Seated on the couch, you tilt your head back and groan, brows furrowed in a less-than-pleased fashion. Your thick thighs spread apart, feet stretching under the table. With puffy hands, you grip the belly that sinks slightly forward over your jeans, soft flesh squeezing through your fingers.
Each breath is laborious as you heave that weighty ball up, and you can't help but wince as it flops down with every exhale. You try to massage it, but the pressure only makes it that much more painful. Instead, you simply lay back against the couch, eyes closed, trying to block out the harshness of reality.
In the kitchen, he readies your dessert. You
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