“I don’t take drugs,” Deep End told me as we cuddled on the sofa. I was lying with my head on his chest, one arm across his soft tummy, as he cataloged his vices. He drank socially, but alcohol didn’t have the kind of hold on him that it did for some people. The one thing that he could really say he was addicted to? Junk food.
I giggled. I giggled a lot during this scene, partly out of nerves and partly because It’s very hard to keep your head when someone is telling you exactly what you want to hear. It’s even harder when you have two packages of double stuffed Oreos to feed him—his idea.
The theory, Skinny Btch told me, is that Deep End has a ridiculously efficient liver. It goes through caffeine so quickly that Red Bull has no effect on him, and he has to strategize his drinking so that he can get drunk. It burns through sugar and, as a result, he craves carbs. “I don’t think I’ve ever known him to actually be full,” she told me.
Deep End also has guts of steel. He got over most people’s delicacy about the five second rule in the army, where food was strictly rationed. “Sometimes,” he told me, “I’m actually full, but it’s like my brain doesn’t get the message.” He’s eaten entire pizzas before.
Right now, though, he was wearing a sweatshirt, which covered up too much off his body for my taste. I unzipped it a few inches, and he stood up to take it off. Underneath he was wearing a wife beater, which went with his jeans and his black dom boots. When he sat down again I kissed him on the shoulder, told him he was pretty.
Most people would have picked the adjective “intimidating”. Deep End has military buzzed hair, nice arm muscles, and the kind of voice you can imagine yelling obscenities in a crowded bar. He has a frat boy’s sense of humor—snot and Catholic priests getting blowjobs—something I’d missed out on by playing with sadistic dandies and femme boys. He has tattoos on his biceps and wrists, and when he crosses his arms over his chest and looks normal, most people think he’s pissed off. If he didn’t also have a smoothly rounded tummy that started just underneath his sternum I wouldn’t have been able to overcome my nervousness enough to talk to him at all: the way he looked plugged right in to all my ex-jock, soft-and-rock-hard, glutted beast fantasies.
I finally calmed down a little after I got to know him a bit better. It turned out he actually works in an industry that’s about as geeky as you can get. Later, when a third of happy hour was watching the H.P. Lovecraft episode of South Park he said “Wait for it… wait for it…” and we both cheered when the announcer actually said “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn”. The rest of the room stared at us, but our relative geekiness was assured.
Despite all this, I still found myself wondering if he really knew what he had volunteered himself for. He identified as a sadomasochist, not a feedee—he might not even have heard of feederism until I came along. He wouldn’t get off from eating the way I would from watching him, but he was still greedy and curious and willing to do whatever I wanted in order to help me get off.
“Hey,” he said, “I remember you writing that you liked to see someone drink something all at once?”
“Um, yeah…” I felt myself blushing as he went into the kitchen and I heard the water running.
“Here,” he said, holding up the water bottle, “ten ounces.”
I found that I was so excited I could hardly look at him. “I could go in the other room and do it,” he teased.
“No…” I said.
The sound of him swallowing was unbelievably loud. Listening to it made me press my thighs together; I thought he’d never stop.
Later, we were sitting on the sofa together, but not touching. I took the Oreos out of their package, placing them in neat stacks so he could eat them one by one. I enjoyed replacing the one he had just taken with another, just to underline how many there were, but I was still too nervous to touch him the way I wanted to, never mind feed him by hand.
As he ate he asked me questions. He wanted to know more about how I got off, and for the first time I felt comfortable explaining to someone how I couldn’t do it without pushing out and sucking in my stomach muscles. After dealing with so much shame even within my own fetish—boys who thought their attraction to larger women was “abnormal”, feedees whose libidos were in knots with their eating disorders—I found his nonjudgemental attitude disconcerting. He honestly couldn’t understand why people think feederism is so awful.
“I dunno,” I said lightly, so I wouldn’t have to go into all the crap I’d read over the past year, “I guess people are afraid of getting fat.”
He slapped his tummy. “I don’t care.”
That did it. “Can I sit here?” I asked, gesturing to his lap and pulling up my skirt a little. I sounded way more femme than I can usually manage, but I wasn’t being coy. I wanted to sit on his lap so I could feel his tummy.
He said I could. I ended up straddling him with my skirt hiked up, my pussy against his belly. ”Oh, shit,” I breathed.
“What?” Deep End asked. Neither of us had taken a stitch off yet, and the crotch of my panties already felt soaked.
One of my friends wanted to know if I then went all toppy on him, shoving Oreos in his mouth, but the vibe was so companionable, and he seemed to need so little urging, that I didn’t even think of using force. I watched him eat cookies while I enjoyed his body, kneading his tummy and squeezing his love handles. Occasionally, I slid my hands up farther under his wife beater to caress his nipples. He told me stories about being required to drink a gallon of water in the army (hydration), eating three pound steaks, and going through three bags of candy in fifteen minutes. He says he hates sharing, that even if he’s at the movies with his girlfriends he won’t give them any popcorn if he can help it.
Halfway through this recitation I realize I’m unconsciously rocking my hips, pressing my swollen clit up against his abdomen, and stop. “Do you mind if I do this?”
“Do you mind if I eat Oreos?”
I giggled. “No.”
“Then do that.”
“The last person that did this with wouldn’t let me touch them,” I said, rubbing myself off against his tummy.
“I don’t know.”
Deep End flexed his stomach muscles out and suddenly he was huge and hard underneath me. “I could probably stay like this for as long as you need me to.”
This was too much. I buried my face in his shoulder and said “Stop, stop!” until he relaxed again.
“You have wide hips,” I complained a little later. As much as I wanted to be on top of him, it was getting difficult for me to keep my thighs stretched across him and keep enough friction on my clit.
“It’s not my hips,” he told me, “it’s my quads.”
He pulled down his jeans to show me: his thigh muscles were huge and hard from cycling. He told me that during the off season, he ate whatever he wanted, and then in February he started training more seriously and quit eating sugar. Thus his weight might fluctuate as many as twenty pounds in a year, and because he was male, most of the additional weight would go to his belly. I found this intimate knowledge fascinating, and imagining the changes this cycle would cause in his body from month to month was intoxicating.
He’d finished all but three of the Oreos in one of the packages by now, something like 2,000 calories. I stripped all my clothes off, made him lay down on the sofa, and got on again. He was definitely starting to feel it, but when I pressed out my stomach muscles against his he didn’t complain. We got into a sort of rhythm, pressing our bellies against each others’ while I waited wide-eyed for him to say that this was getting too weird for him. Instead he seemed to understand what I was trying to do without me telling him, and pressed a hand into me just above my ass, so as to seal us closer together.
He also had to hold me by the thigh to keep me from sliding off the narrow sofa, so we decided to move to the bed. When he got up he complained his center of gravity had changed.
“Having fun?” he asked me when I had straddled him again.
I smirked as I reached down to spread myself open, pressing my clit against his tummy bulge. “Can’t you feel how wet I am?”
We resumed the tummy-pressing clit grinding that was my version of sex. After a little while, I asked him to get on top, thinking that I’d stroke his distended belly where it hung down.
Deep End still hadn’t taken his jeans off, because I hadn’t told him to, and his shirt was now on the floor somewhere. I was buck naked, but somehow I only felt exposed when he settled the lower portion of his body between my legs.
“Do you want me to go higher or lower?” he asked.
“Lower,” I squeaked, which brought the soft bulge of his tummy right against my clit.
With the first thrust I almost died. If this had been normal fucking, he would have driven me into the headboard. I braced myself by wrapping one hand around his bicep and the other gripping a handful of his soft side, wrapping my legs around his as if we were having “real sex”. I found I couldn’t think straight: we’d gone so far into the realm of what I’d dreamed about doing my body didn’t know how to respond.
After a while, though, I realized I was further away from coming than I had been when we’d both had our clothes on. ”You know,” Deep End assured me, “we can do this again if you want to.”
Not even the real feedees had ever told me “again”. But I was disappointed in myself: I was finally getting to have weird cake sex, and my pussy was letting me down.
I had him rearrange himself for optimal snuggling, so that he was laying on his side while I cuddled up to his belly. He stroked my shoulders, playing with my hair. “You okay?” he asked me.
I thought quickly. “We just did a lot in a very short time,” I said, which was true. Even though I hadn’t cum, I was tired. He’d already done a lot for me, but I was realizing that it wasn’t enough. If I wanted to get off at all, I was going to have to push him to do even more, and I wasn’t sure if I could do that.
To be continued…