Live To Eat @virginiagainer - Tumblr Blog

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I feel there really isn’t enough talk on here about the joy of e a t i n g. Not because you’re hungry, not because “it’s been a while, I probably should”, but because it’s become so intertwined with who you are, and what’s gotten you to this point in your relationship with gravity, that’s it’s, honestly, erotic.

It’s only been 45 minutes since you had a 4,000 calorie breakfast, stop off at this gas station for a couple candy bars and some chocolate milk. You deserve it. You grab extra for when you get home, but it never makes it. You see Little Debbie Christmas Cakes on display, so you pick up a box in addition, but find you’ve eaten it all before you hit the driveway. You’re already planning your lunch at 12, debating which buffet you’re going to and it’s already 10:20, and it’s a 45 minute drive. Better leave around 11, to be safe

The clock says 10:56 as you’re about to head out the door, you notice a belt looped over the top of a chair in the corner of the laundry room, dust on top of the belt. You can’t really remember the last time you even wore it, you haven’t needed it in so long. Could I even buckle it? You’re tempted to try, but it’s 10:58 and you don’t want to be late. You take your midday meds, chased with a can of soda to wash it down before you pop out the door, you know, the ones supposed to control your appetite and blood sugar? If this last fail safe doesn’t work, you might need insulin. It sure doesn’t seem to curb the appetite. Mind is a powerful thing, you know. More than the doctor accounts for.

You reach the buffet, 11:57. You’re starving. How can anyone just go to a sit down restaurant and eat a single plate and be good, you wonder. Those thoughts all disappear the moment you catch sight of the steamer tables. A couple plates first, General Tsos, Crab Rangoon, sweet and sour shrimp, potatoes, lo mein, fried rice, garlic bread, pizza - just to make the hunger pangs go away.

Then sushi. A plate full, drizzled with soy sauce. Another with crawfish, mussels, hot and sour soup. You go back for more. You’re what, 7-8 plates in? You forgot to keep track. You’ve probably had what, half a gallon, collectively, of sweet tea now? Got to get your moneys worth. You really do wonder how in the world the button on your pants hasn’t snapped in the middle again. It’s really digging in and it hurts slightly. Probably time to go up a size. Of course, if you were honest with yourself you know it should probably be three sizes, then the belt might get some brief exercise. But Destination XL doesn’t always stock the larger sizes, and you hate to order them. You go to the restroom and unbutton. Sweet relief. You debate briefly, whether you should leave it that way or not, and decide against it, but you realize you can’t seem to pull tight enough to rebutting it. Your overhang spills over your forearms as you try in vain to work under it by feel, as you haven’t actually seen that area in at least two years now, but fail. Unbuttoned it is. No one can see. The zipper will do, for now.

You get home, take off your shirt and pants, making a note of the size to see later if the next bump up is in stock to check later. You feel like you’re ten pounds heavier. You probably are, based on how much you have actually eaten. The thought turns you on. You step on the scale, and bend over and grin when it reads ERR-1. It’s said that for over a year now, but you’re just happy it’s still going in the right direction. You lift up your overhang with one arm and stroke yourself a couple times just for fun. Stroke is a loose term, you really bury two fingers in your fatpad and just feel around for the hard shaft. Do you remember the last time you got off the old fashioned way? Maybe try again for old times sake? Nah, that’s too much like work.

You go to the fridge, grab a quart of blueberry ice cream that’s been sitting in there, cool and melted. You sit in your computer chair, pick up your overhang again, and stuff a little vibrating egg deep in your pad. You start drinking the ice cream and once about halfway through you turn it on. Instant ecstasy. You’re getting closer, practically chugging the ice cream now. The timing is almost perfect, you finish just as you’re about to finish the container. You feel the warmth hit your underbelly and a couple more pumps dribble down before the deed is done. You lean back, supremely satisfied. You wonder how much longer it’ll be before you can’t manage it at all. The next goal, in time. You clean up, and look at the clock.

4:47. What’s for dinner?

#ssbhm #fat belly #fat #gainer #weight gain #feederism #feedee

toofattoomove

The first stage to giving head should always be lifting the belly up

your-gut-is-my-weakspot

Accurate.

Stop this

d-e-l-ete-d-deactivated20181014

writing-prompt-s

after dying god informs you that hell is a myth, and “everyone sins, its ok”. instead the dead are sorted into six “houses of heaven” based on the sins they chose.

wpsstories

We arrived first at the House of Lust. “House” is a misleading term. It was more of a camp, spread over acres and acres of lush forest. There was a white sandy beach (nude, of course) full of copulating couples. There were little cabins sprinkled all along the path, from which orgasmic moans regularly came belting out. Men with six pack abs and women with perky breasts strolled by without even noticing me and God. They only had eyes for each other, tickling and pinching each other with flirtatious giggles.

“What do you think?” God asked as we passed a nineteen-way taking place in a pool of champagne. Little cherubs flitted overhead armed with mops and cleaning supplies, thankfully. “Lust is our most popular sin.” I eyed the supermodel-like figures of a couple passing nearby, and could easily see why. “You can look however you want. Hell, you can be whatever gender you want. No fetish is too taboo, and no desire can be denied here.”

It was quite tempting, but I wasn’t ready to make a permanent decision here. “Let’s see the others,” I told God.

We carried on to Greed. We passed rows and rows of mansions, each more opulent than the next. Some of them were so large that they would have had enough bed rooms to fit my entire hometown. And so many different styles: one second, we were in a beautiful French vineyard in front of a gorgeous chateau with the Alps in the background. The next second, a warm tropical beach with a modern mansion atop breathtaking cliffs. After that, a ski chalet in Colorado with a roaring fire in a hearth large enough to fit an ox. Each one had various Italian sports cars and Rolls Royces parked in front, with the occasional smattering of boats, helicopters, etc.

“Any material desire you ever wanted,” God explained. “Your own world, where you can have everything. You want the Hope Diamond? You can fly to Washington DC in your own solid gold helicopter and buy it from the Smithsonian. Hell, you can just buy the Smithsonian.”

Also tempting, but I decided to keep looking.

Gluttony was next up. Tables and tables of the very finest foods: beautiful steaks cooked medium rare; butter-poached lobster tail; fresh oysters on a half shell; exotic wines in dusty bottles that had been hiding in the cellars of the world’s finest restaurants. Everyone had a glass of champagne in hand and simply lounged on couches and chairs near the tables, eating endlessly. As soon as the inhabitants took a bite, the food just instantly came back. My mouth watered even watching them.

“In every other House, the food is practically sawdust compared to Gluttony,” God explained. “You haven’t truly experienced heaven until you’ve been to Gluttony.”

I shook my head, and we kept moving.

Sloth was as you’d expect. An endless sea of the softest mattresses, stacked with cushions and pillows that made the story of the princess and the pea seem minimalist. Little angels visited each resident, giving them massages that made them all melt into their blankets.

Wrath was… well, a lot like what I’d expect Hell to be like. Fire, brimstone, whips, torture.. you know, the works. Except here, you weren’t the one being tortured. Every enemy you’d ever made in your real life was now under your thumb. “Lots of people choose their fathers,” God explained. “Lots of grudges against parents in general, you know. But you’re not limited to that. Someone beat you out for a big promotion back on Earth? Take your pound of flesh here.”

Then we arrived at Envy. It looked… well, a lot like home.

“Go on in,” God said, gesturing toward the door. I turned the knob and walked in… and found Emily waiting inside. She ran forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, and planted a kiss right on my lips. “Welcome home, honey.”

I looked back toward God. “Oh, don’t be coy,” he said. “You have no secrets from me. We all know that you were in love with your best friend’s wife.” She didn’t seem to hear him at all; she went back into the hall. “We all know that you just settled for your own wife while secretly pining after her. Well, this is your chance to live happily ever after.”

I peered into the kitchen. Emily was baking something, wearing nothing but an apron. Her curly black hair fell softly over her shoulder as she whisked ingredients. She turned back, noticed I was observing her, and an enthusiastic smile spread across her face.

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” God whispered in my ear.

I wanted to take it. God damn did I want to take it. But I shook my head.

God seemed puzzled. “You need to make a decision,” he told me.

“I haven’t seen Pride yet.”

He scoffed. “No one ever wants Pride, trust me.”

“Well, I want to see it.”

_________________________

Pride was boring. Just a row of workbenches in a bare white room.

“I don’t get it,” I told God.

“Yeah, no one does,” he answered. “That’s why no one ever chooses it. Doesn’t cavorting in Lust sound better than sitting here building little trinkets for the rest of eternity? Wouldn’t you rather gorge yourself in Gluttony? Or spend time with Emily in Envy?”

I considered the options again. “I pick Pride,” I finally told him.

He narrowed his eyes. “What? Look at it!” He gestured around the room again. There wasn’t much to look at. “Why would you choose this for the rest of time?”

“Because you don’t want me to pick it,” I told him. If he was really God, he’d know what a contrarian I can be. And I knew he was hiding something, trying to pretend like Pride didn’t exist. There was something special about it.

God scowled back. “Fine.” He led me over to one of the workbenches. In the center, there was a black space. A blank, empty void that went on forever. “Here’s your universe,” he said. “You’ve got seven days to get started.” He took his seat at the bench next to me and went back to tinkering in his own world. After a long pause, he finally spoke again: “You know, it might be nice for me to actually have some company for once.”