Pizza Pickup

CN: Kink (fat, weight gain, food, mean dominant, aggression, intimidation, exertion, mobility issues, tobacco, sweat, musk, mention of urine), talk of sex, non-vegan

His car’s suspension rises as he pulls himself out with a grunt, already wheezing. He took two spots when parking, sick of being deprived of enough room to get in or out, and so he stands there for a bit, taking up the remaining half of the space himself. As if waiting for his breathing to slow, he leans against his car, but the ache of his pawfeet tell him this is a hopeless endeavor; he should just get this over with. The demon dog’s glowing, red eyes pierce towards the sign of the pizza place, feeling even hungrier than he did when calling in his order.

He begins to waddle, the overflow of belly fat that fills his black dress pants and white, button-up, dress shirt swaying as he does. Even with his gut tucked into his pants, the mass of overhanging fat his body type gravitated towards still reached down to nearly his knees. The part of his gut filling the dress shirt portion rolled over a bit, obscuring the fact that he’s also wearing a belt. There was nothing thin about this brown and cream furred demon dog. His chest pounds and lungs burn from the unfinished ordeal of waddling a few feet, finally reaching the door. He uses his weight to push the door open while keeping his paws against the doorframe for balance, but this clearly isn’t working very well. Turned sideways and wedged into the door, no amount of clearance could prevent his belly from pressing up against the doorframe. As he continues trying to force himself inside, he lets out an annoyed growl to no one in particular, “What the fuck? Do you seriously expect this tiny door to be wide enough? This is a pizza place, for fuck’s sake. How many skinny customers eat here as much as me?” The cashier was watching this happen, but decided to avoid asking the visibly angry and audibly aggressive demon dog if he needed help.

After a minute of struggling, he’s able to clear the door, at which point he drops down onto two of the nearby lobby chairs with a worrying snap. As he wheezes and pants, already visibly dripping with sweat and beginning to soak his dress shirt underneath his armpits, his unnaturally red eyes staring down the cashier. He pulls out a pack of menthols and a lighter from his pocket, and wheezes, “Let me smoke in here.” Phrasing it as less of a question and more of a command, the cashier decides to just let him do what he wants; no one else was here anyway. Before receiving any kind of indication of an answer, he places a cigarette between his muzzle and lights it. He draws the smoke into his lungs, before exhaling through his nose with a relaxed sigh. The portly demon dog holds the pack out towards the cashier, despite being more than a couple feet away, to offer a cigarette. The cashier waves him off, smiling a bit at the unexpected gesture of kindness from him. He smokes the cigarette down to the filter over the course of a few minutes, throws the butt to the floor, and snuffs it out with his boot. He attempts to lift his huge body out of the chair, but fails with a grunt; it was easier when he could grab onto the roof of his car. He piercing gaze goes back to the cashier, and after a moment of staring, he growls out with his gnarled voice, “Help me up.” The cashier obliges, walking over to the fat as hell demon. Getting closer, they realize just how bad he reeks; it’s clearly been well over a couple weeks since his last shower. They try their hardest to pull, but he refuses to do anything but sit there. The cashier apprehensively says, “Sir?…” The demon dog spits, “What?” The cashier continues, “Could you try to stand while I pull?…” He replies, “No. Help me up before I end up pissing all over your floor,” undoing the top button of his dress shirt to give his moobs and double chin more room. The cashier is unable to control their gag any longer, accidentally taking in a big breath of his greasy, sweaty, matted fur. It was obvious he didn’t groom himself, and it was becoming increasingly clear that “a couple weeks” without a shower was an understatement. The demon dog just lets out a gravelly chuckle, a little, malevolent grin growing on his fat face. “It only gets worse,” he coos. “I haven’t showered in months.”

After about 20 minutes of this, the cashier is eventually able to get him to his footpaws. They help him waddle over to the counter, feeling their clothes dampening with his sweat as they do, and then resume their usual job behind the counter. The demon dog is wheezing as he uses the counter for support, but eventually chokes out, “My order’s the big one.” The cashier had assumed the six meat pizzas were for a party, but looking at the wheezing mass of demon dog fat in front of them, it was obvious where all of it was going. The cashier says, “Anything else, sir?” With a blank expression he replies, “Garlic butter sauce. Don’t stop until I tell you.” The cashier begins placing the little containers on top of the stack of pizzas, regularly looking back at him, only to be greeted by his glowing stare. After about 20 containers of what was essentially just flavored butter, the cashier nervously says, “Sir?…” Without even a second of delay, he growls, “I know you have gallon containers of butter for the breadsticks in the kitchen. Give me one.” The cashier begins looking skittish, replying, “Sir, that’s…fuck…that’s so much butter…” He raises his gritty voice to growl, “I don’t care! Give it to me!” To avoid angering the demon any further, the cashier goes back to the kitchen, finds an unopened gallon of the breadstick butter, and carries it out to the counter. Before they can even set it down, fat paws snatch it from them. He breaks the seal, unscrews the top, and takes more than a few good gulps of the liquid butter, as if it were water. He grins at the cashier, showing his sharp teeth as some of the butter drips down his neck fat, eyes shining into their soul. He slams it down to the counter and huffs, fat face now devoid of emotion, “Anything else to say to me? Any more advice?” The cashier whimpers, “No, sir…” He coughs before replying, “Good. Get me a few two-liters of soda and carry all of this out for me.” He goes through a similar struggle with the door on his way out, but gets angry enough to punch the metal doorframe this time, letting out a yelp of pain as he does. He would murder that door, if it were alive.

He waits inside his car for the cashier to bring him all his food. Another cigarette is between two digits of his left paw, elbow out the window. Even with his seat adjusted all the way back, his massive gut was still pressing up against the steering wheel. He takes another drag off his cigarette, closing his eyes as he feels more of the nicotine entering his blood, a comfortable shiver running down his spine. After a few minutes, he sees the cashier outside. He narrows his eyes and throws the cigarette to the ground, growling under his breath, “Finally.” He then calls out to the cashier, “Put it on the passenger side.” Even just sitting in his car, the demon’s chest heavily rises and falls, followed by heavy wheezes. The cashier opens his passenger door and sets the stack of pizza, a bag of almost two dozen containers of garlic butter, and his gallon of breadstick butter. They also hold out a piece of paper to the enormous demon dog, which he responds to with, “You already loaded it into my car. I’m not paying for any of it.” The cashier replies, “It’s actually my phone number…for a date.” A growl of arousal reverberates deep in his chest, as he coos, “You have good taste in husbands,” taking the paper. The cashier is taken aback by that casual comment, blushing hard. Without letting them verbally respond, he says, “Come around to this side, darling.” As the cashier does, the demon dog takes their paw into his own, and continues, “You know, darling, about a decade ago, before I buried it in fast food, I had such a long, hard cock. It was impressive.” He clearly means this as a flirty brag, but it’s unclear why exactly he would consider it that now. It works on the cashier regardless. He gently growls, “How’d you like to dig it out and help me empty my balls tonight? I bet I still can. I wanna fill you with my seed.” The cashier nods, flustered and barely able to speak. He takes his paw back from them, and says, “I’ll call you when I’m done eating all this,” shutting the car window as he does. Through the glass, they ask, “Oh, do you have a name, sir?” He shouts back, “No. And I don’t need one for you to feed or fuck me.” The cashier goes back inside shortly after, but the fat demon dog doesn’t leave the parking space until he’s guzzled down some more of the gallon of butter. He mutters to himself, “Shit…this is sure gonna become a habit…”

– Demon Dog (any pronouns) 🤍

https://beanbagbelly.cafe/