The Feeder Buffet: Chapter 2

The Feeder Buffet

By Contrast Kingdom
Chapter 2

They walked in holding hands, Ana’s fingers tight around Max’s, both momentarily stunned by the hostess stand. The girl greeting them couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds—her jean shorts hung loose on her narrow hips, the cropped top exposing ribs that cast sharp shadows under the harsh restaurant lighting. Ana’s grip tightened instinctively. Every server they passed was a variation on the same theme: collarbones jutting like coat hangers, thigh gaps wide enough to drive through, wrists so delicate they looked like they’d snap under the weight of a dinner plate.

Ana swallowed hard. She’d worked so hard to slim down, but these women made her feel…soft. Their uniforms—midriff-baring tops, micro-shorts—emphasized every dip and hollow. One waitress carried a tray laden with fried chicken in her bony hand, her smile never slipping even as Ana openly stared at the way her hipbones threatened to cut through the denim. Max exhaled beside her, his belly pressing into her side. “Holy shit,” he muttered. Ana didn’t know if he meant the buffet spread or the women serving it.

The hostess—Kim, her nametag read—led them to a booth near the dessert station. Ana slid in first, her thighs barely making a dent in the cushioned seat, while Max couldn't avoid touching the edge of the table with his small gut. A waitress appeared before they’d even settled. “Hi, I’m Chloe,” she said, her voice syrup-sweet. Ana noted the way her waist nipped in sharply above her shorts, the hollows beneath her cheekbones. “What can I get you two to drink?” Ana ordered ice water with lemon, her fingers twisting the paper napkin in her lap. Max hesitated, then grinned. “Large chocolate milkshake, extra whipped cream.” Chloe winked. “Good choice.”

As Chloe sauntered away, Ana caught Max tracking the sway of the waitress’s nonexistent hips. A hot prickle crawled up her neck. “Stay here,” she said abruptly, standing before he could protest. “I’ll get your plate.” The buffet stretched before her like a glittering battlefield—steam rising from trays of buttery mashed potatoes, glazed hams studded with cloves, towers of golden fried chicken. Ana loaded a plate with precision: three extra-crispy drumsticks, a scoop of mac and cheese dripping with cheese, a biscuit split open and slathered in honey butter. Her own stomach turned at the sight, but her pulse kicked when she imagined Max’s fingers glistening with grease.

She turned, balancing the heaping plate, and froze. The dining room swam into focus—women perched on the edges of booths, their own plates untouched, sipping mineral water through straws while their partners—soft-bellied, broad-chested—chewed obediently. One brunette in a bandage dress stabbed a forkful of cheesecake, lifting it to her boyfriend’s lips with a murmured, “Just one more bite, baby.” His groan of protest dissolved into a moan as she pushed it past his teeth. Ana’s breath hitched. She hadn’t realized they were part of something…bigger.

Max’s fingers drummed the table when she returned, his eyes darting between her plate and the milkshake Chloe had just delivered, its whipped cream already melting into the glass. “Fuck, that looks good,” he muttered, licking his lips. Ana didn’t sit. Instead, she plucked a drumstick from the pile, holding it just out of reach. His gaze locked onto the glistening skin. “Open,” she commanded, softer than she’d intended. He obeyed instantly, lips parting, and she pressed the food into his mouth, catching a drop of grease on his chin with her thumb.

She watched his throat work as he swallowed, then fed him another bite—macaroni this time, the cheese stringing between his teeth. His groan vibrated through her fingertips. Around them, the clatter of silverware and murmured encouragements blended into a hum, but Ana barely heard it. Her focus narrowed to the way Max’s belly pushed out more with each bite, the way his breathing grew heavier. When the plate was empty, his lips shiny with butter, she leaned in. “More?” His nod was almost frantic.

Ana returned with a plate piled higher—fried mozzarella sticks oozing onto golden onion rings, a slab of meatloaf swimming in gravy, two cornbread muffins crumbling at the edges. Max’s pupils dilated. She didn’t wait for him to ask, just speared a mozzarella stick and guided it between his lips, watching cheese stretch and snap against his chin. Chloe reappeared, balancing another milkshake—strawberry this time—on a tray. “Someone’s hungry,” she teased, her bony fingers brushing Max’s shoulder. Ana’s jaw tightened.

The untouched ice water sweated onto the tablecloth, lemon wedge sinking. Ana had counted the calories—five, maybe six—but the thought of Chloe’s needle-thin waistline stopped her from lifting the glass. Instead, she pressed her thighs together, imagining her own hipbones sharpening under skin, her ribs rising like piano keys. Max wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, oblivious, already eyeing the next forkful. Ana stabbed a chunk of meatloaf harder than necessary, gravy dripping onto the table.

Max groaned, rubbing his stomach through his stretched-thin polo. “Christ, Ana, I’m stuffed—” Chloe materialized beside them, her scent—vanilla and lemon disinfectant—sharpening the air. “Oh, come on,” she purred, plucking the fork from Ana’s fingers before she could protest. “Big guy like you?” Chloe leaned in, her collarbones casting knife-edge shadows, and pressed the fork to Max’s lips. His hesitation lasted half a second before his mouth fell open, tongue darting out to catch the gravy. Ana’s nails bit into her palms.

Chloe fed him like she’d done it a thousand times—slow, deliberate bites, her thumb swiping crumbs from his chin with a practiced flick. The meatloaf vanished first, then the mozzarella sticks, each bite punctuated by Max’s breathless chuckles and Chloe’s giggles, high and girlish. Ana watched, frozen, as Chloe’s knuckles brushed the swell of Max’s belly with every reach across the table. “That’s it,” Chloe murmured, feeding him the last muffin crumb, her pinky grazing his lower lip. Max exhaled, dazed, his belt digging into flesh gone taut as a drum.

Ana stood abruptly, the booth creaking under her sudden movement. “Time to go,” she said, voice brittle. Max blinked up at her, gravy smeared at the corner of his mouth, his shirt straining over the curve of his stomach. Chloe leaned back, her tiny waist barely bending as she smirked. “Need help?” she asked Ana, nodding toward Max’s obvious struggle to rise. Ana’s hands shot out before she could think, gripping Max’s forearms, hauling him up with a grunt. His weight pressed into her, warm and solid—she could feel every new pound he’d packed on since they arrived.

The walk to the exit felt endless, Max’s breath coming in shallow pants as he navigated the narrow aisles, his belly brushing against tables slick with condensation. Behind them, Chloe’s voice floated like sugar-dusted poison: “Don’t be strangers, now.” Ana didn’t turn around, but her spine stiffened at the promise in those words, at the way Max’s footsteps faltered for half a second. Outside, the night air clung thick and greasy to their skin. Ana fumbled for her keys, her fingers trembling against the metal—not from exhaustion, but from the image burned into her eyelids: Chloe’s skeletal fingers stroking Max’s fullness like he was hers to mold.