You’ve asked me to tell you about our future. About what will happen when we are together. What I am going to tell you is no fantasy. It’s not some kind of role playing game. These are my real thoughts about you and us. It might scare you, but after our chats last months and this week, I have the feeling I can be totally honest with you.
You want to know how smart I really am. I’ve done many studies, courses and trainings. You already know about the cultural sciences studies I’ve completed and hydro electrical engineering, which I am studying now next to a full-time job and running a household. I told you I’m a certificated weight consultant and nutritionist. Did I ever mention my study career began at the School for Economics and Retail Trade? And that I’ve followed multiple medical trainings? I even self-studied the Spanish and Japanese languages and some modules in Psychology. I love to learn, it’s my biggest hobby. A hobby that would not be half as fun, if I was not the smart person I am.
Yes, I have a very high intellect. Much higher than yours, but we already knew that. Sometimes it’s hard for me to lower myself to your level of thinking. We’ve had our arguments about that, but luckily, after three months, you start to understand what I understood about twenty years ago.
Ben, you’re just not smart. Sometimes you’re even stupid. There were times I thought you must have had an accident of some kind, leaving you with severe brain damage or so. Other times I wondered I was talking to someone with the Down syndrome or a mental illness. Your mental state stopped developing when you were just a little kid. It frustrated me, yes. But now I don’t care anymore. I think it’s cute. I decided a while ago I should take care of you. You’re such a helpless character in this big, bad world.
When we are together I’ll treat you as the lazy loser you are. You don’t have to do anything but laying around and watching television. I’ll clean the house, do groceries and clean you. You don’t have to go to the toilet if you don’t want to. Just let it all go. Farts, belches, piss and shit, I won’t mind. You don’t have to do anything at all if you don’t want to.
Command me, like a spoiled child commands his parents. I’ll be like a mother to you. I’ll love you like no one else does. I know you’ll love me too. Even when you are angrily screaming for food, cause I’m too slow. But I don’t think you need to scream as I will feed you so much. You’ll be scared at first of how much I want you to eat. My boy needs to grow you know. Pies, cakes, pizza’s, burgers. Chug it all down with heavy cream or liquid gravy.
Yeah, I’m sure your belly needs time to adapt to this change of diet. Your intestines will have trouble digesting all this food. You’ll be farting and I’m already preparing for a lot of diarrhea. But diets make you weak Ben, you know that. And I want a strong boyfriend. I want to be tossed around and I want you to do it. Crush me with your strength against walls, squash me on the ground with your weight. Show me your might, everyday we’re together. Make me proud. I want you to be jealous, beating all other guys that dare to touch me. I want to be totally yours.
I know you want to have a flabby body, but I love the bloated wrestler look you have. It looks so strong and that belly… oh my god your belly! It’s holy to me. It matches your personality, so I want it bigger. No, I need it bigger. Your poor belly will grow significantly each day. And your tits and ass will grow with it. The fat pad will cover your already thick cock. You’ll have difficulties jerking yourself. I’ll make sure that just a month from now you can’t jerk anymore at all. But no worries, I’ll gladly help you.
I want you to show off your body, giving you too tight clothes to wear. Eventually you’ll use your belly to push me through the room when you’re mad. The belly is your master, your weapon, your friend. I’ll take good care of it. It needs food. More food than I gave you in the beginning. You’ll be so proud of what you have achieved. Your dreams are coming true.
I’ll buy a special present for my boy’s birthday. A mobility scooter. You’ve always said you don’t want or need one, but I see you’re having troubles walking already. You’re legs are still too thin. They are filled with muscle, true, but the belly has gotten so big, you can’t reach your bellybutton anymore. With each small step you take, you’re having difficulties keeping the balance. The master belly has taken control, wildly moving from left to right when you try to walk. Your breathing gets heavy, like a powerful steam engine that keeps a locomotive running.
All of a sudden there is that one day… You wake up. Your belly weighs heavily on you. You’re having troubles breathing. I’m not laying next to you in bed. You hear me working in the kitchen. You’re hungry and want to crush me in your anger. You want to get out of bed, but something is different today. You find yourself unable to get out of bed. You’ve become too big to move. Fear is taking control over you. Scared of what will happen next. Will I leave you because you became immobile? What do you have to offer me now?
You hear me entering the room. Your tiny head is trapped between your pecs, unable to look over your mountainous belly. In your fear you see even your fat fingers have bellies of their own. It takes great effort to move your arms. You start asking yourself how it could have come this far. Then you see my face, smiling.
‘You walked right into my trap stupid.’ I say.
‘I’ve got you right where I want you.’
Then I show you the breakfast I’ve prepared. Sandwiches, burgers, donuts and more cream. You’ve never eaten this much before. You must think I’m crazy and become even more scared. I push your bellyfat a bit aside and take place next to you. I kiss you on your mouth, while caressing your huge nipples.
You want to beg for mercy, but before you can say a word, I force a burger into your mouth. You’re choking, but I continue to feed you.
‘I’m too full,’ you mumble after an hour.
I poke in your belly. There’s the biggest burp ever.
‘Now you’ve released some tension’ I say and take half of the pizza that’s left over.
‘No, please,’ you beg me.
‘I’m so stuffed! I can hardly breath!’
I do not listen and press slices of pizza in your mouth. Half an hour later there’s a strange rumble from deep within your stomach. You moan painfully and try to spread your fat legs. A fart and an explosion of diarrhea bursts through the sleeping room. You breath heavily. I see that you are in great pain and decide to stop the feeding.
‘No...no. Don’t stop,’ you gasp..
‘I’ll eat that last platter of donuts. I want you to be proud of me.’
I feed you the donuts and when you fall into a heavy food coma, I start cleaning the room. I take a look at you, peacefully sleeping. These feedings will continue for the rest of our lives, three times a day. You’ll grow more massive each meal, becoming the fattest man alive. My man.
With all the love possible,
Your most beloved