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**I want to be your fat boy** Wanna know a fantasy I have? ..
🕑 Added 2024-08-26 19:04:03 +0000 UTC **I want to be your fat boy** Wanna know a fantasy I have? It's just being your fat boy. Your blushing fat pet. I want to wake up on my side to the feeling of my belly flopped against the mattress, making it dip from the weight of my gut alone. I can hear you in the kitchen, and smell the coffee and pancakes, the hiss and pop of sizzling butter. I knead my dough with lazy fingers as I slowly wake up, the morning sun falling through the sheer curtains in dappled shafts and warming my overstuffed body where the sheet's slipped off it. I feel plush. I feel *huge*. And it's all because of you. Even once sleep clears, I feel heavy. *Slow*. Huge thighs move against each other. I feel the weight in my face, my heavy cheeks and double chin. I'm nothing but soft, thick dough now, with plush arms and tender moobs where I'd been all biceps and flat chest before you swept me off my feet and into this surreal daydream. I hear you gasp from the doorway. It's playful, but at least half-genuine. I've been gaining weight so fast lately that sometimes we both forget how big I am now. You've got a plate of pancakes in your hand, and a cup of coffee in the other, a fluffy spool of whipped cream towering above the rim. You're in nothing but underwear, and the sight of the morning sun dipping attractively in and out of the divots of your lean body makes me feel self-conscious, and I blush. You love when I get gently embarrassed. I do, as well. It's what makes this whole thing so much fun. Along with the hedonism and the pampering and the sex and the transformation, there's also the thrill of taboo bubbling under the surface. That we're doing something we shouldn't be. That we're falling down a rabbit hole together. "Oh, my sweet hog." Your voice is like syrup as you place my coffee down on the side table with the pancakes, and cup my double chin. You help me sit up, legs apart, belly falling forward and resting heavily against the mattress between them. I sit patiently while you arrange my rolls for me, but I'm eyeing the pancakes. I can smell the butter, the chocolate chips melted through them. You notice and have mercy, putting the cup in my chubby hands and cutting a thick slice while I lap at the whipped cream. Then the piece of pancake gets pushed into my mouth with the efficacy of a bank note getting fed into a vending machine. You never offer me food anymore - you *put* food into me. We both want to be sure that every pound I gain is yours. It makes me shiver. Neither of us wanted you to simply help me gain. The only way to do this right was for you to put the weight on me. Without you, I might have indulged in three pancakes, maybe four. But you've got nine on the plate, thick and dense, loaded with butter and chocolate. You slowly feed me every single one of them while I sip my sweet, creamy coffee. Between bites, your hand teases my rolls, hefts my stomach, lifts a moob, sinks into the fat of my thigh. "Look at you," you whisper - sometimes praising, sometimes scolding. My puffed-up face blushes deep scarlet. "My good little pet. Eating so nicely for me." When we're done, I'm flushed and panting, and my belly's straining forward, the weight of it making me moan. I place my hands on the crest, made instantly lightheaded by the sheer size of me. It doesn't feel like *my* body beneath my hands. It's changing so quickly. "More?" you ask, hand gently soothing the heavy flop resting against the mattress. "...can't," I gasp. My belly's throbbing, but you get on the bed with me and slowly run your hands up the accordion of rolls spilling from my sides, and plant a sweet kiss on my double chin. "I'll get you more," you coo, with a second kiss on my nose. You reach down and work your hands underneath my belly, adjusting it outwards so that it rests more comfortably. Heat fills my swollen face. I've never felt more doted on. It makes me want to be good for you. An obedient little housepet. So I settle back in my pile of rolls and wait for round two. My heart pounds as I reach for the front of my belly, almost too far away to hold, and think about how I was *never* going to get this fat. And I never would have, if not for you.
