Thought I’d leave this here :)
Peter Solarz
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Janaina Medeiros
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Origami Around

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@xoffaox
Thought I’d leave this here :)
Half a Ton of Love: 500 for 500
You promised your followers a reward for hitting 500, but the real celebration is sprawled out across your bed....five hundred pounds of pure, shameless indulgence.
Your man fills the mattress, his belly heavy and gloriously soft, resting off to one side as one plush, round love handle swells out from his side, begging to be squeezed. His thick chest rising and falling as he looks at you with that half-starved, half-devoted gaze.
“Think you can handle all this, gorgeous?” his voice low and teasing, but with a tremor of anticipation as he slides his hands over his massive gut, squeezing the thickest roll between his fat fingers, offering it up to you.
Your mouth waters as you watch his belly wobble and jiggle under his hands. The glint in his eye tells you he knows exactly what he's doing to you...how wet it makes you when he touches himself like that.
“Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.” You reply, not able to keep the huskiness out of your voice...you grin wickedly, crawling up beside him, balancing a tray loaded with slices of cake, brownies, fudge, and a bottle of thick, sticky chocolate sauce.
You set the tray on the bed and let your hands roam. His skin is flushed, warm, stretching taut over the roundness of his belly; hes already full from the decadent dinner you fed him...now its time for dessert.
You graze your hands over his nipples and feel them harden under your hands...
You roam lower and grab a thick handful of him and bite him hard ....he groans loudly, his cock twitching beneath the mountain of his gut.
“First bite’s for me...and now it's your turn" You purr as you shove half a slice of cake into his mouth. He takes it eagerly, eyes fluttering shut as he chews, moaning softly. You drizzle chocolate sauce on both of his swollen nipples and lick it off..then suck hard making his gasp. He’s trembling, already short of breath, but you can tell he’s aching for more.
You feed him bite after bite, alternating between sweets and filthy, whispered promises.
“Let’s see how much you can handle tonight, baby. You gonna make a mess for me? You gonna show off what a greedy, hungry boy you are?”
He nods, mouth too full to answer, eyes blown wide with lust.
You slide down his body, kissing and biting your way over rolls and folds, worshipping every inch of him. You wedge your hands under the heavy swell of his belly, lifting it just enough to expose his cock—thick, hard, flushed deep red, almost swallowed up by his size. You lick a long, slow stripe up his shaft and watch him writhe, his hands gripping the sheets.
You stroke him slow, then faster, using both hands and your mouth, teasing the sensitive head, dragging your nails over his hip and under his gut. He’s helpless, moaning, panting, his whole body jiggling with every movement. “Fuck—oh, god, babe, I’m—”
“Not yet,” you command, pinning his hips with your weight. “You’re not done for me, are you?”
He whimpers, shaking his head, but you see the desperation in his eyes. You climb back up, straddle his chest, and place a bit of chocolate sauce on your clit and then lower yourself onto his mouth so he can taste you—his tongue greedy, sloppy, eager to please. You ride his face, grinding against his mouth, his hands kneading your ass as you shudder and gasp.
Your throbbing, swollen and so wet you're dripping as you open your legs as wide as they go to straddle his hips.
You lift his heavy gut out of the way and slowly sink down onto him, the friction from his fat pad and his heavy belly settling into you almost pushes you over the edge again....
You remember when he was half this weight...you can't believe how fucking fat he's gotten. It was almost surreal....
You ride him hard and he lays there helpless under the weight of his belly, trying to grab you but you just shove a brownie in his mouth...slowing down until he swallows for you.
"I want you to finish them for me...every bite. Do it for me baby...you already how hard I can make you cum..."
He wimpers as you squeeze him inside you, pump your hips, and then slow down. You pinch his nipples when he takes another bite...he's rock hard inside you.
You tell him how sexy he is, you massage his belly and watch it swell between you until its almost all you can see...you tell him you want him even fatter as the massive mound bounces and shakes between you as you fuck him senseless...
When you finally let him come, it’s explosive—his cock gets impossibly harder and then hot cum fills you as you keep riding him, milking him as he gasps for breath, sweat pouring down his face, the bed creaking under his weight.
You collapse beside him, tangled in frosting, crumbs, and sticky satisfaction, both of you laughing, spent, and happy. You press a kiss to his lips.
“Happy 500, babe,” you whisper, and he grins, utterly wrecked, utterly yours.
☕️ Support my art & belly-loving ways:
🧁 https://ko-fi.com/Bacchusbride 💖
🥵😍🥵
date idea: you agree to "taste test" my gainer shake recipe and i end up funnel feeding you the entire pitcher
please get hopelessly addicted to fast food, eat with both your hands and ask for more in between bites
then beg me to pleasure you while you are eating because your brain is so fried you need excess of all kinds to feel any sort of pleasure💞
Today’s my birthday:))
dream date: we go on a 2-week vacation and you come home 20 pounds heavier
It’s time to embrace being fat.
You’re not the fit athlete anymore. Muscular gym guy. Toned gym bunny. You’ve gotten chubby. And there’s no stopping now.
The gym is for fit people like me. You belong on the couch, surrounded be snacks. Mindlessly watching tv as you binge on nothing but empty calories.
Your belly pushing further and further over your waistband. Love handles poking out. Ass pressing against seams on your pants.
People will be confused. A fit hottie like me walking around next to a pig like you. My toned tummy on display. Your fat belly hanging out.
A perfect example of our contrast.
So go on pig.
EAT.
Make mommy happy🥰
Okie I’m rly shy about this but this is me :3
no one gets fatter faster than someone in love
Look at that big, fat, round thing… so beautiful and perfect. How heavy it is, how encumbered it makes you.
How it jiggles when you move, slow rolling of flab from side to side.
How it makes you waddle.
So gorgeous.
So feed the gut. Stretch out. Make yourself fatter.
If you suck in your belly and you still can‘t see your 🍆 no matter if it‘s hard or not…you can be very proud of yourself🙂↕️
Wanna sit on top of you straddling your hips, your belly is spread all over my lap. I feed you by hand with your favorite chocolate cake. I hear your moans from fullness and pleasure, but I can feel your boner, you’re getting aroused by your own helplessness and greed. Will you ask me to stop and get into your pants, or will you continue to enjoy the incredible chocolate taste of the cake continuing to be a weak-willed glutton?
Saw a college friend after almost a year, and well, here’s the story while it’s still fresh haha.
I went out today and had a pretty good time. A couple of weeks ago i was texting with a friend from college. We graduated last year and well, it´s been over a year since I saw her for the last time. We made plans to eat something today and it went pretty good. When she came out of the elevator her eyes did a double-take, scanning me up and down. The thing is, in the last 2 years i packed up some good weight, especially in this last one. Since i joined this community i have just gotten a lot heavier. Also, the conversation wasn´t in english but i´ll do my best to write it down as exactly as my memory allows me to. Also, quick context, we are really good friends, but we have made up in parties and we were friends with benefits for a short period of time.
“Wow! You look… uhm, chubbier haha."
I got red and laughed it off nervously. I was wearing a t-shirt was feeling a little tight, especially across the chest. My moobs have really rounded out lately, and the fabric was straining. You could see that button just fighting to keep everything together haha.
“Seriously,” she continued, poking my stomach through the shirt. “Your belly looks so bigger haha. And look at these!” She gave my chest a playful squeeze. “You’re gonna pop a button haha!”
After catching up for a minute, we went inside a restaurant. It is a wings and boneless reastaurant, and today they had an all you can eat promotion. Maybe that´s why she suggested it. I should have known what was about to happen. We got a booth and she ordered the first two plates for us. We kept chatting a bit to catch up, about the typical stuff, relationships, work, parties, you know.
“Come on, you can finish that,” she’d say, nudging the basket of wings toward me. “A belly that big has to have more room than that.”
I listened. I don’t know why, but the combination of the teasing and the command in her voice was intoxicating. I finished the first two orders, the spicy sauce already staining my shirt.
“See? I knew you could.” she said, and immediately flagged down the waiter for two more orders.
This became the rhythm. Eat, order, repeat. By the eighth order, I was feeling incredibly full. My gut was a solid, heavy sphere pressing firmly against the edge of the table. I had to sit back slightly. She noticed immediately. Without a word, she slid out of her side of the booth and came to sit next to me, on the outside, so I was trapped against the wall. “There, now we can push the table back a bit. Make more room for that big belly.”
She didn’t just push the table, though. As the next basket arrived, she put her hand on my belly. At first, it was just a warm, steadying weight. Then, as I reluctantly started on the new wings, she began to rub it. Slowly and firmly over my stomach. I gasped around a mouthful of food. The pressure was intense, almost too much, but it also felt amazing.
“Look at you,” she whispered, her mouth close to my ear as her hand worked over my distended gut. “You’re so full, but you’re still going. Your poor shirt is losing the battle. Just one more wing. Come on. Stuff it in. I want to feel it get even tighter.”
I don’t know how I did it, but I finished that order and part of another. I was in a daze, focused only on the feeling of the food piling inside me and her hand massaging it, encouraging it. Finally, I had to admit defeat. I raised my hands in surrender, a deep, fullness making it hard to even sit up straight. She just smiled, a lookof sasfaction on her face. We paid the bill an she and helped me out of the booth.
Walking to her car was a journey. I was waddling, my belly leading the way, feeling heavy and incredibly sensitive. We got to her car and she threw herself over me. I was a bit shocked but also really turned on. She opened my t-shirt revealing my bloated stomach adn she went down on me like she have never done it before. It was one of the best blowjobs I have ever gotten. She kept going wuile trying to lift my bloated belly, and played with my moobs every now an then. I was looking around to see if there was no one close, but that made it more exciting. After we were done she drove me home, her hand resting on my stomach the entire time, giving it little pats and squeezes.
She dropped me off with a kiss on the cheek and a final, meaningful grope. "I can’t wait to see how much more you can hold next time.”
Now I’m lying on my bed, still bloated af, like for real, my belly looks so huge. And it was an amazing experience. I have never done something like this before, but now i´m thinking about doing it again. stuffing my face and letting someone feed me. I´m seeing her again next week, allegedly just for have some drinks, but who knows, i would love it if we do something similar again. Also, i had no idea she was into this. We talked a bit about some kinks and sex experiences so maybe that was what made her do that today. But anyways, that´s all for today. Goodnight. Also, sorry for the poor redaction or mistakes, English isn’t my first language.
Respect slim feedees just starting out.
Respect feedees who want to lose some weight.
Respect feedees taking their time.
Respect feedees that don't wanna gain anymore (like, maintaining their goal weight)
Respect feedees with different weight distributions.
Respect the feedees who value their privacy.
Respect is hot ❤️
Sorry, ex-jocks with muscular ball bellies, but it's a no from me. I need my man to look like an androgynous blob with boobs bigger than mine, a fat pad so large it swallows up his manhood, and a pear-shaped silhouette from behind that's nearly indistinguishable from an obese woman's.
If you’re not actively eating something right now, what are you doing? Stop what you’re doing, grab a meal or snack, then I want you to devour that while thinking about me. I want your free hand on the fattest part of your body. Jiggle it for me. Maybe it’s you tits. Why don’t you give that nipple a slight squeeze and twist. That’s me biting it. Imagine me looking up at you with a demanding whisper saying I need you fatter. I need more to sink my hands into because piggy let me tell you I so desperately need you bigger. Just the thought of you helplessly fat and fiendishly gluttonous drenches me. Please tell me that you’re getting up right now to grab something delicious to eat. I won’t ask twice.
Poor Thing
Poor thing… I think as I watch him from across the sofa, slouched into his seat, greedily scooping up heaping bites of ice cream from the quart cradled in his pudgy hands. He doesn’t even seem to register how much he’s eating. His eyes are glazed, locked on the TV screen, while his mouth keeps working, bite after lazy bite. His shirt is riding up high, stretched so thin across his belly that the lower curve of it hangs bare, soft and heavy and clearly full. The fabric bunches just beneath his chest, pulled tight by the sheer size of his gut, and the athletic shorts he’s wearing cut deep into his waistline, digging into the thick softness there and making the swell of his stomach seem even more obscene.
I swear I never meant for it to get this bad.
Okay…maybe that’s a lie.
It’s more like…I wasn’t doing anything to stop it. The signs were all there, of course. I just chose not to see them. Or maybe I did see them, and leaned into it. Played dumb. Smiled and encouraged it to happen.
I still remember the first time he outgrew something he loved. It was that one good pair of jeans, his favorite, tucked away all summer. He pulled them out when the weather started to cool again, ready to dive back into a part of his wardrobe he hadn’t touched in a while. I watched discretely from the bed as he stepped into them with casual confidence, only for that expression to shift almost instantly—first confusion, then a flicker of panic as he tried to tug them over his hips, then quiet embarrassment when they wouldn’t button. He stood there for a second, sucking in his stomach like that might help, then gave up with a frustrated grunt. I pretended not to notice when he peeled them off and shuffled back to the closet, looking for something looser. Something with a bit more stretch.
My involvement wasn’t all that direct back then. Not really. If anything, it was more him than me. He’s the one who always had the appetite. I just…created the opportunities. Encouraged nights out, hinted at ordering appetizers, nudged him toward dessert. But I never forced him or anything.
Still, I have to admit—seeing that little belly on him, watching it grow from barely noticeable to something round and obvious, feeling that extra bit of softness in bed... ugh, it just does something to a girl, y’know?
Maybe that’s when I started to push it. Just a little.
I only vaguely remember convincing him to let me take over most of the cooking. It wasn’t easy, just so you know. I’ve never met a man who loved being in the kitchen as much as he did. The way he used to talk about it, experiment with new spices, spend whole evenings perfecting a sauce… it was a part of him. Or at least, it used to be. He doesn't talk about it much anymore. That spark is quieter now.
But really, how else was I supposed to sneak in all those extra calories?
The extra cheese melted into his pasta sauces, the heavy cream that thickened everything just right, the obscene amount of butter I’d fold into his scrambled eggs or spread over his toast until it shimmered. He never questioned it, and I genuinely don’t think he’s ever noticed. If anything, I think he appreciated the gesture. Someone cooking for him, taking care of him. It worked too. Right around then, people started to notice the gain. It was subtle at first. I’d notice a couple double takes here and there, or a glance at the tighter fit of his clothes, or someone’s lingering stare when he sat down and his belly pressed against the table edge.
There was this one time, when we were out to dinner with friends, nothing formal, just a casual little group hang at a local spot. He was scanning the menu, chatting casually about what he might get. Something hearty, probably. I could hear the ease in his voice, the way he leaned back in his chair, already hungry, already planning.
And then one of his friends, half-laughing, goes, “Try a salad maybe?”
The whole table went quiet. Not for long, just a few seconds. But everyone felt it. Everyone knew exactly what that comment was about, what it was referencing. His belly. His appetite. The way his jaw clenched slightly in response, how he lowered the menu just a bit.
A few of the others stepped in quickly, scolding the guy, calling him out for being rude. Not too harshly, just enough to move things along, change the subject. He laughed along too, sort of, but I saw it in his face. That little shift. The way his posture sank just slightly lower in his chair.
I made sure to spend the rest of that night comforting my plump man. Subtle touches along his back, soft looks and smiles whenever he hesitated over another bite. My hand resting gently on his thigh. Every little gesture saying, You’re fine. Don’t listen to them. Eat.
He was grateful. I could feel it in the way he leaned into me, let himself be reassured. But yeah—he was bothered. Even if he didn’t say it.
But he didn’t really do anything about it, about the comment or his weight in general. Not right away, at least. It wasn’t until months later that he finally made an effort. I’m still not sure what gave him the push. Maybe a photo or another comment, maybe just catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror one morning. Whatever it was, one day he came home and casually mentioned he’d joined a gym.
That was a dark time for me.
It killed me, knowing he was out there sweating off everything I’d worked so hard to grow. Every ounce of softness, every roll, every inch of that thickening belly—threatened. I tried everything to derail it. I’d cook something heavy and indulgent. Biscuits and sausage gravy, cheesy pasta, rich curries, anything to weigh him down and tempt him into a food coma before he could even lace up his shoes. If that didn’t work, then the moment he’d get ready to leave, I’d suddenly be in the mood, pulling him toward the bed, whispering distractions against his neck.
None of it worked. He was dedicated.
For about three weeks, he went five days a week like clockwork. Gym bag in hand, shaking off any sluggishness like he had something to prove. I hated it. Every day felt like backsliding, like watching progress get erased in real time.
But then… things started to shift. The five days became three. The three turned into one. Soon it was more of a “whenever I can” sort of thing, which really meant barely at all.
So what did I do? I cancelled the membership.
One night while he was out, I got on his laptop, logged into his account, and straight up cancelled it. No hesitation. No warning. Just—click—gone. I half-expected him to find out right away, maybe the next time he tried to check in. I was a little afraid he’d realize I had done it. Or even worse, feel motivated enough to start it back up and actually start going again.
But no. The next time he left for the gym, he came back barely half an hour later, still dressed in those snug gym clothes. No sweat, no towel, just a vaguely confused, indifferent look on his face. He dropped his keys, kicked off his shoes, and shrugged as he walked past me into the kitchen, like he hadn’t even wanted to go in the first place.
He seemed almost relieved, actually.
In the end, I did him a favor. All that strain, all that pressure, it wasn’t him. It never really was.
I’m not sure exactly how big he was by then. 280, maybe? Definitely somewhere in that range. A significant leap from his original 195. And it showed. The change was obvious, unavoidable. His belly had grown heavy and full, round enough to rest a plate on. His face was softer, fuller, framed by thick cheeks and the start of a double chin. He moved slower, took up more space, felt heavier in every way.
I loved it.
What’s interesting, though, is how much easier it got from there.
There was this strange stretch of time, just a couple months later, where his whole mood seemed off. Irritable, withdrawn, more sensitive than usual. He’d always been a little self-conscious, ever since the weight started creeping on, but this was different. It wasn’t just insecurity, something had shifted. He shut down, closed himself off from me, from everything. Grumpy is probably the best word for it. Quiet and grumpy, like he was living under a little gray cloud that wouldn’t lift.
And maybe it’s unrelated, but that was right around when I found the bathroom scale shoved deep into the back of the linen closet. Like, way back. Wedged behind stacks of folded sheets and backup rolls of toilet paper, half-hidden like it had been put there in a moment of embarrassment. Which might not seem that weird, but the scale had always been in the same spot: right in the corner of the bathroom, out in the open. And then one day… it wasn’t.
My theory? That’s when he hit 300.
He probably stepped on the scale one morning, saw that cruel little number, and decided he never wanted to see the scale again. Declared it the enemy. Banished it.
And for a moment, I felt bad. Barely. But I did. I do have a soul, if you can believe it.
Still, I didn’t let up. How could I?
Because along with the moodiness, something else started to change too—his appetite. It sounds crazy, but I swear it got worse the more frustrated he got. Like he was trying so hard to hold the line, to stay under 300, and when he lost the battle, when that leading number became a 3 instead of a 2, he just… gave up. Gave in. Said “fuck it” and stopped fighting.
Suddenly, he never turned down seconds. Sometimes he’d even agree to thirds if I felt bold enough to push it. If I rubbed his back and smiled just so, or left the platter sitting nearby and nudged it gently toward him. I didn’t even have to say anything sometimes. He’d hesitate, sigh, mutter something under his breath, and scoop more onto his plate. Like he was in a battle with himself.
And then there’s the junk food, too. I had already been making an effort to keep more and more of it in the house—chips, cookies, candy, soda, y’know that kind of thing. But eventually it got to a point where I’d buy enough for two weeks and it would all be gone in days. Quietly, steadily, without a word. I’d open the pantry and find empty boxes tucked behind full ones, soda cans in the trash even when I hadn’t seen him open any. Sometimes I’d hear the crinkle of wrappers coming from the kitchen late at night, long after we were supposed to be asleep.
Now you understand why I couldn’t let up. How could I possibly give up that kind of opportunity? His appetite was growing right alongside him, and I had to leverage it for the better. And the bigger.
And don’t worry, his mood eventually improved. It didn’t take long, actually. All that dopamine from the constant stream of rich, addictive food perked him right back up. Just kidding. But whatever it was, it softened that edge he’d been carrying. Before long, he was back to his (relatively) energetic, happy, eager self. Although… maybe a little too eager.
Because that’s when things started to barely, sorta, kinda get just a teeny bit out of control.
In my defense, I didn’t expect him to start gaining so fast. And I certainly didn’t plan for it. But he was feeding himself just as much as I was feeding him, so honestly…what was I supposed to do? He was always hungry. Constantly. If I didn’t get food in front of him quickly enough, he’d go rummaging through the kitchen for his own “snack,” which was rarely ever small. I’d walk in to find him halfway through a footlong sub he’d thrown together himself, or slathering half a tub of cream cheese onto an entire sleeve of bagels. And then, of course, he’d still eat the dinner I made, every bite, no matter how full he already was.
And I know what you’re probably thinking. That I took advantage of that behavior. That maybe I intentionally dragged my feet getting dinner on the table, leaving him to get ravenous and “forcing” him to stuff himself on pre-dinner snacks. Adding hundreds, sometimes thousands of extra calories before the main meal was even served.
Well, you’d be wrong.
I didn’t force him to do anything. If dinner took a bit longer, then it took a bit longer. Not my fault. I was in the kitchen, doing my part. He’s the one who couldn’t help himself.
And besides, there were plenty of other things that fattened him up that I genuinely had no control over. Things I never encouraged, never suggested. Natural consequences of a growing appetite in a growing man.
In fact, I’d say a big contributor to him somehow ending up at 400 pounds was all the fast food.
It started slowly, like most things. Just the occasional stop on his way home. Something convenient, something easy. But before long, he was walking through the door with his arms full: bags brimming with fries and double-stacked cheeseburgers, boxes packed with donuts and pastries, entire buckets of fried chicken with all the sides. And not just a little either—mountains. Staggering amounts that even I had trouble believing. And then I’d watch, wide-eyed, as he put it all away like it was nothing.
On my life, I had nothing to do with that.
…Well. Maybe that’s not entirely true, now that I think about it.
I might have given him a small taste for it, what with all the takeout we’d started to order. Listen, fattening someone is hard work, okay? I wasn’t always in the mood to make the huge, calorie-dense meals he’d grown so used to. Sometimes a girl just needs a night off. But the feedings couldn’t just stop. So ordering in became the perfect substitute.
Honestly, it’s one of the easiest ways to make sure someone overeats, if you’re looking for advice. You don’t even have to try. The portions are massive, the flavors are addictive, and the calories are way higher than they seem. So yeah, I’d order a pizza…or three. Or some barbeque, or big saucy containers of noodles, or whatever deep-fried, carb-heavy, sugar-drenched comfort food sounded good that night. As long as it was rich, filling, and fast.
Sue me.
I mean, how was I supposed to know he’d be so… susceptible to the pleasures of unhealthy food? Once the habit started, it was like a switch had been flipped. He wasn’t waiting on me anymore. He was feeding himself, and doing a damn good job of it, too.
And besides, let’s not forget all the biological factors at play. Genetics. Metabolism. Hormones. Clearly, I don’t have any control over those.
But they do seem to work in my favor.
I could’ve only dreamed he’d put on weight so quickly—and in all the most perfect places. He’s just so round now, so wide and heavy in the most delicious ways. Most of it pools in his belly, of course, that massive, soft dome that spills into his lap and shifts with every little movement. But the rest of him has plumped up so well, too. His chest has blossomed into these thick, pillowy moobs, so soft and plush and impossible to miss under even his loosest shirts. His hips have spread out too, cradled in thick love handles that fold seamlessly into the rest of his blubber. There are no hard lines anymore, just a continuous, luxurious swell of flesh.
God, I just want to melt right into him.
I try not to make it too obvious how much I enjoy his body. I keep my hands respectful. My tone casual. My glances brief. But still… I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some idea. If he’d pieced together by now that I don’t mind the weight. That, in fact, I might like it a little.
Sometimes I wonder what he’d say if I brought it up. If I looked him in the eye and told him I was worried about how much he’s gained over the years. What would he do? Would he panic? Try to lose it? Could he?
I like to think I’ve changed things too much for that now. That the version of him who might’ve fought back, might’ve cared enough to resist, is long gone. That he’s so down bad that any form of weight loss would be near impossible. And to be perfectly honest—I don’t really want it to be possible. I know I said I didn’t mean for it to go this far, but now that it has… I don’t really see why it has to stop? Do you?
I glance back at him on the couch, watching him scrape up the last sticky remnants from the bottom of the ice cream carton. His “little snack” is clearly finished, but I can already see it in his eyes that he’s not done. He’ll be wanting more soon.
And so will I.
More of him. A bigger him. Yeah… I’m sure now. No more than a hundred more pounds. Maybe two hundred, max.
Ugh, how exciting! And he has no idea what’s coming.
Poor thing.
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this was incredible!!!