Chapter 5: Feeding the Beast
The chili was a revelation. It wasn’t food; it was an antidote. Each spoonful Joanna lifted to his lips was a thick, spicy, bean-studded negation of every kale leaf, every chalky shake, every minute spent on that fucking stationary bike. He ate from the recliner, the reinforced leather groaning softly beneath him. He didn’t hold the bowl. He didn’t need to. Her hands were steady, her smile serene as she fed him until the deep vessel was scraped clean and a comfortable, drowsy heat bloomed in his gut.
That was the new pattern. The world beyond the velvet curtains ceased to exist. His phone, which had buzzed with frantic, worried calls from Ashley until the battery died, was now silent in a kitchen drawer. Joanna handled everything. She brought him meals on a schedule that seemed to have no end: stacks of pancakes drowned in syrup for breakfast, fatty roast beef sandwiches with potato salad for lunch, rich casseroles and pies for dinner, with bowls of ice cream and bags of chips in the lulls between. She kept a tall insulated cup of sweet tea, constantly refilled, wedged into the cup holder she’d screwed onto the arm of his chair.
His body, confused by its brief starvation, responded to the renewed onslaught with a voracious, almost frantic efficiency. The loose skin that had draped his frame began to fill again, not with the hard definition Ashley had fantasized about, but with a soft, new layer of fat that smoothed the folds. Then another layer beneath it. He could feel it happening, a gentle, persistent expansion like dough proofing in a warm kitchen. His belly, which had deflated into a soft apron, began to reassert itself. It pushed outward, rounding, firming, rising in his lap like rising bread until the hem of his t-shirt began to ride up, exposing a widening band of pale flesh.
He moved less and less. A trip to the bathroom, just twenty feet away, became a monumental expedition. He’d have to brace his hands on the arms of the chair, heave his weight forward, and pause, winded, as his balance recalibrated over his new center of gravity—a point that seemed to shift daily further south. Walking was a slow, wide-legged waddle, his thighs, thickening anew, chafing with every step. Joanna would watch, a dish towel in her hands, her eyes soft with what looked like pride. “Take your time, sweetie. No rush in here.”
One afternoon, he realized he could no longer see his own feet. He was sitting in the recliner, a plate of cinnamon rolls resting on the vast, domed shelf of his stomach. He looked down, and the view was a sloping curve of faded cotton, the pattern of his sweatpants disappearing under the impressive swell. His feet were gone, claimed by the continent of his own body. A strange, detached calm settled over him. It was done. There was no more pretending. He was a man in a chair.
Joanna noticed his gaze. She came over, her hips swaying. She placed a warm hand on his belly, right over a button that was straining its threads. “Getting solid again,” she murmured approvingly. She leaned down and kissed the curve, her lips leaving a faint, greasy imprint from the butter she’d been using. “My big man.”
Her caretaking was total, and her desire was a constant, low-grade hum in the house. It often stirred in the late afternoons, when the light turned golden and heavy. She’d finish clearing a lunch plate, her hands would wander to his shoulders, and she’d begin to knead the fleshy pads at the base of his neck. Her touch would drift lower, over the colossal mounds of his pecs, now soft and fatty, down the steep slope of his belly.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” she’d whisper, her breath in his ear. “So complete.”
One such afternoon, the recliner was fully extended. He was supine, a beached leviathan, drowsy from a lunch of meatloaf and scalloped potatoes. The television was on, but he wasn’t watching it. He was floating in a haze of digesting food and profound inertia. Joanna climbed onto the chair with him. There was no question of him moving. She settled her weight onto his thighs, her enormous, beautiful ass pressing down into the softness there. He felt a familiar, sluggish stirring below the immense overhang of his stomach.
“Let me take care of you,” she said, her voice a throaty promise. She worked his sweatpants and boxers down over his hips, a task that required her to tug and adjust, her fingers delving into the soft spaces where his body met the chair. His cock, half-hard, lay against his lower belly, hidden from his own view by the tremendous, taut curve that rose above it.
She didn’t need to see it. She knew its geography by touch. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing into the side of his belly, and took him into her mouth. The sensation was a hot, wet shock in the sleepy room. Her mouth was expert, worshipful. She sucked him to full hardness, her tongue flicking the head, then sliding down the shaft, her lips creating a tight, slick seal. He groaned, his hands fumbling to find purchase in her blonde hair. From where he lay, he could only see the top of her head, moving in his lap, and the breathtaking, massive swell of her own rear end poised in the air above his knees.
“That’s it,” she moaned, pulling off with a wet pop. She spat into her palm, a crude, efficient gesture, and slicked him with her saliva. She shoved her own cotton skirt up around her waist. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He caught a glimpse of coarse blonde curls, of slick, pink flesh, before she positioned herself. She guided him with one hand, and with the other, she pushed down on his belly, as if fitting a key into a lock.
Then she sank down.
It was a slow, breathtaking impalement. Her cunt was hot and snug, gripping him with a fierce, wet tightness. He was buried inside her, utterly. She let out a long, shuddering sigh as she settled her full weight onto him, her ass finally coming to rest on his thighs. The pressure on his buried cock was incredible, a deep, constant containment.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, his head pushing back into the headrest.
“Yeah,” she breathed, beginning to rock. Not a bounce—there was no room for that. It was a slow, grinding roll of her hips, a corkscrew motion that massaged his entire length from within. Her inner walls clenched and rippled around him. He could feel every fold, every exquisite bit of friction. Her hands roamed over the great landscape of his stomach, squeezing the fat, pinching at the rolls that pressed against her with each of her movements.
“You feel that?” she panted, her voice gritty. “You feel how deep you are in me? You’re so fucking big everywhere, baby. Filling this chair. Filling me.” She increased her pace slightly, the wet, rhythmic slap of her flesh against his thighs joining the soft creak of the leather. “That skinny little cunt could never take all of you. She wanted a piece. I want the whole goddamn thing.”
Her words unspooled him. They were filthy, possessive, and they rang with a truth that vibrated in his bones. Ashley’s touch had been a demand for change. This was a celebration of what he was. What she had made him.
He grabbed handfuls of her ass, the flesh overflowing his fingers. He helped her grind, his own hips managing a tiny, helpless upward push. It was enough. The tight coil in his groin pulled tighter, and tighter.
“Joanna…” he warned, his voice strangled.
“Do it,” she snarled, slamming down hard and staying there, her cunt clamping like a vice. “Fill me up. Pump that fucking seed into me. Give me what’s mine.”
His orgasm tore through him with no grace, a raw, guttural eruption. He came in deep, pulsing jets, his body bowing as much as it could under its own weight. She rode every spasm, milking him with fierce internal contractions, her own climax hitting her a second later. She cried out, a sharp, keening sound, her body shuddering atop him. She collapsed forward, her torso lying across the great warm hill of his belly, her face buried in his neck. They lay like that, joined, panting, soaked in sweat and the smell of sex and butter.
After a long while, she stirred. She lifted herself off him with a soft, wet sound and shuffled off the chair. He lay exposed, spent, his softening cock lying against his skin, glistening in the low light. She didn’t hand him his clothes. Instead, she went to the kitchen and returned with a bowl. The scent of warm chocolate and peanut butter filled the air.
She sat on the wide arm of the recliner, the bowl in her lap. She scooped up a heaping spoonful of something dense and brown. “Ice cream,” she said softly. “Homemade. Peanut butter fudge ripple.” She brought the spoon to his lips. “You need to keep your strength up.”
He opened his mouth. The cold, rich sweetness exploded on his tongue. It was perfect. He swallowed, and the bite settled into a body already full to bursting, adding one more layer to the impossible mass of him. She fed him another spoonful. Then another. The world was this chair, her hands, her cunt, and this endless, sweet procession of food. There was no before. There would be no after.
He was staying. He was, finally, home. The doorbell rang.
It was a shocking, alien sound—a shrill electronic chime that had not been heard in the house for months. Jose flinched, a ripple passing through his body. Joanna’s hand, holding the spoon, paused mid-air. Her warm, sated expression didn’t change, but her eyes hardened, just for a fraction of a second, into chips of flint.
“Don’t you worry,” she murmured, setting the bowl down on his stomach. She smoothed his hair back from his damp forehead. “It’s nothing. Probably just a solicitor.”
She stood, adjusting her skirt, and walked toward the front door with that same swaying grace. Jose listened, his heart thudding dully against the press of his insides. He heard the deadbolt turn, the door open a few inches. He couldn’t see from his angle.
A voice, young, female, laced with a desperate determination, cut through the thick, scented air of the house.
“I know he’s here, Joanna.”
It was Ashley.