FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I watch you, enamored from my spot on the sofa. There's a show on, something noisy and bright - which I only know from the sight and sound bouncing off of your form. I'm not paying attention. I'm not allowed to. I'm watching you feast - no, shovel - a bowl of food into your muzzle. There's delight worn on your lips and bits of your meals. The various flavors of heavily buttered mashed potatoes, hunks of bacon-grease fried chicken, sharp cheddar and scallions swirling over your senses. You take the occasional heavy breath, the warm oversized bowl rising on your shelf of a chest. I can't tell if it's to excite me or if you're actually struggling to eat through your overwhelming state of fullness.

I grin. "Fullness." You haven't been sated in months, even as you pass the limits of stuffed and gorged. You can't help it. You need more. It's a part of your being now. You're insatiable and I only encourage it. I've watched my meals dwindle. How can I waste time on my nutritional needs when you have so many? I grin as my stomach quivers. Had my last meal been today? Yesterday? I can't place what it had been either way.

You pull me back to the present with a soft whimper. I refocus my mind and see your paws roaming what little belly you can reach. You poor thing. My body is already moving up off of the couch. It's muscle memory at this point... I look over your taut midsection and run my paw along it. A whine erupts from your maw as my claw tips dance over the crest of your paunch. My poor whale.

I stroll past you, to your cart. I retrieve another mixing bowl, this one filled with a half melted hunk of ice cream. You extend out your arm, bowl in paw as I let you struggle to maintain it's position. Your hundred plus pound appendage probably seeming triple that due to your diet and inactivity. The glare of the television illuminates the sweat on your forehead's fur. I'm amazed at how difficult the minor tasks are becoming. You whimper again as your belly groans and your arm sags onto a plush roll of chest fat that wraps around to your thick back.

"Alright, alright, fats... here." I snatch the bowl out of your meaty grasp and plop the bowl of ice cream onto your belly and sagging chest. The 'activity' elicits a loud belch from you as it manages to sink into you, the chill probably soothing on your strained belly. You tuck into it before I've walked the cart of emptied containers to the kitchen. I'm too tired to deal with those, so they'll be waiting for me after I make you breakfast in a few hours.

My eyes roam to my empty, diminished seat on the couch. The cushion still firm yet springy. Mostly at least. Buried under your massive girth, your hip bulges out into my 'side', creating a steep slope into your bulk. Had I not taken the legs off of the couch, I'd likely be pulled into the gravity of your obesity as you would've snapped them off your side anyway. I enjoy seeing you off of the couch, though I know it burns so many precious calories... but it's enjoyable to watch the fabric deteriorating and the once plush cushion now resembles more of a squeezed sponge, crushed under the pressure of excessive use.

We were once afraid of this, afraid of our bodies growing so different. Now we can't imagine it any differently. I can't imagine getting my arms around you. I can't think of leaning into you to kiss you without having to be on tip toes just to stretch over your bulk. Hell, I can barely imagine seeing your thighs without effort.

You're struggling for air now, the act of moving the spoon to your muzzle is draining you further. The growing edges of over indulgence rocking you towards passing out. I've rolled the bowl towards your muzzle so it oozes more easily into your maw. The lazy dog can't even feed himself anymore. What a travesty. I know you'll be busy with your never-ending meal for a few moments. But maybe consciousness is more appropriate measurement given your current state.

My slender arms pull out towards you as my paw digits roam over your sides. They instinctively close, grabbing pawfuls of overflowing adipose. The consistency of your fat quite miraculous given how stuffed you are. My actions are met with whimpers.

"Shhhh and finish your snack." I command while tightening my grip. It's a routine now, bent on driving both of us along this path of climax. Call and response.

I hear another muffled moan from the other side of the bowl and ease down onto my knees. My long striped tail is swishing rapidly while my vision spins. I've been spending so much time on you that me is wearing down, disintegrating under the strain of your weight. The thought of it sends a throb into my crotch, dribbling a small bit of precum into my tented boxers. My paws work a bit lower, tracing over the rolls formed by the settling of your belly over your expansive thighs. This is one of my favorite spots to focus on. The fact that your belly has what appears to be a second belly below your navel drives me wild. How fat can will you get?

I push my snout into your navel and sniff in deeply. No matter how sweaty and dirty you seem, you always smell sweet to me. Maybe it's just a side of effect of all the sugar coursing through your body. I can't help but let my rough tongue slip in and give a gentle lick... the taste exploding on my tongue as intensely as a lemon. Had I been upright, my legs would be shaking from lust and exhaustion. I know because we've done this so many times.

You're whining again and I don't know if it's because you're enjoy it or you feel as though you're going to rupture. My paws tighten on you again and I give you another slurp. Your weight shifts slightly and the couch creaks under you. I lower my muzzle slightly and pull the thick roll of fat in... I clamp down some to eek out another whine. You squirm and buck your hips slightly, very slightly, which is as much as your grandiose body can manage in your stuffed and overstimulated state. I like to think of it as the international overfed canine way of saying "I'm about to cum."

I release your doughy love handles and lower my paws, sliding them under the pliable lard into a warm fold between belly and thigh. With what strength I have, I push up and slide my muzzle in... my cold nose running along the underside of your blubber. The scent is maddening and almost sickeningly sweet to me. But just as you crave hundreds of thousands of calories... immobility... weakness... I crave you. I crave control of what happens to you. I get to say "when". "How."

After a few moments I've located your member. I can't see, there's no chance of that as my eyes are buried under hundreds of pounds of dog. My tongue has found the small tip, nestled gently in thick, delicious folds of fatpad. It barely takes a slurp before you hump at my face as thick gooey streams of seed release into my muzzle. I take what I can of your member into my muzzle and roll the tip along my tongue, squeezing every last drop out.

I can barely hear you whining over the churning of your stomach which is starting to seem even heavier. The weight is immense but I can't get enough of it sagging, pooling, caressing my head and neck. I groan as my lightheadedness drags my own climax to a head. I buck into the air and howl into your crotch. After what feels like hours I remove my muzzle. I'm heaving and my chest is on fire. I'm sure you felt that way before you passed out, forehead dripping and muzzle sticky.

We only have so many of these moments left.

You're simply getting to be too much of an insatiable chowhound and I'm just not strong enough keep up with your nearly immobile form.