk to work. A few stay behind to watch me paw through the pastries, gorging myself as my chair creaks weakly as it struggles to support my growing weight. They have a betting pool going to see how much longer it can hold out.
At lunch time they come by with the unwanted scraps of their own meals, a few committed individuals packing full lunches just for the office pig. They marvel at my gluttony, treating me like the human garbage disposal I am, and watching in mixed pleasure and disgust as I eat everything they give me through heavy breaths and muffled burps. "Good job, fatass." they say, grabbing and shaking one of my overflowing rolls and watching my fat body ripple from the motion. A stray button flies off my shirt, and the person feeding me starts fingering the newly exposed gap in the fabric, prodding my plush blubber as they shove another large bite of food down my throat.
At the end of the day I'm waddling to get to my car, painfully stuffed and aroused from being used as everyone's tubby stress ball all day long, clothing barely hanging on, stretched over the too-full belly now hanging out the bottom of my shrinking shirt. And it's only Wednesday.