Feeder Buffet Chapter 4

The Feeder Buffet Chapter 4

By Contrast Kingdom

Ana turned, lips curling at the sight of him—his t-shirt straining across his chest, the hem hiking up to reveal the thick curve of his belly pressing against fabric that had fit just last week. “Here,” she said, tossing a button-down shirt at him. Max caught it with a frown, unfolding it to reveal sleeves that would barely reach his wrists. “Ana—” She didn’t let him finish, stepping closer to pop the first button through its hole, fingers lingering against the soft swell beneath. “Trust me,” she breathed, dragging her nails lightly over the bulge beneath cotton. “You’ll look good.”

Chloe spotted them the moment they pushed through Slim&Stuffed’s glass doors—Ana sharp-edged in black leggings and a crop top, Max lumbering behind her, his borrowed shirt gaping between buttons to reveal taut skin beneath. “Well, hello,” Chloe purred, sidling up before the hostess could greet them. Her fingers plucked at Max’s straining hemline with a practiced flick. “Someone’s been busy.” The pink tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips as she traced the new swell of his belly above his belt buckle, the gesture so casual it made Ana’s jaw clench. “We’ve got a new caramel-drizzled bread pudding,” Chloe murmured, leaning in until Ana could count the ribs beneath her uniform. “Thought of you the second I smelled it.”

Ana bypassed the booth entirely, steering Max toward a long communal table near the buffet—the better to watch him struggle to squeeze between chairs that suddenly seemed dollhouse-small. Before he could protest, she deposited him between two heavyset men being coaxed into second helpings by their rail-thin companions. “Stay,” she ordered, pressing a kiss to his forehead that tasted like salt and possessiveness. The buffet line parted for her like she was Moses with a death wish—women stepping aside with raised eyebrows as Ana loaded two plates simultaneously: one piled with glazed ribs and cheesy potatoes, the other stacked with cinnamon rolls oozing icing.

When she returned, Max’s shirt had ridden up to expose the deep crease where his belly pressed against the table’s edge. Chloe lingered nearby, her bony hip cocked as she pretended to wipe down menus. Ana slammed the plates down hard enough to make silverware jump. “Eat.” The word cracked through the din of clinking glasses and murmured encouragements. Max froze, fork hovering, his gaze darting between Ana’s narrowed eyes and Chloe’s smirk. One of the neighboring feedees chuckled around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Better listen to her, big guy.”

Ana didn’t blink as Max’s first forkful disappeared between his lips, syrup glistening on his chin. She leaned in, close enough to catch the hot sugar-scent of his breath, and thumbed the sticky corner of his mouth. “All of it,” she murmured, low and dangerous. Beneath the table, her other hand found his thigh—not to caress, but to dig her nails in just shy of pain when Chloe inched closer with a fresh pitcher of soda. The glass sweated icy condensation onto Max’s forearm as Chloe poured, her arm brushing his with deliberate lightness.

Ana was up before Max had swallowed his third bite. She left him with the ghost of her fingertips trailing down his neck, her absence somehow heavier than her presence. The buffet stretched before her like a battlefield—trays of golden fried chicken gleaming under heat lamps, vats of mac and cheese bubbling under sneeze guards. She grabbed tongs with unnecessary force, piling roast beef onto Max’s plate with surgical precision.

It was then that Max caught the conversation drifting from the waitress station—two voices as brittle as the ice clinking in their water glasses. "God, my shorts are loose again," one sighed, pinching the fabric at her thigh with fingers that looked too fragile for the gesture. "Same," the other muttered, stirring her black coffee with a spoon that seemed comically large in her tiny hand. "Chloe says I’ve gotta drop another five before the owner lets me work the VIP booths." Max’s fork hesitated mid-air as he watched Ana’s shoulders tense—the way her grip on the tongs whitened her knuckles despite her own wrist’s delicate prominence.

By the third plate, Max's chewing slowed, his breath coming in shallow pants between bites. "I can't," he mumbled around a mouthful of cheesecake, cream cheese smeared at the corner of his mouth. Ana didn't blink. She scooped up a glob of mashed potatoes with two fingers, the butter-slick warmth of them coating her skin as she pressed them past Max's lips. His protest died when her thumb dragged along his bottom teeth, lingering just long enough to feel the wet heat of his tongue flick against her knuckle. "Swallow," she murmured, already reaching for the gravy boat. Max's eyes watered as she tipped it against his lips, the thick, meaty slurry flooding his mouth faster than he could gulp—overflow dribbling down his chin, soaking into his shirt where his belly arched against the fabric.

The first button pinged against Ana's water glass when Max shifted to catch his breath, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the din of the restaurant. His belly bulged higher, pale skin flushed pink where fabric had compressed it. Chloe materialized beside them with a delighted gasp—Ana watched her skeletal fingers dart out to trace the newly exposed roll, her manicured nail catching on the seam where Max's waistband had begun to dig. "Oops," Chloe breathed, her laughter like wind chimes as she deliberately leaned her hip against Max's shoulder—Ana saw the exact moment his breath hitched from the pressure against his overfull stomach. Another button gave way when Max lurched upright, his belly sloshing audibly as he tried to escape the table's confines. The last one shot off like a cork from champagne, bouncing off Chloe's concave stomach before clattering to the floor.

Ana didn't speak during the Uber ride home—just pressed her knee into Max's overstuffed thigh with each turn, watching the way his fingers flexed against his belly when the driver braked too hard. He groaned when they hit a pothole, sweat beading along his hairline as his gut jostled against unbuttoned fabric. The elevator mirror showed Ana pressed against his back, her sharp hips bracketing his widening silhouette while her hands kneaded the swollen curve of his stomach like dough. "You were a good piggy tonight," she murmured into his neck, her teeth finding the tendon there when his belly gurgled an objection. His moan vibrated against her tongue—half-pain, half-something darker—as her fingers dug into the soft give beneath his navel.