Feeder Buffet Part 3

The Feeder Buffet: Chapter 3

By Contrast Kingdom

The next morning, Max woke to the scent of sizzling bacon and maple syrup thick in the air. He groaned as he rolled onto his side, the bed dipping under his weight—new, still unfamiliar in its heaviness. Through bleary eyes, he saw Ana in the corner of their bedroom, her sneakers pounding the treadmill, her sports bra clinging to her damp skin. The TV screen in front of her flashed calorie counts in bright red numbers: *500 burned, 700 to go.* On the nightstand beside him, a plate waited—stacked with pancakes drowning in syrup, scrambled eggs flecked with cheese, bacon arranged like a fan. His stomach growled even as his belt from last night dug into his hips, the indentations angry and deep.

Ana didn’t pause her workout, but her gaze flicked to him, watching the way his hands hesitated over the fork. "Eat," she panted between strides, her voice sharp with something between command and plea. "I made it just for you." Max obeyed, the first bite of pancake dissolving on his tongue like sugar-soaked sin. Across the room, Ana’s pace increased, her ponytail whipping with each stride, her arms pumping in perfect, punishing rhythm. He watched her collarbones jut with every breath, the sharp V of her waist disappearing into the waistband of her leggings—so different from the soft swell of his own body pressing against his pants.

And this became their normal routine.

Ana would wake up before Max each morning, slipping out of bed while he snored—his breaths heavier now, his belly rising and falling like a slow tide beneath the sheets. She'd lace up her sneakers with quick, efficient movements, her fingers brushing over her own flat stomach as she double-checked the treadmill settings. Then she'd start running, her eyes fixed on the digital display counting up miles as the kitchen filled with the scent of browned butter and frying sausage. Max would shuffle in, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his t-shirt riding up to expose the soft shelf of his gut—a gut that grew more pronounced with each passing morning, more impossible to hide.

Her browser history grew littered with tabs she'd never mention aloud—threads titled *Skinny Inspiration* and *Collarbone Check*, images of hollow-cheeked girls with ribs like xylophone keys. Ana would screenshot them, zoom in on the sharp angles, then set her phone facedown just as Max lumbered into the room with syrup on his chin. She’d trace the bones of her own wrists while watching him lick his fingers clean, her pulse fluttering when she could count the veins beneath her skin for the first time in years. The thinner she became, the hungrier Max seemed—his appetite expanding to fill the space she was carving out of herself.

Then she saw it—the forum thread titled *Slim&Stuffed Thinspo*, filled with photos of waitresses mid-shift, their hipbones casting knife-edge shadows across their tiny shorts. The third image froze her thumb mid-scroll: Chloe, her spine a delicate ladder beneath her crop top, balancing a tray loaded with onion rings on her bird-boned wrist. The caption read *Perfect feeder material* with a winking emoji. Ana’s nostrils flared as she scrolled through comments fantasizing about Chloe’s bony fingers pushing food into some anonymous man’s mouth, about the way her collarbones would dip when she leaned over to refill his milkshake.

The scale’s digital display blinked cold blue numbers at her feet—114.2—while Max’s groaning weight made the metal creak under him, his belly resting heavily on his thighs as the numbers climbed past 250. His breath hitched when they settled at 251.6, his fingers pressing into the softness spilling over his waistband. Ana traced the sharp jut of her own hipbone, watching the way Max’s sweat-damp polo clung to the swell of his stomach. “Fuck,” he whispered, half-disbelief, half-something darker, his palm smoothing over the curve like he was memorizing its new heft.

The bathroom mirror framed Ana’s reflection in harsh morning light—her ribs pressing against her skin slightly, her stomach flat as board beneath her sports bra. But the angles weren’t sharp enough, the hollows not deep enough. The ghost of softness still clung to her thighs when she sat, her collarbones still too smoothed over compared to Chloe’s knife-edge silhouette. She pinched the loose skin at her belly, her nails leaving crescent moons. “This is just the beginning,” she murmured, running her hands down her sides like she was sculpting herself from marble. Behind her, Max’s reflection filled the doorway, his shadow swallowing hers whole.