everything is in motion

Motion. Everything is in motion. Only your arms are fixed, tied together at the wrists and strung up to a hard point in the ceiling. Every other part of you jiggles and bounces as you squat and pull up, squat and pull up, with feverish intensity.

(She was a girl whose eye you caught. Days later I brought her to you as a gift: a wrapped-up present you had no intention of unwrapping. She kneels with wrists, ankles and knees all roped together in a fixed triangle of tension, while all around her head and chest is you…)

Even though with every thrusting squat you cram her into you right down to the belly-button, she barely makes a dent in your midsection. The titanic waves of fat rippling beneath your ponderous tits mask the bulge of her head, and thick guts curling beneath your skin swallow the sound of any shout or scream she might make.

(You accepted a wrist tie on the promise of a toy and a treat, and went willingly to find her kneeling, dressed only in diaphanous white suspenders and belt. She didn’t say a word but her streaming eyes begged you for mercy, even as you lifted a leg over her head and began to sit down…)

There’s only so much rope. I hold it short. Your arms jerk upward and halt your arsehole from swallowing her up, which causes your thighs to wobble as momentum sends a wave through soft fat. Your breasts reach their lowest orbit and begin their upstroke, helped by their bounce on your shelf of rib fat. Your back in all its soft definition tenses as you start to pull back up, freeing a portion of your prey from her steaming hot prison

(The shock when I held onto the rope tied through the ceiling hook to your hands, allowing you only to take her head inside. You almost strangled her anyway with a clench of your backside…)

On the next stroke, you know, you’ll get to take another inch. You come up high enough to let her take a gasping breath which you hear from somewhere below flying belly fat and sopping wet pussy. Before she’s really done you start another vicious swoop down. As your tit fly upwards, those mountains of feminine excess, your insides and your pelvic bones relearn the shape of the pretty girl’s face: the arch of her nose, the angle of her chin, the flare of her square shoulders.

(And another shock: once you had begun the dance, up-and-down, up-and-down, and only after your first moan of pleasure, a sudden frisson of stimulation at your cunt. At the bottom of your stroke I teased you with a silent massage wand, lighting up every remaining nerve that was not already on overload…)

You can’t stop. Your powerful legs burn with the effort but you go again and again. It’s not just the slide of your dinner into your guts via the long way; nor is it the way your pussy thrills with shooting electricity on the bottom of each stroke… But it’s the dance itself. Your belly is heavy or light, stretching or freeform and curvaceous. Your tits bounce and massage themselves against your own body. Your thighs seem to squirm as the forces running through them shape and sculpt the thick fat beneath your skin. Your belly button goes from a broad horizontal slash to, briefly, a little secret pit. Every motion makes you feel your body anew.

You are so fucking fat, and with each thrust you are allowed to suck up this pretty thin girl a little deeper. Soon the suction will prevent her from sliding out again. You’ll still dance, to push her against the floor and earn another lick of the wand. But mostly to worship yourself and what you have made of all the lives you’ve consumed.