I was always a breast man—I admit it. And a bit of a chubby chaser. A woman with curves could get me going like no other, I swear. When I started chatting with her, and she started sending me her pics—oh my god, I would have done anything for her. I suppose I should have found it odd, how I never remembered our conversations in detail—only that I wanted to talk to her more than anything. Still, it was months before she finally relented and sent me a face pic—and my jaw dropped.

It wasn’t a she at all—but a he. I was angry, confused, betrayed—but there was nothing I could do by that point. I came crawling back, desperate for more pictures—he made me apologize, and promise to never desert him again—I had to say yes, I had to. 

Still, he wasn’t done with me—every month, it was new pictures, new training. One month focused on his gut, and how much I wanted him to crush me beneath it. One month on his ass, and how I’d worship and clean it. One month on his nub of a cock, and how I’d happily suck it whenever he told me to. One month on how I was an encourager, and would do anything to make him bigger.

I’m his little house pet now, I suppose. I do anything he wants, and I love him—all 500 pounds of him. He had me sell all my possessions and move out to live with him, and now, any separation is physically painful. I’m a slave to his fat now, and will be for the rest of our lives.

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