I feel so full, so stuffed. We’ve been here in this bed for what must have been hours, you calmly but determinedly making sure my mouth is never empty. Snack cakes, slices of pizza, Coke from the bottle, the tube where my weight gain shake comes oozing down. And my favorite, a dozen assorted donuts. My jaw feels tired but I can keep eating. I can always keep eating.
I’m not aware of much at this point. I’m positively euphoric and mindnumbingly aroused. I can feel your hand on my stretched out belly, lightly rubbing it in circles while you feed me with your other hand. I can feel my stomach straining, aching from being so full and stretched. I can feel the fuzzy handcuffs around my wrists holding me to the headboard; the ones you bought me when I joked about being your captive pet pig. You push me so far past where I ever thought I could get to. I blink my eyes, almost delirious and close to a food coma, and see your hand coming toward me with another donut. I can see the lemon filling dripping, and the powdery sugar looks so tasty on your fingers. I moan in anticipation and dread. I’ve eaten so much more than I ever have before. I want to eat so much more for you, I want you to plump me up like the fatty I was always destined to be.
I’m your piggy. My stomach is so full, so heavy. Please feed me more.