Male Feedee Smut
Disclaimer: Someone asked me awhile ago to write erotica featuring a male feedee. Since I don’t really swing that way myself, I had to take a different approach to usual and start by imagining how I might behave as a feedee (not easy in and of itself since I’m a skinny bastard in real life and very much on the supply end of feedism) rather than what I’d find desirable in a male feedee. Basically, this is a warning that I can’t vouch for the quality of what you’re about to read.
The waitress watches the man walk into the restaurant with rapt attention. He is smartly dressed to the point of parody: a sharp suit in a discreet, neat grey over a jet-black waistcoat. This latter curves outward drastically, hugging the oceanic roll of a gregarious gut. He moves with a neat, careful stride- confident, yet cautious: taking care not to push the copious width of his body into tables, chairs or people as he makes his way towards an empty booth at the back. The waitress becomes dimly aware that her mouth is watering: his presence is at once magnetic and hypnotic.
He raises a hand part-way into the air, turning his gaze on her as he does so, and makes a minute gesture- a request for her presence. She paces over, heart hammering somewhat harder than usual.
“Good evening,” he says, quietly. There’s a suppressed, seductive power in his voice.
“And to you. Are you ready to order?”
He nods, pleased, and opens a menu; points out several items.
“These,” he says confidently.
“These are all main courses, Sir…” she says, looking hesitantly at his selection.
“Yes. You’ll have to forgive me, Miss…”
“Gail,” she says. “My name’s Gail…”
“You’ll have to forgive me, Gail. I’m a man of some considerable appetite." His hand goes momentarily to his stomach, and presses it enough to squish it visibly inwards.
A crisp golden lasagna; a rich, savoury cheese tarte; handcooked oven-chips bronzed to perfection and lightly salted. Three of the restaurants best- and most ostentatiously oversized- dishes now lie demolished in front of the striking, fat man, who is delicately dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a silk pocket handkerchief.
"Gail,” he says, summoning her over, with a winning smile. “Would you do me the kindness of helping me up. I’m quite weighed down.”
Wordlessly, she pulls him to his feet. Then:
“Wouldn’t you like any dessert?”
“I would. But alas: before I can eat another thing, I must stretch myself and walk. I shall have to eat at home.”
Surprising herself, she says “perhaps you could eat it at my home?”
In the cool dark over he bedroom, she pushes him onto the bed, and he lands heavy: feeling his gut press him into the mattress with a relentless, undeniable force. She giggles, looking down at him- still trussed up in a suit that looks like it was stolen from the Costume Drama Department at the BBC, and begins to work on the buttons of his waistcoat.
Within minutes, he is naked, looking at up her. He feels slim, hungry fingers running over every inch of him. She has not yet bothered to undress herself.
Gail’s hands run over his chest- soft enough to feel plush beneath her fingers, but (despite his immense overall figure), not yet soft enough to blur the line between physical masculinity and femininity. Most of his weight is carried in the belly, which her hands knead and sink into. She can’t help but kiss it: up close, it’s a landscape of seductive flesh, smooth yet tanned. Her hands find his thighs- as thick as marble pillars: muscular things beneath a lacquering of fat.
At once, she feels his hands on her shoulders- soft but powerful: hands with untapped strength- and she feels and keen erotic thrill between her thighs. He’s pushing her downwards and she understands at once what he wants. She goes to work on his manhood with lips and teeth and tongue.
Before she can bring him all the way, he slips in one graceful movement beneath and lifts her up over him. She is held only for a moment before being dropped back onto the cushion of his physique, and at once they’re interlocked.
She rides him, feeling at any moment that all that soft, living flesh in motion beneath her might knock her off.
Then it is done and all is still.
He laughs a rich, chocolately laugh. “We forgot about dessert.” he says.
“I didn’t. I just wanted to make you work for it,” she replies.
That was a really interesting challenge to write since it’s not really from my part of the feedism rainbow, but I hope you like the one-off, male-feedee story that resulted.