You sir, are dangerous.

I first realized this during dinner, when you kept piling on more to my plate. You were urging me to eat, telling me that I shouldn’t waste food, that I need to eat to keep my strength up. You eventually picked up the fork and held it to my lips, telling me open up for you. Between shaky breaths and nervous glances, I obeyed.

The second time I noticed the danger in you was afterwards, when we were on the sofa. Your warm hands lingered on my round belly, holding it almost possessively. I whined that my tummy was too full, it hurt so much - in reply you started to rub it. You were gentle, at first…slow circles around the dome of my stomach, my softness following the movement of your palm. However, gradually you became a bit more rough - your hands would press just a bit more firmly, your fingertips would poke and prod at my heavy lower tummy, and you’d lift my little bump in your hands and squeeze it between your fingers. All to hear me whimper, to watch me squirm, to taste my pouty tears as you kissed me. You wanted to make my vulnerable little belly swollen and sick.

But your dangerous actions didn’t stop there. Because while you were playing with my tummy, you were also peppering kisses along my neck. Your hands would rise to play with my chest, and fall to brush against more intimate places. Once you were on top of me, pressed against me and squeezing my poor unsettled tummy against your own stomach - I saw your eyes. The hunger in them, the want, the need. It made me melt, and it was all too easy for you take me that night - completely bare.

So now I’m looking in the mirror, lifting my shirt to observe my heavy tummy. It’s grown to be about as round as it had been after you fed me - and I know the reason why. I can’t deny it anymore. You really meant it when you said you wanted to fill me; you’ve now done that in every way possible.