I reckon our love for feederism is the sweetest thing in this whole county. I walked through the front door hauling heavy grocery bags, but Tyrone had already turned the house into a BBQ paradise. The scent of hickory smoke clung to the curtains. He had ribs dripping in tangy sauce, spicy jalapeno poppers, and a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. A slice of buttermilk pie and a thick chocolate cake sat waiting, smelling like a Sunday afternoon at Mama's.
"Sugar, leave them bags alone," Tyrone whispered, his eyes dancing with a hunger that wasn't for food.
"I got a feast just for my big girl. You just sit there and let me spoil you."
"Tyrone, you're too good to me," I replied, my mouth already watering.
He led me to the bedroom, where he laid the spread out on the nightstand. He started stuffing ribs into my mouth, the sticky sauce staining my chin and dripping onto my chest. He fed me those poppers and huge spoons of potatoes until I could barely draw a breath. I watched my big belly stretch, pulling my floral nightgown tight against my skin until the seams groaned. He kept pushing, humming a little tune while he slid the sweet pie into my mouth. This kind of feederism makes me feel like a pampered queen.
"Eat up, baby," he groaned, rubbing my stomach. "I want you stuffed to the brim. Every last bite, now."
"I'm so full, honey, I might pop," I whimpered, but I opened wide.
Once I was wobbling with fullness, Tyrone stripped off his clothes. His hard dick was throbbing, standing tall and pulsing with every heartbeat. He pushed me back onto the quilts, my belly shaking like a bowl of lemon pudding. I felt my wet pussy aching for him, leaking thick juices that smelled of BBQ and deep desire. He entered me with a slow, heavy thrust, the friction sending electric sparks through my nerves. We danced a slow, heavy rhythm, the feederism adding a weight to every movement that felt divine.
"Look at that belly," he panted, his breath hot on my neck. "You're so fat and wet for me."
"Please, fuck me harder," I gasped, arching my back.
Just as he hit my cervix with a deep, driving lunge, a wave of nausea hit me. I couldn't hold it back. I gagged and let out a Roman Shower of half-digested BBQ and buttermilk pie right across his chest and face. It was a messy, chunky explosion of everything I'd eaten. Tyrone didn't flinch; he let out a guttural moan and thrust even harder, the smell of vomit and sex mixing in the humid air. He loved the filth of it, the way I broke under the pressure. I moaned, feeling a powerful release as we both came, our bodies slick with sweat, saliva, vomit, and food.
"Yes, give it all to me," he roared through the mess. "I love how dirty you are!"
"I can't help it!" I screamed, clutching his shoulders. This feederism life is everything I want it to be.
