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    ID
    6229552
    MD5
    d6949bdc615e8cb9c38d858049ad4111
    Size
    3380x3380 (11.6 MB)
    Type
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    Status
    Active
    Rating
    Explicit
    Score
    8
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    Parent: post #6229088 (learn more) show »
    Description

    Fetish Buffet
    Tables upon tables lay before him, their contents steaming; decadent; completely spoiled with sweets and savories that excite his appetite in ways that excite the churning of his guts; of his balls; of his prepubescent needs. The fucking obnoxious weight of his ride, sweat-soaked rump sways from side to side to the beat of the music blaring over the air, carrying through the mist and lighting throughout the buffet hall. So Into You begins to play over the speakers, but it's the 1980's remix by Tronicbox... and it makes him move. He can't stop smiling; he can't stop swaying his hips around and flinging fat, steaming fingerfuls of precum onto the floor. It feels almost irrational, this behavior, but he welcomes it wholeheartedly. Hungrily.

    THWACK. THWOCK. THWUP. His dark, testosterone-cooked cock slaps up needily against the underside chub of his modest boy belly, excited and spitty; eager to feel the thrill of its master indulging to the fullest. With a glossy, latex-covered hand he digs deep into one of the countless dozen plates steaming and sizzling on top of the nearest table top, and then another, and another still, quickly starting on the first course of an entire buffet meant entirely for him. Rich, greasy cheeseyburgers; thickly frosted cupcakes; dumpling and cookies and whole monstrously layered cakes meant only for his appetite. A growing boy needs his calories... and this boy wants to GROW.

    He gorges in earnest, mouth gaped wide open and groaning hotly inbetween gnashing and chewing, hot stinking bear boy spittle gushing from his lips and falling onto his increasingly bloated guts. A puddle of frothy precum forms between his boots, the curling motion of his toes visible beneath the synthetic fabrics. By the time the third chorus of the song kicks in he stifles a symphony of raunchy burps and feels the weight of his turgid tummy sagging lower and lower, resting on the breadth of his long, needy cock-flesh and churning with countless pounds of food. It is frightening how the boy's belly isn't even remotely red or strained, only... veiny; almost angry in its appearance. It wants more. It needs more. The sluggy, grotesque boiling of his guts isn't digestion - it's hunger.

    His hips start to sway again to the music, each apex of his movements punctuated crassly by a rich, beefy burst of flatulence. His gasses are heavy, spraying onto the remaining foodstuffs in acrid, cloudy fogs that ruin the composition and implied cleanliness of the meal, scattering it onto the floor in ways that looked... somehow inviting; salty; flavor-blasted.. Not once does he stop his half-lidded gorgefest, farting constantly while precumming in messy intervals. There's no telling how big he might end up from this buffet alone... or how hard he's getting at the scent of a second buffet being prepared for him nearby.

    The thought of eating another set of countless meals excites him...

    ... and he prepares for another meal, and another meal, and another meal, eating and eating as long as the beat rolls on and on; eating until the music stops. The radio begins to shift, perhaps repeating; perhaps changing to a new song. It didn't matter to him. All that matters is the crude, boyish hunger... and the feeding thereof.

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    Art by RamonMouse.

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