Pastebin is saying it's too offensive, so I gotta post it here
Feeder Buffet Chapter 5
By Contrast Kingdom
During the weeks that followed, Ana's cookbook became a graveyard of greasy fingerprints—pages warped from bacon drips, sticky notes marking recipes like "triple-cheese mac" and "lard-fried doughnuts" curling at the edges. She raced around the kitchen, her slimming body on full display in only her bra and panties, whisking heavy cream into scrambled eggs while her own breakfast—black coffee and a single rice cracker—went cold beside her. Max's chair groaned under him now when he sat to eat, the wood creaking in protest as his thighs spread wider around the table's edge, his belly resting against the lip like a second placemat.
Ana's phone gallery filled with screenshots of Chloe mid-shift—Chloe's spine visible as she bent over a booth in her skimpy uniform, Chloe's thigh gap wide enough to fit a champagne bottle between, Chloe's collarbones catching buffet light like a jewelry display. She'd zoom in on these images during her nightly ab workouts, tracing the ridges of her own ribs with one hand while the other scrolled endlessly through forums titled "Thinspo" and "Size 00 Goals." The thinner she became, the more space seemed to open up inside her—not just in her jeans, but in some hollow place behind her sternum that only filled when Max's buttons strained over his newest roll.
Their fridge groaned under the weight of gallon jugs of heavy cream and bricks of butter stamped "for baking," while Ana's designated shelf held nothing but sugar-free electrolyte packets and a single lemon wrapped in plastic. She'd watch Max shovel forkfuls of cheese-stuffed meatloaf into his mouth with clinical precision, her own stomach growling not from hunger but something darker—a gnawing satisfaction when gravy dripped down his third chin. She started taking pictures of him shirtless in mornings when his belly was still bloated from last night's feasting, the swell casting shadows across their rumpled sheets. These she'd examine alongside Chloe's bone-bare selfies, her thumb swiping between images like she was compiling evidence of some unspoken victory.
Their sex life had gotten steamier. Ana's nails left half-moons on Max's hips as she ground down onto him, her ribs pressing against his softer chest with each bounce. The plate balanced on his stomach wobbled dangerously—strawberry shortcake piled high with whipped cream trembling as she rode him harder. "Not yet," she panted, pinching his nipple sharply when his hands flew to her waist—a warning as much as encouragement. Cream smeared across his belly when she scooped another forkful, pressing the tines against his lips until he opened obediently. His hips stuttered beneath her, the desperate rut of his movements making the plate slide sideways across his sweat-slick skin, but Ana just dug her knees in tighter. "Finish it," she breathed against his ear, her voice syrup-thick with menace. "Or you don't get to come."
Their bedframe developed a rhythmic squeak timed perfectly with Max's chewing—Ana's hips pistoning while he struggled to swallow around moans, her own hunger sharpening with every bite he took. She'd found that certain foods worked better than others; ice cream made him shiver when she dribbled it down his chest to lick off, the cold contrast against his overheated skin drawing ragged whimpers. But it was the heavy stuff—bread pudding soaked in custard, forkfuls of mashed potatoes slick with butter—that really made him squirm, his belly distending between them as she fucked him through each mouthful. The night before, she'd made him lick gravy from her fingers while she clenched around him, his orgasm building only to be denied when he paused to catch his breath. The welts from her nails still stood raised on his thighs today.
Ana's favorite new game involved the pastry brush—dipping it into melted chocolate before painting stripes across Max's swollen stomach as he lay pinned beneath her, wrists tied to the headboard with his own belt. She'd make him describe the flavors while she rode him slow and torturous, her hipbones becoming sharp enough to leave red marks on his softer flesh. "Caramel," he'd gasp when she swiped the brush over his nipple. "S-salted caramel." She'd hum approval, increasing her pace just enough to make his belly slosh against her with each thrust. By the time she let him come, chocolate would be smeared across his chin from where she'd shoved the brush between his teeth, his whimpers muffled by the final forkful of tiramisu she'd demanded he finish first.
The night Max dared to push his plate away—just once, just a fraction of an inch—Ana didn't speak. She simply stood, walked to their bedroom, and returned with the silicone funnel they'd bought as a joke months ago. Max's eyes widened when she straddled his lap, her thighs vise-tight around his hips as she tipped the milkshake into the funnel's wide mouth. His protests came out as wet gurgles when the thick vanilla flood hit the back of his throat, her free hand massaging his Adam's apple to force each swallow. Tears tracked down his flushed cheeks, but his cock strained against his zipper—hard and leaking despite the overfull ache radiating from his gut. Ana licked a stray drop of milkshake from his eyelid, her voice honey-sweet: "You'll take every drop, baby. Even if I have to pour it down your throat while you sleep."
By the time summer rolled around, Max had learned not to resist—not when Ana pinned him to the couch with her bony knees digging into his spread thighs, not when she straddled his face with a slice of chocolate cake balanced on her hipbones. He'd open on command now, tongue lolling obediently as she scraped the last forkful of cheesecake across his teeth, his belly distending round and taut beneath her. The first time he'd tried turning his head away, she'd simply gripped his jaw with fingers like iron—thumb pressing into the hinge until his mouth unclenched with a wet pop. "Good boy," she'd cooed, smearing whipped cream across his lips like lipstick before forcing another bite past them. His whimper had shuddered through her, liquid heat pooling between her thighs at the way his body arched—not to escape, but to press his swollen belly harder against her sharp hipbones.
The scale groaned under Max's weight when they stepped on together—Ana's bird-like frame barely registering as the digital display climbed past 300 for the first time. When it settled at 302, Max's breath caught somewhere between horror and exhilaration, his fingers splaying across the new shelf of fat hanging over his thighs. Ana stepped off without a word, letting him wobble unsteadily before nudging him aside to check her own weight. The numbers flashed 104 in cold blue digits, and she hissed through her teeth—not enough, never enough. The measuring tape snapped tight around Max's belly first, stretched to its limit at 58 inches, the soft flesh spilling over her knuckles like risen dough. Then hers—21 inches at the waist, her corset-tight abs visible even when she slouched. "Fuck," she spat, throwing the tape against the wall where it left a dent in the drywall. Max flinched at the crack of plastic, watching Ana's ribs ladder up with each furious breath. "I'm still too fat," she seethed, pressing her thumbs into the nonexistent softness above her hips, "and you're not fat enough."