zombiexmutt

[zombiexmutt]

That sigh of relief when you unfasten the button of your jeans, the red indents on your skin, your belly surges forward into your lap, a burp erupts from the change of pressure and now you have more room to pack more calories into you that will soon show up all over your body

[zombiexmutt]

Look at what you've done to yourself tubby. Constantly gorging like a gluttonous pig has really done a number on your waistline. Not that you mind, right piglet? No, you enjoy every new soft roll that forms on your widening frame. Every bit of added jiggle that your over indulgence created. I can hear you whining with that aching full belly, but we both know how much this turns you on. Now open wide, you're not nearly fat enough for me yet.

[zombiexmutt]

All of your clothes are starting to fit a little differently, aren't they? Especially around your bloated belly. Shirts riding higher, fabric stretched tighter, struggling to contain your lower belly oozing out from under it.

Your pants, they're starting to dig in. Hips spreading, waist thickening. They didn't used to do that. But they do now. Because you've turned into a proper fatass.

It's not just your clothes that are a reminder of how far you've let yourself go. It's your body. Everytime you sit, that belly settles heavier into your lap, protruding out further. Taking up more space than it did before.

Every laboured step you take, you can feel the effects of your gluttonous tendencies, the plush pounds, wobbling everywhere, reminding of all of your hard work.

You can't get enough. You want more. You need more. When you play with your belly wouldn't it feel better if there was just more? More to squeeze, grab and fondle. You'd love that, wouldn't you?

You never used to be like this. But now, all you can think about is more. You're addicted to fullness. Obsessed with the pleasure that comes from stuffing yourself silly. If you're not eating, you're thinking about what you're going to eat next...

You've surrendered to your own appetite. The softness swallowing up any discipline you had left. Engulfing your body in layers of lard.

Because you can't put the fork down anymore can you, fatty?

[zombiexmutt]

What 7 months of stuffing looks like

[zombiexmutt]

Bloated denial

She stood in front of the mirror, twisting sideways, tugging at the hem of her T-shirt.

“It’s sitting weird today,” she muttered. “This shirt never used to bunch like this.”

From the bed, her partner barely looked up from their phone. “Looks the same to me. Maybe you’ve just… filled it out a little.”

Her head snapped around. “Excuse me?”

They smirked — that maddening, deliberate little curl of the lips — and gestured vaguely toward her midsection. “Not in a bad way. Just saying it looks… snugger. Cute.”

“It’s not snugger.” She tugged at the fabric again, flattening it against herself. “It’s just the dryer. Or I’m slouching. Or—” She straightened so abruptly her shoulders clicked. “See? Totally fine.”

“Mmhm.” They rolled onto their side, still watching her in the mirror. “Definitely not because you had that entire plate of pancakes yesterday morning.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she shot back, but her voice had gone too quick, too defensive. “One breakfast doesn’t do anything. I’m exactly the same as last week. Or last month. Or last—” She hesitated, tugging the shirt down again.

Her partner hummed like they’d already won. “Of course you are.”

She turned back to the mirror, inspecting herself with a sharp, suspicious squint.

It was exactly the same as last week. Obviously.

She was halfway into her jacket, keys in one hand, when her partner appeared in the doorway with the laundry basket balanced on their hip.

“Found your belt in the closet,” they said, holding it up like a relic.

“Oh, thanks,” she replied, distracted. She reached for it without looking, but they didn’t hand it over. Instead, they twirled it lazily by the buckle, leather gleaming faintly.

“Wait,” they said, voice light but deliberate. “Before you take it… humor me.”

Her brows pinched. “Humor you how?”

They stepped closer, the laundry basket now on the floor, the belt dangling from their fingers. “Just—stand still for a second.”

“I’m trying to leave,” she protested, laughing in that half-defensive way people do when they’re not sure if they’re the butt of the joke.

They didn’t answer. Instead, they looped the belt around her waist over her T-shirt, the leather whispering as it slid through the buckle. “Just checking something,” they murmured.

“Checking what?” she asked, suspicious now.

They tugged the belt snug, not uncomfortably tight, but firm enough to feel. The soft click of the buckle sounded sharper than it should have. They fastened it, then leaned back to look. “Huh.”

The sound was casual, but it landed on her like a verdict. “Huh what?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” they said, way too quickly. Then, with a faux-thoughtful frown: “Just… I could’ve sworn this went in another notch last time you wore it.”

Her ears went hot, and she forced a scoff. “That’s absurd. I haven’t changed. The belt probably… shrank. Leather does that.”

“Mm.” They tilted their head, the tiniest smirk forming. “Sure.”

“Don’t ‘sure’ me,” she shot back. “I would know if anything was different.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it’s bad,” they added, and somehow that made it worse. “Just an observation.”

She took the belt from them, slid it free, and buckled it herself — deliberately one hole tighter — looking them right in the eye. “There. See? Same as always.”

They held her gaze for a beat longer than was polite, that infuriating smirk lingering, before stepping back. “Thrilled,” they murmured.

She left the apartment wearing it like that all day, even though by the afternoon she’d quietly loosened it when no one was looking. And when she hung it up that night, she told herself she’d only done it because the leather felt stiff from the dryer.

Not because it had actually felt snug.

*

She had been putting off wearing the jeans for weeks.

Not for any particular reason — at least, that’s what she told herself. They were just shoved toward the back of the drawer, under a stack of leggings and soft lounge pants that were easier to reach. But now, with the weather finally cool enough, she dug them out.

The denim felt heavier than she remembered. Stiffer, maybe from not being worn. She stepped in and pulled them up, the cool fabric rasping against her thighs. They reached her hips… and then stopped.

She tugged again, harder this time, doing that little hop in place she’d seen other people do in movies. The waistband inched upward, catching against the soft give of her stomach. By the time the button was aligned with the hole, she was already holding her breath.

And still — there was resistance.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, giving one last sharp yank. The button slid into place with a strained pop, and she exhaled through gritted teeth. She could feel the waistband pressing into her midsection, firm enough that it left no question about how it would feel sitting down.

She stared at her reflection. The jeans didn’t look… bad. Not exactly. But they sat differently. She told herself they’d probably just shrunk in the wash — even though she couldn’t remember the last time they’d been washed.

“Wow,” came a voice from the doorway.

Her partner was leaning there, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. She hadn’t even heard them come in.

“What?” she asked, too quickly.

“They look… snug,” they said, in that maddeningly casual way, like they’d just noticed the weather was nice.

“They’re not snug.”

“They look snug.”

“They’re not. They’re just… stiff. From the drawer.” She smoothed her hands over the waistband, tugged the hem of her shirt down an extra inch. “It’s the fabric. Or maybe I… I don’t know. I haven’t worn them in a while.”

Her partner’s smile curved slow, like they were savoring each second. “When’s the last time you did?”

“I don’t keep a log of my outfits.”

“Mm. I bet I could check your Instagram.”

She glared. “Don’t you dare.”

They stepped into the room, circling just enough to glance at her from the side. “Huh. You know, I’m not sure it’s the jeans.”

Her pulse spiked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” they said, voice dripping with false innocence. “It’s just… you’ve been really comfortable lately. Cozy. I’m not surprised your clothes want to hug you back.”

She made a face and turned toward the mirror again, pretending to check her hair. “You’re ridiculous. They fit exactly the same. It’s all in your head.”

“Of course,” they murmured, heading for the door. But she could feel their eyes on her even as they left.

She kept the jeans on all afternoon, ignoring how they pressed when she sat, or how she found herself unbuttoning them the moment she was alone. And later, folding them to put back in the drawer, she hesitated just a second too long before tucking them under the leggings again.

Not because they were snug.

Because she just… didn’t feel like wearing them.

*

She’d told herself the hoodie was purely for comfort. It was the kind of soft, oversized sweatshirt you could lose an afternoon in, sleeves swallowing your hands. Perfect for running errands on a chilly Saturday. Nothing to do with the fact that lately, her favorite tops felt… less forgiving.

They were in line at the café, her partner behind her, scanning the menu. The place was busy, voices and coffee grinders mixing into a cozy din. She was just starting to relax when she heard a voice nearby.

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

She turned to find Mia — a friend-of-a-friend she only bumped into a few times a year. They exchanged the usual greetings, and then Mia’s eyes flicked down briefly before returning to her face with a smile. “That hoodie looks comfy. Hiding a food baby under there?”

It was a harmless little joke, the kind people toss out without thinking, but it felt like the air left the room.

She laughed — too loud, too quick. “What? No. I’m just— it’s freezing outside. This is my winter armor.” She tugged at the hem for emphasis. “If I’m hiding anything, it’s from the wind.”

Behind her, she heard her partner chuckle.

She turned her head just enough to catch their expression — that infuriating, knowing smirk. “What?” she mouthed.

They leaned in, close enough for her to feel the warmth of their breath. “She’s not wrong,” they murmured, just for her.

Her stomach tightened. “Shut up,” she hissed, cheeks warming.

“Relax,” they said, still smirking. “I like it. Little extra softness suits you.”

She shot them a glare that was more panic than anger, then turned back to Mia. “Honestly, people are so dramatic,” she said, still laughing like it was all a joke. “I’ve been the exact same for years. Haven’t changed a bit.”

“Mmhm,” Mia said politely, sipping her coffee, and the conversation moved on.

*

She picked the top carefully — fitted but not tight, just enough to “remind” her partner (and maybe herself) that nothing had changed. Black, so it would be flattering. Paired with her favorite mid-rise jeans, the ones that had always been reliable.

She stepped into the living room, pretending it was a casual choice. “Ready to go?”

Her partner looked up from the couch — and their eyebrows lifted.

“Well, look at you.”

She forced a smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” they said, but there was a weight to it. Their gaze lingered longer than she wanted it to. “Just… you don’t usually wear that one.”

“I do,” she countered, a little too quickly. “You just don’t pay attention.”

They stood, coming closer, scanning her in that slow, deliberate way that felt like being appraised. “Mm. Guess I’ve been missing things.”

Before she could respond, they stepped right into her space and rested a hand casually at her side — except it didn’t feel casual. The fingers pressed lightly into her waist, thumb grazing the slight curve that had formed there. Then, without warning, they gave a small squeeze.

Her breath caught.

Their eyebrows went up higher. “Oh.”

It wasn’t mocking — it was genuine surprise. Like they’d expected the usual firmness under their palm and found something softer instead. They looked at her again, really looked, and she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

“What?” she demanded, the word sharp.

They tilted their head, still keeping that hand there as if testing whether the change was real. “Nothing, I just… didn’t realize it had gotten so—”

“It hasn’t,” she cut in, stepping back just far enough to break their touch. “You’re imagining things. You’ve been making these comments for weeks, so now you think you feel something that isn’t there.”

They smiled slowly, like they were turning the moment over in their mind. “Sure. Must be that.”

She crossed her arms, trying to keep her face neutral, even as she was hyper-aware of the way the jeans pressed at her hips when she moved. “Exactly.”

They didn’t press the point — which was somehow worse. The rest of the afternoon, they were just… quiet. Watching. Occasionally letting their eyes drift to her midsection as if replaying that squeeze in their head.

And she told herself it didn’t matter.

That they’d only imagined it.

That if they’d really felt something different… well, she would have noticed too.

*

They were out for dinner at a small, cozy bistro, one of her partner’s favorite places. The kind of place where the tables were close, the lighting soft, and the chairs unforgivingly firm. She’d chosen a dress she loved — a favorite black dress that once hugged her curves perfectly.

The evening started easy enough. Wine, soft music, laughter. But as the plates came and went, she felt the familiar tightness creeping back—around her waist, across her hips, the fabric pulling more than it should.

She shifted in her seat, trying to ignore it.

Then, halfway through the main course, it happened.

A sharp rip, a quick, unmistakable tear along the side seam of her dress.

Her heart lurched.

She froze. The sound echoed just enough for the nearby diners to glance over, curiosity flickering in their eyes.

Her partner’s gaze flicked down to the sudden gap revealing a flash of skin, then back up with an amused, slow smile. “Well.”

She bit her lip, cheeks burning. “It’s… just the dress.”

They leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “Just the dress, huh? Or maybe the dress was just too small.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but the sight in the mirror across the room stopped her. The dress pulled tighter now, the fabric strained, outlining every inch of her curves that had quietly grown in recent weeks.

She pressed a hand to her side, feeling the slight softness there — undeniable now.

Her partner’s eyes gleamed with that secret indulgence, the kind that said I’ve been watching this unfold, and it’s more delicious than I expected.

“You know,” they said, reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “there’s something incredibly sexy about a little unexpected growth.”

She swallowed hard, torn between embarrassment and a strange flutter of something else — curiosity, maybe.

“Maybe it’s time to accept that some things have… changed,” they whispered, voice warm but firm.

She glanced down at the ripped seam, then back at their eyes — playful, patient, knowing.

“Maybe,” she said, just barely.

*

The apartment was warm and cozy, the table set for two with an array of rich, decadent dishes—creamy pastas, buttery garlic bread, thick-cut steaks dripping with sauce, and a generous bowl of whipped, cinnamon-spiced mashed potatoes. The kind of meal designed to satisfy every craving and then some.

Her partner watched her with a slow, satisfied smile as she picked up her fork, already knowing how this night would unfold.

“Are you sure you want all this?” they teased, voice soft but edged with mischief.

She hesitated, glancing at the heaping plate, then nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. “I can handle it.”

The first bite was heaven—rich and comforting, filling in a way that made her close her eyes for a moment. Bite after bite, she ate, the meal sliding down easily at first, but soon the fullness began to press on her belly, a warm, growing weight that was impossible to ignore.

Her partner reached across the table, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Looking good,” they said with a wink.

She laughed, but it was getting harder to focus. The pressure inside her belly grew quickly—tight, taut—and she shifted in her seat, the buttons of her blouse suddenly feeling far too snug.

“Are you okay?” her partner asked, eyes gleaming with playful concern.

“Fine,” she said quickly, though her voice was tight. She tried to stand—and nearly faltered. The sudden heaviness, the bloated roundness of her belly, made her movements slow and clumsy.

Her partner stood behind her, steadying her with an arm around her waist. “Maybe just a moment?”

She sank back into her chair with a soft groan, one hand pressed against her swollen belly, which felt like it had doubled in size in minutes. The fullness was almost overwhelming, a tight balloon stretching every muscle.

Her partner laughed softly, low and warm. “See? I told you, this night would be special.”

She looked up, flushed, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and a hint of helplessness. “I… I don’t think I can move.”

“No wonder,” her partner murmured, sliding a hand gently over her belly. “After letting yourself go like this. Swelling out of proportions…”

She let out a shaky breath, surrendering to the warmth, the fullness, the undeniable proof that things were changing—right here, right now. She felt huge. Bloated like never before.

Her hand started slowly rubbing up and down her belly. Almost hesitantly. God, there was just so much of her now…

“Do you feel that? You did that to yourself. Steadily. Over the weeks. And this is the result. I can’t believe how round and big you have grown.” They stopped their little speech, dreamy like expression on their face.

“Having trouble standing up after a meal like this? You better get used to it…”

[zombiexmutt]

Just a pizza

It's a lazy Saturday evening, you don't really feel like cooking and decide to order a pizza. When the doorbell rings, you get up from your couch and pick up your XXL pizza, ready to not leave a single slice for tomorrow. You open it and an amazing salty smell fills your living room. The pizza, just like you requested is covered with almost every topping the place had. You pick up the first slice, watching the cheese stretch. You're so hungry it disappears in three bites. Then another one. And another. You get up to grab yourself a can of soda, but it's a bit more difficult than before. You shrug it off, but at the back of your head you think "there's no way I'm already full". You slowly walk to the kitchen and on your way back you look in the mirror. "Has my ass really been that big already?" you think to yourself. You sit back down, put on a stupid comedy show and get back to your meal. One slice. And another one. You adjust the waistband of your sweatpants. Another slice. Your shirt is getting a bit too tight. "I couldn't have gotten that bloated from just half a pizza" you think to yourself. Once slice, and another one. You try to get up to grab yourself another drink, but you sit back down with a sigh. You struggle once again, this time putting even more effort in that one, simple task. The moment you get up you feel your belly pulling you down. You waddle to the mirror, swaying your hips and trying to balance the new weight. Your sweatpants are barely holding on, cutting into your soft curves. You gasp once you see your reflection. "Since when does my belly stick out that much?". You sink your fingers in your new fat rolls. Your belly isn't tight or bloated, it's squishy, soft and warm. And then you look up, and gasp again. Your once sharp jawline disappeared completely under your double chin and plump cheeks. You walk back to your living room and grab what's left of the pizza. You stand in front of the mirror while eating the last slices and watch how you grow with each bite. Your shirt riding up a bit more each minute, your waistband creaking, the seams on your tights breaking. When you lick your plumpy fingers, you're twice the size you were just an hour ago. You can barely walk, your muscles get tired after just a few steps. Once you're back on your seat in front of the TV, you're absolutely winded and maybe, just maybe, thinking about ordering another XXL pizza.

[zombiexmutt]

How embarrassing. You’ve been hard at work growing out your heavy, soft belly haven’t you? I can see your pants straining to contain your growing waistline and you look so impossibly round and bloated. Did someone overeat again? Thats okay piggy, I’ll give you permission to unbutton your pants and let your huge, swollen gut spill out on to your lap. You look so much better when everyone can see how massive you’ve made yourself. I can see your t-shirt is slowly becoming a crop-top, snuggly wrapping around your breasts as your stomach swells. This picture of you might have bothered you before but you’re so obsessed with getting fatter now it just turns you on more. You live to eat, please, and grow now piggy. The fatter you get, the better you feel.

[zombiexmutt]

Talk about a BLOW out!

[zombiexmutt]

James bond villain type death 😭

[zombiexmutt]

Greedy Rapid Gains

Must have been something I ate... 😳🤭🐷

[zombiexmutt]

humble request from yours truly bc I’m obsessed with how fat you are now: can u please do a belly play video PLZZZZZZZZ :33

I need to see all of you moving. 🫠

Please enjoy with compliments from the chef.

[zombiexmutt]

redraw of this cute trend that's been going around on twt

[zombiexmutt]

Fattening someone up with the goal of making them so perfectly fuckable >>>>

Forcing rich, decadent treats and greasy, fatty meals between their desperate lips, both of you knowing that it only ends with those calories sticking to their already chubby frame, swelling them so helplessly with luscious lard

Watching them grow more docile and gluttonous as time goes on, finally giving up any resistance they once had to your incessant, constant feeding and depraved attempts to funnel them full of the most fattening concoctions you could conjure. Their eyes, once panicked at the sheer flow of calories pumping into them, now so relaxed and blissed as they gulp down mouthful after mouthful of the sweet shakes you seem to never stop pouring down the funnel they so eagerly wrap their fattened lips around.

Giving up any attempt at tying them up or restraining them, because you know they’re going to chug, chew, gulp, and swallow their way into temporary bondage anyways. Pinned to the couch by their swollen mound of a gut, panting and whimpering like they’ve just finished a workout, as if you’d ever let them expel that much energy on anything that isn’t inflating into your doughy toy.

Watching them make a total pig of themselves while your gaze pierces through them, dragging your fingers so gently along the swell of their stretchmark ridden underbelly. Knowing that your sweet pet making a pig of themselves today will make a wide, billowing cow of them tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. So desperate and needy for your touch. So enamored with everything you’re doing to them, with how you’re blowing them up with creamy fat, all for your pleasure. Making them so irresistible, so docile, so helpless, that you can’t help but press your body into theirs and sink into their expanding form. Having your way with them each and every time you lay eyes on your glutted plaything. Making them so perfectly fat, so perfectly fuckable.

[zombiexmutt]

A Vibrator Makes You Fat

Week One

You shift on the couch, not quite sitting on the cushions. You’re not uncomfortable with our little friend inside you, just impatient. “Come on!” you tell me. “What’s taking so long?”

I shrug. “Don’t you like the anticipation?”

“No!”

I kiss your forehead. “Patience, babe.”

This is the fourth time we’ve used your remote-control vibrator. I knew you’d love it, but I didn’t realize how much you’d crave the jolts of stimulating pleasure. After all, it had taken months for me to convince you to give it a try.

We’ve been together for four years, exclusive for three, and you’ve always been a proud, uncompromising top. I’m vers, and I fucking love you, but it was getting pretty damn frustrating that you refused to even consider different positions. You’re great in bed, of course. A little too great at times. Four years of your thick cock has left me pretty… well, I'm not as tight as I used to be.

And I know that what happens in the bedroom shouldn’t affect the way I see myself, but I can’t help feeling less masculine than back when I was with my twinkier exes. Plus, I have some needs that are just not satisfied.

We talked about this. (A lot.) But you refused to hear me out. Eventually, I made a deal with you. We’d do a little backdoor experimentation with a remote-controlled vibrator, the smallest one we could buy. You agreed to try it once, and if you didn’t like it, then I’d drop the subject completely.

But you fucking loved it. That first time, I might’ve gotten a little too trigger-happy with the remote, but I loved seeing your reaction. The soft moans. The full-body shudders. The instant stiffening. And you never knew when it was coming.

My favorite moment was when you were walking across the living room to grab a soda. When I pressed the button (switching to a higher setting), you steadied yourself against the wall and literally started bucking your hips against nothing. So fucking hot.

When I finally pulled it out of you, I asked if you liked it.

To your credit, you didn’t lie to me. You downplayed a little (“It felt good.”), but I knew the truth. Bucking hips don’t lie.

You still weren’t ready for actual sex, though. I wasn’t surprised. I assumed you were pretty sore.

The next day, you asked if we could try again. I happily obliged.

That time, I really wanted to keep you on your toes. I made you wait. I only pressed the button when you were walking around or busy with something. I wish you could’ve seen your face when I switched to the highest setting while you were talking to your parents on the phone. You held your breath and pounded your hand against the wall, both mortified and lost in your own over-stimulated body.

It was pretty adorable.

That was two days ago. And now, you’re waiting. This is our fourth time. You’ve had our friend inside you for thirty minutes, and I still haven’t touched the remote. I’m waiting for the perfect moment.

“You’re killing me!” you huff. Then you trudge toward the kitchen to grab one of the cookies that our neighbor dropped off. I consider pressing the button while you’re walking, but I figure you’re expecting that. (That’s probably why you’re grabbing a cookie in the first place. I know you don’t like sweets.)

I wait until you start chewing. Then I press the button. I know it’s a choking hazard, but I can give you the Heimlich if I need to. I’ve seen people do that in movies all the time. Seems easy enough.

You slam both arms against the counter, moaning as you swallow.

I release the button.

It takes you a few seconds to recover. Then you glare at me. “While I’m eating?”

I shrug. “Sorry. I’ll try not to do that again.”

“You better not.”

You grab the rest of the cookie. (It fell out of your hands.) And when you take your second bite, I jolt you again.

You shudder as you swallow. “Seriously?”

“Oops.”

I can tell you’re annoyed. But I can also see your hard-on.

That’s when I make a devious decision. For the rest of the day, I won’t press the button unless you’re eating something. I even bring the plate of cookies into the living room, just in case.

For the next twenty minutes, we snuggle together watching some horror movie. You keep glancing over and I keep pretending not to notice. You’re desperate. I’m smirking.

Then you (finally!) grab another cookie, probably just to keep yourself occupied, and I touch the remote in my pocket right when it touches your lips.

You choke this time, but not too much. “You’re the worst.” Then, your eyes locked on me, you eat the rest of your cookie.

I stimulate you again.

You know exactly what I’m doing now. You smile, because now you have some control over the timing. You can make me keep pleasing you if you just keep eating. So you do.

For the rest of the movie (not like we’re actually watching it anymore), you empty the cookie plate. I reward you with each bite. As you speed up, I slide my hand down your pants and stroke you to the rhythm of your bites and shocks. Not enough for release, but enough to take you to the absolute edge. Then I let go. Rub your newly curved stomach instead.

This is fun. I love how you moan with food in your mouth. It sounds deeper, more blissful. As you eat the last cookie, you erupt (hands-free, entirely from the vibrator’s stimulation). I see your pants dampen and your body shake. You’re like a tossed-around ragdoll. Totally boneless.

Then we sit in silence as the rest of the movie plays. All I hear is your ragged breathing.

It’s five now. I leave you there to get dinner ready. It doesn’t take long. (I just needed to heat up our leftovers.)

When I return, you haven’t moved. I expect you to take out our little friend and join me at the table, but you ask me a wonderful question: “Can I leave him in a bit longer? At least till dessert?”

I like that idea. And I like that you call it “him.”

“Sure.”

I help you up and guide you to the table. You’re so fucking adorable. Your tall, muscular body somehow looks less powerful. It’s not just because you’re limping. It’s because you don’t look in-control anymore. You still look confident, but it’s different now. I can’t explain it.

You sit across from me, excitedly surveying the lasagna and breadsticks in front of you. “Are you hungry?” I ask.

“Yes,” you lie.

Your hand trembles nervously as you scoop up your first bite. You look at me as you take it, but I don’t do anything. You expect pleasure. When you swallow, disappointment fills your face. “Aren’t you gonna…?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask innocently.

“Oh.” You assume our little game is over. You fork up another bite and fill your mouth. That’s when I press the button.

“Fuck.” The word just pops out of your food-filled mouth.

More determined now, you take another bite and I stimulate you again. The game is back on. I don’t press the button with each bite. That would be too predictable. As you scarf down your meal, faster than I’ve ever seen you eat, I realize that there is a pattern. I wait until the bigger bites, the times when your mouth is completely full. It’s more fun to see your cheeks bulging.

You figure this out. Now you only take huge bites. You don’t stop. So I keep my thumb on the button, though I still adjust the intensity. I barely eat anything. I’m hypnotized by your shuddering movements, by the thousand different expressions on your face.

You finish your plate and go for seconds. You’re desperate to keep going.

And when that plate’s finished, and there’s nothing left on the platter, you mindlessly grab my own plate and pull it toward you. I’m not sure if you’re aware of your actions. Do you know how much you’re eating? Do you even care?

Everything is finished. The table is an absolute mess, coated with splatters of sauce and clumps of meat. Desperation in your eyes, you grab all the pieces from the table in one handful and shove them into your mouth. I give you one final jolt. You shudder once and fall back into your chair.

I sit next to you, wrap my arm around your shoulder, and pull you against me. Your stomach is a solid ball, packed tight and straining. The dark stain in your pants shows me that I’ve driven you to climax again.

I rub your stomach. Its hardness surprises me. Its size does, too.

You groan. I think your brain is starting to register the pain in your gut. “You’re terrible.”

“You love it.”

***

Thanks for reading! Next Saturday, we'll learn what happens to you a week later!

I'm really excited about this story. This is my first time publishing installments of a story that's not finished yet. I plan to try a weekly release thing (every Saturday) showing "your" weekly progress. Feedback is definitely appreciated, so I can incorporate it into future chapters.

And as always check out my ebooks and other Tumblr stories.

[zombiexmutt]

Tight clothes look so good on you. Does it feel good when you wake up every morning and the distance from button to latch seems to get further and further away. Your belly seems to swell more and more each time I see you. I suppose you could order a new pair of jeans, but I want to see you push these to the limit. I want to see how much you can pile on before you can't even reach the button, or can't even get them over your growing ass. Once you've worn them to their limits, you can go up a few sizes, and I'll help you grow out of those too.

[zombiexmutt]

https://x.com/Puzzled_artist/status/1939013074238705670

[zombiexmutt]

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