You Guys Work Almost Faster Than I Can Draw! Here's The Second Part, The Poor Boy's So Hungry Now :33

you guys work almost faster than i can draw! here's the second part, the poor boy's so hungry now :33

first part

I'd make you a grilled cheese @ 3 am

hearing 'good boy, good boy, good boy, good boy' chanted breathlessly over and over while they're ruthlessly pounding you into the mattress. thats it thats the post

Thinking a lot about black nitrile gloves. Wet with my saliva as each finger gets added to my mouth, one at a time until four fingers are making my jaw ache. Thinking about those wet gloved fingers framing my cock as they stroke me with my own drool as lube. Thinking about how they shine and glisten with my desire. Thinking about the contrast with my hard swollen dick, so red and filled with blood surrounded by the darkness of the gloves. Thinking about the squelching noise as each of those fingers begins to stretch my needy hole, the friction met with wetness and moaning and intense pleasure. Thinking about cumming all over those gloved fingers. Thinking about how they will pull them off with a dramatic snap, discarding my mess with a smile.

No. The dozens of bags of Halloween candy in my cart aren't for the trick-or-treaters. The hundreds of thousands of calories in caramel, chocolate, nougat, cream, and just pure sugar aren't for the eager kids who'll come by my house next month.

They're for the lovely hog that lives in my house. The one who lays on my couch with a stomach that weighs nearly twice as much as me. The one who can't get to their feet without audibly groaning in exertion as they try to will their legs to work. The one who wears shirts that barely cover their chest, but can't even begin to cover the absolute yoga ball of a stomach that they've developed. The one who asks me to rub their belly when their arms can no longer reach the swollen front of it after a hearty stuffing session.

The one who I'm going to put in a tight, sexy costume and help hand feed the candy to on Halloween night, only stopping when the costume's seams finally pop and all the weight we just packed into them becomes easily visible as their rolls fall forward.

write about someone being blackmailed to gain weight and hating watching it happen to themselves? ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

That stupid letter.

"68kg by the end of the month. Or else I air your dirty laundry."

Dread had been clear on your face as you reread it half a dozen times. Truth be told, you were convinced you could work off the pounds the minute the black mail ended, whenever that would be.

You'd bulked up your shopping list to includes chips, cookies, brownies, cakes, milkshakes, processed and sugary foods practically dripping with calories. After nearly 10 minutes of staring, you'd finally begun working your way through the calories.

Now here you were, 3/4s of the way through the month and your pants had begun to ache on your waist. Each chew brought your newly made double chin bobbing on your collarbone and a disgusted grimace on your face. Your shirt has ridden up a good deal now, showing your potbelly that had swollen to rest on your legs. Friends had shot you dirty glances and judgemental stares and you were well aware why.

Before, you'd have been being praised for your slim figure, but here you were, laying on your couch with a stomach that felt like a stone weighing you down in place. The box of donuts rested on the crest of your swollen gut and the cream filling had dribbled down your chins, but you knew you still had a dozen or so pounds to go. With a strained groan, you got up to grab your phone and order a pizza. Nothing fit any more, and a pair of sweatpants had gone from "barely used" to "hanging on by a thread" as your body bloated from all the unused calories.

Your belly swung as you stumbled forward, grabbing a table for support as you moved with sluggish steps to your phone. The minute this was over, you'd be right back at the gym, working off every pound, fighting to get yourself back to that slim figure you knew so well. Then you wouldn't look a bloated swine.

Though the end of the month came. And all you got was another letter. And this one proclaimed no release. Instead, proclaiming:

"70kg. End of next month. Make it happen."