I don't want to manipulate and bully you into submission. I want you to mindlessly get so drunk at the show that you lose all shame and self-consciousness, and then just follow me, happy and contented and in love, while I drag you around to all the late night pizza dives and food trucks. I want you to look at every hot dog and funnel cake and poutine with astonishment, just grateful I let you have it.
I want you to eat them all with greedy delight, losing track of where we've been and what you've had, slowing only when your bloated belly physically starts to get in the way. You are actually confused when you try to stand up after the ice cream truck, and you can't lean forward far enough to get to your feet. I giggle and tug you by the hands, helping, and cup your cheek to reassure you that you are still okay.
You don't doubt me for a second. Your sides are tight and your stomach is starting to ache, but I massage out a burp and tell you how gorgeous you are, so you must be fine. Better than fine--you must have done something very right, because next I buy you a whole-ass shwarma and a hunk of baklava bigger than your head, and I not only tell you to eat them while we wait for the uber, but I loosen your belt and idly pat your belly as you gorge yourself on every last bite.
You don't ask if it is a good idea and you do not care that the buttons on your shirt are straining. Because once we're in the uber I'm unbuttoning your pants and kissing your exposed throat when your head lolls back, dazed. You don't question for a second the wisdom of drinking both our sodas, because even though you can now feel the bottom of your belly exposed to the air, and your sides feel like they've blown so wide that you won't be able to get out of this car, I am holding you tight and telling you how impressed you are that you finished them both.
You have to scoot over to the edge of the seat and let me haul you out of the car, glutted belly preceding you, but I'm steering you to the door, opening it, punching in the apartment code. In the elevator, I kiss you so close that a gutteral groan rises involuntarily from the depths of my soul. In the apartment, you move to waddle into the bedroom, ready to splay yourself helplessly across the bed, but I catch you by the belt and tell you, wait, not yet.
I need more. I unbutton your shirt and strip it off you, and position you, unsteady in your feet, in the middle of the kitchen. You feel fatter and bigger standing than you did sitting, belly jutting outward so far that you bump into me accidentally when you turn around. You hold it from below with both hands, supporting a weight that strains your back. You pant, watching me watching you, ready to do or say or swallow whatever I tell you to, nevermind that you might actually explode. I am so flushed that I am practically sweating.
I have found a bowl of grapes and a tallcan of beer, and I bring both to your lips, alternately. You need your hands to keep your gut from bursting, so you just open your mouth, take what I give you, chew or swallow. You feel like your stomach is inflating with every bite, pressing you bigger and fatter and tighter, so that you swear you can feel your hands gettign further apart. Your legs quake every so often, and you are somehow panting and moaning at the same time.
I finally hesitate when you can no longer belch, when you are just heaving with tight hiccups. "Are you done?" I ask, but I seem to be asking myself, like a painter examining a canvas. You yourself have no answer. It's not up to you. You are done if I am done. You focus on standing and breathing and gripping the most enormous food baby you have ever had, watching me with the same astonished adoration you have from the start. If I say you can eat more, you will eat more. If i decide you are done, you are most certainly done.
"I will decide in bed," I say, and move in close to brush myself against you, pelvis to lips, before getting under your arm to help support you. I slowly guide you to bed as you maintain a sustained moan, head resting against my head. I tell you how brilliant, how sexy, and how perfect you are. You have done everything I said, and now you are everything I need.
Even food-drunk and oblivious, this makes you reach for me in bed. You have new inches to your body that you want to show me, that you want to feel me. I stroke your whole belly in big, firm motions that make me shake and cum. You moan in absolute desperation, belly aching like you are on the brink of orgasm too, which you are. When I am slick and emptied of my own pleasure, I grip your cock and milk you until the release of pressure short circuits your brain and you pass out half way through a mumbled apology.
When you rouse again, you roll into me and leave your bloated gut resting on me, like a gift. I go back to rubbing its tight, heavy fullness until I'm shaking again, in possession of everything I have ever wanted.
I want all of this freely, unhesitatingly given to me. In return, I will guard that gift with every fiber of my being.
