The wooden bench creaked gently under her weight, but she didn’t mind. Her belly, full and plush, spilled heavily over her lap, its soft mass rising and falling with each slow breath. She rested her paws atop it, fingers splaying out across its warmth like she was cradling something sacred. "Look at you," she thought, paw gliding gently over the slope of her gut. "Heavy. Round. So full of softness they couldn’t help but notice." She loved moments like this – when the world grew quiet, and the heaviness of her body became the only truth. Her shirt strained gently across her middle, buttons spaced wide apart, barely containing the yielding curve underneath. She broke a muffin in half, the crumbs falling and vanishing into the soft fold where her belly met her thighs. She chuckled softly, paw brushing the spot, feeling the indulgent weight of herself in her own hands. Her body was more than just soft – it was an offering. A place to sink into. A silent invitation whispered in curves and heat. And in that stillness, with only the birds chirping and her breathing deep, she didn’t need words to feel wanted. She only needed the gentle pressure of her belly, the quiet pride in every kilogram carried, and the sweet taste of comfort melting on her tongue.