I need you to tell me. Tell me what you want. Tell me what you desire. I need you to be vocal, to inform me. I don't want to step over a line.
You sit there, impossibly fat. Your belly covers your thighs and you can't keep your hands off of it. But I'm nervous... is it okay to touch? Can I enjoy you the way I want to?
You sit there, full of food, burping every few seconds. Please tell me what you want, big boy.
Then I hear you, "Come, touch me. Rub my belly. I can see that you want to."
I'm unsure, but I approach. Is it a trick? Then you grab my hands assertively and place them on your fat bloated gut. If this IS a trick, you certainly have me fooled.
I want to follow my instincts... to knead all the heavy fat, to gently caress your stretchmarks, to even kiss every inch of blubber that pins you to your chair. But my anxiety is sabotaging me.
You can tell, so you look down at my small hands, resting still on your belly. Then you grabbed one of them. Your soft, warm, fat hand began to guide my small one. You applied pressure and pushed it into your stomach. You spoke, "Yes, right there. Do you feel how full I am? My stomach is hard as a rock. I need you to rub it. Help me digest..."
I obeyed. I began to lightly caress the firm stomach hidden deep beneath the fat of your belly. You interject, "... no my dear... pressure, apply pressure! Yes! Circles... small circles... oh *burp*... that's it!"
I was worried about hurting you, I was pushing down so hard. Another belch escaped you and instead of excusing yourself, you said, "Burping tells me that you're doing it right. Keep rubbing me. Don't stop."
I was entranced. I kept kneading your belly in small circles. I massaged your stomach and every few seconds, you let out another gluttonous belch.
But I wanted to explore further. While one hand continued to rub your belly, my other one began to touch more of you. I reached towards one of your breasts. Your nipples were harder than your full bloated belly. I looked you in the eye as if to ask permission. You just grinned. My hand reached for it. I couldn't get it all in one handful - it was an impossible amount of fat. You chuckled, and after another burp, said, "I'm so fat aren't I? Tell me. Tell me how fat I am."
Was this dirty talk for you? I hoped it was. I carefully said, "Yes, you're huge. I've never seen someone so fat."
You closed your eyes and began to assist me in rubbing your belly. It was only silent for a second, but it made me continue to speak, "You're so gluttonous. So fat. So obese. What have you done to yourself, big boy?"
You moaned and said in a whisper, "... oh yes, I've turned myself into a fat fuck, haven't I?"
"Yes, you certainly have. Look at you, unable to lift yourself. You can barely move. And all you can do is eat, huh big boy? Your a glutton. A fat, greedy, hedonistic glutton."
"Oh God. I am, aren't I? I'm a greedy pile of blubber. Oh, I'm so heavy!"
"You can barely move. But I think I love watching you struggle..."
The moan you let out this time was filled with sexual pleasure as opposed to the pleasure of your gluttonous abandon. You tried to reach down past your belly. I knew what you were reaching for. What would be the ultimate satisfaction. I could help. But I'd rather watch you struggle to try.
"Come on, fat boy, you can reach..."
You grunt and groan as you continue to struggle. I ask facetiously, "Are you too fat? Too fat to touch yourself?"
My teasing seemed to get you more aroused. You wiggled to the side, trying to use gravity to move your belly out of the way. You were determined to reach your hard, throbbing, desperate dick. Then, suddenly you exclaimed, "Oh fuck. What have I done?! I can't... I can't reach it. Oh, please, please help me."
All I could do was smile. You watched intently as I got on my knees in front of you. I disappeared beneath the fat of your belly. You could no longer see what I was doing. But you felt it.
Oh, you needy fat boy; you felt it.
snowghoul
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
