I propose challenge, and it's pretty simple: eat as many che..

I propose challenge, and it's pretty simple: eat as many cheesecakes as you can in three weeks, and for every ten cheesecakes you manage, you get one day of me being your sex slave, feeding you at your complete beck and call. Every morning, you blend a full cheesecake with milk in the blender, and sip it continuously through a straw as you work on your paintings. You eat thirty-two frozen cheesecakes in twenty-one days, and I spend three days feeding and blowing you, fetching your snacks, letting you take me whenever you want. Those twenty pounds go on so fast that you’re not inclined to move much, so we’re holed up in my apartment together in a miasma of sex and food and love. Your ass seems to have taken most of those last twenty, and it begins to spill over the sides of your chair and mound up behind you when you sit. By summer you’re up to three thirty, and by the next fall you’re up to three sixty-eight, thanks to a quality A/C unit and endless servings of homemade ice cream. You’re truly fat now, not just big, and you’ve started waddling a little as you walk, your thighs rubbing together, your gut pulling you forward. Your belly is finally beginning to lap over the waistband of your pants, and when you sit down to tie your shoes, you come up bright red and wheezing for breath, laughing a little at yourself as you try to catch your wind. “Jesus,” you huff as you thump down in the booth at the local buffet. You scoot your ass back, adjusting your gut on your lap as you try to wedge your belly beneath the table. “I just can't get comfortable. My sides are getting so fat I can't put my arms down normally, look at this. And my back is killing me.” You take a big bite of a fried chicken leg and mound some macaroni onto your spoon, your elbows planted on the table. “Plus, I'm so fucking hungry. We ate, what, an hour ago? And I'm starving already.” I reach under the table with my hand to prod your fat belly. “You've got a lot of room in there. Thank god my paintings are selling,” I say. “Otherwise we'd never afford your appetite.” “Or my new clothes,” you say. “Or those,” I agree. You pluck at your t-shirt with a grimace. It's getting tight around the chest and shoulders. “Babe, will you run up and grab me a plate of mashed potatoes? I need 'em for this chicken. Grab some biscuits, too, if you don't mind.” I oblige with pleasure, and take my time sauntering back to the table, observing you from a distance. You’re hunched over your plate, eating steadily, your chin sinking into your second chin with every bite. There's still the frame of a strong guy beneath the fat: your shoulders are broad and firm, your forearms corded still with muscle, and the taut roundness of your sloping gut speaks to the invisible abs that hold it up beneath. As I watch, you pause to dig your fingers into the side of your belly and blow out a breath, then rub your thumb across the stretch of your belly button. You trace the pudgy round curve of your lower belly where it sits on your lap and lean back in your seat with a chicken wing, continuing to stuff yourself while rubbing careful circles on your belly. I drop down in the booth next to you and slide the mashed potatoes towards you. You watch as I drops four pads of butter into the middle of the biscuit, and you take it with a kiss to my cheek. “Thanks,” you say, and begin munching. You clear both of your plates pretty quickly, then let out a big belch. “What do you say to a new challenge?” I ask, idly turning a wrapped pad of butter over in my hands. “What'd you have in mind?” You respond, fingers drumming the round crest of your gut. “Three sticks of butter a day for seven days.” “Easy,” you scoff. “I'll just drink it.” “You'll get sick of it,” I say. “Of butter?” you ask incredulously. “This is the easiest challenge yet.” “A month, then,” I say. “Three a day for a month.” “Challenge accepted,” You say confidently. (pt. 2)