Chapter 2: The Feeding and the Fucking - Keyboard Conquest
The faint, sugary ghost of cherry compote and cream cheese still lingered in the air, a sweet counterpoint to the stale, electric smell of overheated electronics. Sonic leaned back in his reinforced gaming chair, a low groan escaping him as the leather creaked in protest. The emptiness on the plate beside him was a monument. He’d eaten the entire cheesecake. Vanilla had watched, her knitting needles clicking softly, as he’d forked the last dense, rich bite into his mouth, the sweet-tart compote a final explosion on his tongue. He felt it now, a solid, pleasant weight sitting deep in his gut, a foundation for the newer, softer layers of himself.
His avatar on the screen, a hulking barbarian, stood idle in a virtual tavern. The thrill of the quest, the digital adrenaline, felt distant, filtered through a haze of saturated fat and profound contentment. He scratched idly at the side of his belly, his fingers encountering not the taut, athletic ridge of muscle memory, but a rolling, plush curve. The stretch marks Vanilla had traced last time were there, fine, silvery lines in his blue fur. He pressed a thumb into the softness. It yielded like warm dough.
The door opened without a knock. He didn’t turn. He knew the rhythm of her footsteps, the delicate click of her heels on the laminate, the rustle of her apron.
“Still digesting?” Vanilla’s voice was close, just behind his chair.
“Like a rock in a sock,” he grunted, forcing his barbarian to take a few heavy, lumbering steps. The movement on-screen felt ironic.
A plate entered his periphery, piled obscenely high. Loaded nachos again, but this was a mountain that dwarfed the last. The chips were a golden cascade barely visible under a molten lava flow of cheese, black beans, shredded pork so tender it fell apart, jalapeños, dollops of sour cream and guacamole. The scent hit him—garlic, cumin, fatty pork—and his stomach, already full, gave a slow, liquid gurgle of interest.
She set the plate on the desk, deliberately placing it just beyond his easy reach. To get it, he’d have to lean forward, his belly pressing hard against the desk’s edge.
“Thought you might need some salt after all that sugar,” she said, her tone light, maternal. Her hand didn’t leave the desk. Instead, her fingers, cool and dry, brushed over the back of his neck, then trailed down his spine. He shivered, his focus on the screen blurring.
His character stumbled into a wall.
“You’re distracted,” she murmured. Her fingers slipped under the hem of his t-shirt, riding up his side. He sucked in a breath as her fingertips found the stretch marks she’d worshiped before. They traced the raised lines, a cartographer mapping the new, expanded borders of his body. “These are deeper,” she observed, a note of pride in her voice. “More of them. You’re growing so beautifully.”
He wanted to say something, to deflect, to make a joke about his high score being the only thing growing. But his mouth was dry. Her other hand joined the first, both now sliding beneath his shirt, skimming over the vast, warm expanse of his back, heading inexorably toward the sides of his belly.
“Go on,” she whispered, her lips now close to his ear. Her breath smelled of the cinnamon tea she always drank. “You must be hungry. You’ve been… exerting yourself.” Her fingers found the soft shelf of fat that now draped over the waistband of his grey sweatpants. They dipped underneath, just barely, teasing the fur there.
With a choked sound, he let the controller drop into his lap. It thudded against the prominent, unmistakable bulge already straining the worn cotton. The sweats were stained, a faint, crusty patch from yesterday, a darker, fresher spot from today’s earlier, fleeting thoughts. He leaned forward, the movement involuntary, driven by a hunger that wasn’t in his stomach.
His rounded belly compressed against the desk, a soft, doughy mass spreading out. The edge dug in, creating a deep, satisfying crease. He reached for the nachos, his arm feeling heavy.
“That’s it,” Vanilla coaxed, her hands now fully on his love handles, gripping the abundant flesh there, squeezing rhythmically. “Let me see you reach.”
He grabbed a chip, overloaded with toppings, and brought it to his mouth. Cheese dripped onto his chin. As he chewed, she kneaded his sides, her thumbs pressing deep into the softness. Her touch was possessive, clinical in its appreciation.
“You’re getting so broad,” she said, her voice thick. “I had to buy larger potatoes for the stew tomorrow. More to cover.” One hand drifted around front, palming the great curve of his belly as he sat leaned forward. She traced the path of the desk’s edge indenting his flesh. “You’re spilling over everything now, my dear. My beautiful, fat Sonic.”
Her other hand slid from his side, down into his lap. Her fingers brushed the controller aside and cupped him through the sweatpants. He was fully, achingly hard. A jolt went through him, and a piece of nacho fell from his lips onto his shirt.
“Shhh,” she soothed, her hand applying firm, knowing pressure. “Just eat. Enjoy your food. Let me take care of this.” Her hand began to rub him slowly, the rough cotton a maddening friction against his sensitive cock. He took another bite, the flavors barely registering, his world narrowing to the points of contact: the press of the desk into his gut, the weight of her hand on his belly, the sinful rhythm of her fingers on his shaft.
He ate mechanically, chip after chip, the plate slowly emptying as she worked him. Her breaths grew quicker, shallower, against his neck.
“Stand up,” she commanded softly, her hand stilling.
“Wh…?” he managed, his mouth full.
“Stand. Up.” The words were quiet but left no room for argument.
He pushed back from the desk with effort, the chair rolling back. He stood, his body feeling colossal, unstable. The sweatpants were tented obscenely, the damp spot prominent. He looked down, avoiding her eyes, staring at the ruined fabric.
Vanilla sank gracefully to her knees before him. The sight was so profoundly wrong, so devastatingly erotic, that he thought he might come right there. His elegant, refined mother-in-law, on her knees on the dirty floor of his gaming den, her eyes level with his swollen crotch.
She didn’t speak. Her hands went to his waistband. She hooked her thumbs in and, without ceremony, tugged the sweats and his boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, a bead of pre-cum already glistening at the tip.
She gazed at it for a long moment, then her eyes traveled upward, over the vast, hanging swell of his belly, up to his face. Her expression was one of pure, reverent avarice. “Look at what you’ve become,” she breathed.
Then she took him into her mouth.
Her lips were hot and wet, her tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft. She took him deep, her nose pressing into the coarse fur of his lower belly. He gasped, his hands flailing before landing heavily on her shoulders. She didn’t gag. She swallowed him, her throat working around him, a tight, slick vice.
“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, his head falling back. He felt her tongue swirling, her lips sucking, her hands coming up to grip the heavy, jiggling flesh of his ass cheeks, pulling him deeper into her mouth. She bobbed her head, a ruthless, hungry rhythm, her eyes closed in concentration.
He looked down, saw her elegant ears, usually held so properly, now twitching with each motion, saw her own body rocking slightly as she serviced him. The obscenity of it was absolute. This was not a wife’s loving act. This was a ritual. A feeding.
One of her hands left his ass and slid around to his front. Her fingers splayed over his belly, the fingers digging in, owning it, even as her mouth owned his cock. The dual sensation—the tight, rhythmic pull on his dick and the possessive clawing at his gut—drove him to the edge with terrifying speed.
“Vanilla… I’m gonna…” he choked out.
She didn’t stop. She sucked harder, her hand squeezing his belly flesh like she was milking him from the inside. With a raw, shattered cry, he came. His hips jerked forward, fucking into her mouth as pulses of his release shot down her throat. She took it all, swallowing greedily, a low, satisfied hum vibrating around his sensitive head until he was completely spent, trembling, oversensitive.
She released him with a soft, wet pop, staying on her knees. She looked up at him, her lips swollen and glistening. A stray drop of his cum traced a path from the corner of her mouth. She caught it with a finger and brought it to her lips, sucking it clean.
“Good,” she said, her voice raspy. “That’s your first course.”
She stood up smoothly, leaving him there, pants around his ankles, cock still exposed, feeling more like a slaughtered beast than a man. She picked up the now half-empty plate of nachos from the desk.
“Sit,” she instructed, nudging the chair toward him.
He collapsed into it, his body a boneless heap. She placed the plate on his bare thighs, the heat of the food seeping into his skin. She then picked up a single, cheesy chip and held it to his lips.
“Open.”
Dumbly, he obeyed. She fed him the nacho, her fingers brushing his lips. She fed him another. And another. He ate, his mind utterly blank, his body humming with submission and sick, dark pleasure. Each bite was an affirmation of her control, each swallow a sealing of his fate.
When the plate was empty, she wiped his chin with her thumb, then sucked the grease and cheese from it.
“Tomorrow,” she said, her eyes gleaming in the neon screen light, “we start on the pancakes. The special mix. I want to see how much syrup this new belly of yours can hold.”
She turned and left, the door clicking shut softly behind her.
On the screen, his barbarian avatar had been slain by low-level rats. The ‘Game Over’ message flickered, casting its cold, blue light over the empty plate on his lap, the stain on his sweatpants, and the profound, irreversible softness of his body.