Title:           Chip Slob
Author:          shadowofdreams
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/1Z6BmE7U
First Edit:      Tuesday 15th of March 2016 05:39:15 PM CDT
Last Edit:       Tuesday 15th of March 2016 05:39:15 PM CDT

Chip laid back on the pillows, hand lazily tracing the curvature of his gut up and down. His stomach grumbled and he bit his fat lip, brow furrowing. “I just ate two hours ago…” he muttered to himself. He didn’t begrudge getting to eat more; ever since that whole business with Sonic, he was getting unlimited food from all of the countries of the world! Empire City hot dogs, Spagonia cannolis, Apotos bahklavah, all of it just waiting for him! It was right there, in his fridge!
He just had to, uh, get to it.
His eyes darted around his pillow bedding, desperately searching for a sturdy hold. Seeing his computer desk, he grabbed for it, clamping down with his sweat fingers. Chip’s unpathetic body pushed himself up as his natural flying abilities attempted to help. His white belly brushed up against the wooden furniture, sweat slicking off onto its surface as his jiggly gut wobbled. It took two thuds, one for each of his massive legs, for him to reach a comfortable standing position, and already he was wheezing. “Gotta… huff… talk to… g’nah… somebody about that…” he panted out.
His gut rumbled at him again, pangs pushing into his head. “I know, I know…” he muttered under his breath. He found his footing on the floor and began his slow waddle to the fridge. It was only down the hall, but as he pushed through the door, his fat ass cheeks grazed both sides, more sweat pushing onto them. He grimaced further; He knew he didn’t have much longer until he was trapped in that room, but with a dose of fear, he wondered if that was a bad thing. He shook his head again, jowls jiggling as he lumbered to the kitchen.
He threw open the fridge door, off white slab knocking against the cabinets and rattling the counter. His hands went first for the cake, digging in for handfuls. Sleeves of chocolate grew on his arms as he stuffed his face, guilty smile turning to hedonistic trance. He devoured the gelato using a scooper as his spoon, pale green dairy falling down his thunderous gut. A loud BURRARARARAPPPP rang out of his mouth, food morsels dotting against the fridge. He licked his lips, ready for more.
He didn’t remember the next twenty minutes, usually didn’t. They played like culinary themed dreams in his mind usually; masses of indeterminate food stuffs with no context, no start or end, fading into each other, disappearing into his belly. He lumbered back down the hall, smelling like a grocery store explosion and dripping rainbows of leftovers. With a dull smile and blush he stopped and pushed into his stomach, an ass cheek clapping FFFFRRRARARARART flying out. The stink filled the room, but Chip just felt prouder.
As he lumbered back, ready to take a nap, he pressed a button on the nearby closet, a machine arm pushing out and rather indelicately and quickly... It looked like he got punched in the balls. Full on. Thankfully the hand was just affixing a self-serving onahole, able to work without its master’s touch.
His gut pushed into the door first, knocking it open. He fell face first onto the pillows, slowly rolling over onto his side. His eyes were drooping with exhaustion, but he had one last thing to do.
“Ceiling Mirror.” He said, attempting to speak clearly but unable to stop the slight whistle in his speech. The computer understood, the ceiling panels turning reflective. With a slow intake of breath and a head rush, he took in all of himself.
His stomach pushed into the air like a gluttonous hill, deep navel dribbling sweat down his stomach and between his thighs. His meaty legs rubbed against each other, cock aching in his onahole, which was already beginning to vibrate. His ass cheeks pushed out to his side, flaring hard. They were couch crushers; no, they were couches themselves. He smiled as he got to his fat tits, slinging off to either side, thick nipples leaking sweat and rivulets of milk. His cock ached at him, screamed, begged for release. As he looked over his fatty cheeks, all he could think of was the lithe thing he once was. He was energetic, youthful, and bouncy.
Now he couldn’t eat without almost giving himself a heart attack.
Feeling the edge coming, he made eye contact with himself. He could see it. The fatty spirit. The laziness, the hedonism. As his smile grew more orgasmic, he let loose a cacophonous BURRRARARARAPPP, throwing his head back as he came. As exhaustion began to take him, he began to think to himself.
“That was great; Tomorrow will be better”