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.
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