
You are under me, pinned flat, swallowed by softness, crushed by curves. My belly settles on your face and chest, heavier with every bite I take. I do not stop eating, not for you, not for anyone. Grease, crumbs, bits of food--they all rain down on you because you are not my guest. You are my plate. Every moan, every laugh, every mouthful, I am feeding me and feeding your fetish at the same time. My weight is the story. Your struggle is the soundtrack. You are trapped, claimed, used for my pleasure while I stuff myself and talk about getting bigger, fatter, unstoppable.