I’m Jake, a sophomore chemistry major at Westbridge University, and I’ll never forget the year I spent in Professor Daniel Hawthorne’s class. He was the kind of man who could make time stop—tall, lean, with piercing green eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a smile that scrambled your thoughts. His lectures were a performance, his passion for chemistry electric, and his fitted button-downs hugged his frame in a way that made every student, myself included, fumble their lab equipment. But something happened that fall, something that turned him into a creature of pure indulgence, and I watched it unfold, week by week, from the front row, until I became part of his unraveling.
It started in late August, during the first week of the fall semester. Professor Hawthorne was demonstrating a reaction with organic solvents, his hands steady as he poured a clear liquid into a beaker. He reached for his water bottle, took a swig, and froze. His face twisted, like he’d tasted something foul. He coughed, set the bottle down, and muttered, “Wrong one,” grabbing another from his desk. The class laughed, thinking he’d grabbed a lab sample by mistake. He played it off, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glinting with something strange. I didn’t think much of it then—just a funny moment in a long lecture. But that was the spark that ignited everything.
For the first two months, he was completely oblivious to the changes. By mid-September, his tailored shirts were a little snug, his face slightly fuller. He was maybe 190 pounds, up from his usual 180, but still breathtakingly handsome. He started bringing snacks to class—granola bars, bags of chips—munching absentmindedly while lecturing on molecular orbitals. I stopped by his office to ask about a stoichiometry problem and found him tearing through a foot-long sub, mayo dripping onto his notes. “Gotta keep the energy up, Jake,” he said, licking his fingers with a grin, oblivious to the crumbs on his chin or the way his shirt clung to his chest. His voice was warm, his eyes lingering on me a beat too long, making my pulse race.
By October, he was pushing 220 pounds, his waistband digging into a softening middle. He didn’t seem to notice. His shirts gaped at the buttons, but he’d laugh and tug them closed, unaware of his changing body. He was eating more—donuts during lectures, powdered sugar dusting his tie as he rambled about chemical bonds. Once, he caught me staring as he polished off a fourth donut, and he winked, saying, “Fuel for the mind, Jake. Want one?” I shook my head, flustered, but I couldn’t stop watching. The way his jaw worked, the way his throat bobbed—it was hypnotic, and he was clueless about the spectacle he was becoming.
November brought whispers from the class. He was over 250 pounds, his face rounding out, a double chin jiggling when he laughed. Students speculated about stress-eating or a breakup, but he seemed happily unaware, munching through bags of candy or slurping milkshakes mid-lecture. His lectures grew looser, his focus slipping as he talked about chemical attraction with a dreamy intensity. He’d lean close during lab, his now-plump hip brushing mine, and I’d blush while he smiled, oblivious to the heat he sparked. I started wondering about that “wrong” bottle. Had it been a lab sample? Some experimental compound? I asked him during office hours, but he laughed, his chins wobbling, and said, “Curiosity’s a dangerous thing, Jake. Stick to the syllabus.” He didn’t notice his transformation, but I did. I was hooked.
By December, he was pushing 300 pounds, and the first signs of awareness crept in. His walk had slowed to a waddle, his breath heavy as he shuffled to his desk. His shirts wouldn’t button, hanging open over tight undershirts that rode up his belly. I caught him staring at himself in a lab mirror, tugging at his clothes with a frown. “Getting a bit soft, huh?” he muttered, half to himself, half to me, as I dropped off an assignment. He looked concerned, his eyes flickering with unease. He tried to cut back, sipping water instead of milkshakes during lectures, but it didn’t last. By the next class, he was back to eating—pizza slices, candy bars—his eyes guilty but powerless. He’d moan softly as he ate, like he was fighting a losing battle.
Winter break came, and I hoped he’d pull himself together. But when the spring semester started in January, he was 350 pounds and spiraling. He’d tried to stop—I saw a dusty treadmill in his office, diet books buried under takeout containers—but he was losing. During one lecture, he paused, a donut halfway to his mouth, and stared at it like it was his enemy. “This… isn’t me,” he said softly, then shoved it in, his eyes closing in defeat. His clothes were a mess—joggers stretched thin, XXL shirts barely containing his bulk. He’d grunt when he moved, his face flushed, and I could see the war in him: he wanted to stop, but something deeper was winning.
By February, he gave in completely. He was over 400 pounds, and the shame was gone, replaced by a reckless, hedonistic joy. His lectures were barely about chemistry—he’d ramble about pleasure, dopamine, the rush of indulgence, all while tearing through pastries or chugging energy drinks. His office was a shrine to excess, piled with wrappers, cans, and half-eaten cakes. He moaned openly, loud and unashamed, his eyes glassy with pleasure. And he started noticing me—really noticing me. During lab, he’d lean close, his massive frame brushing against me, his breath warm as he whispered, “You’re always watching, Jake. Like what you see?” My face burned, but I didn’t pull away. His flirtations were blatant, his voice thick with suggestion, and I was caught in his orbit.
One night in March, I stayed late to help with lab cleanup. He was there, 450 pounds and barely mobile, sprawled in his office chair, shirtless, his gut spilling over his waistband. He was eating cupcakes, frosting smeared on his lips, moaning with every bite. “Jake,” he slurred, his eyes locking on mine, “you ever wonder what it’s like to just… let go?” His hand grazed my arm, lingering, and I froze, my heart pounding. He leaned closer, his belly pressing against me, and whispered, “Stay. Try it with me.” His lips brushed my ear, his voice a low growl, and I felt a jolt of heat. I mumbled an excuse and fled, but his touch lingered, haunting me.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that bottle. I snooped through lab records and found it in a locked cabinet—a vial labeled “E-17,” marked with warnings about “uncontrolled effects.” I didn’t know what it did, but I knew it was the key. And I wanted more. He was falling, but not fast enough. I wanted to see him consumed, transformed into something beyond human. So I acted. During a late-night study session, I slipped a dose of E-17 into his soda. He drank it without hesitation, his eyes glinting as the liquid hit his tongue.
By April, he was unrecognizable, a 500-pound mountain of flesh. The E-17 had supercharged him. His appetite was insatiable, his body swelling daily. He’d waddle into class, his makeshift toga of bedsheets barely covering him, and eat non-stop—pizza, cakes, buckets of fried chicken. His moans were constant, animalistic, and he’d touch himself shamelessly, right in the middle of lectures. His hand would slip under his belly, stroking as he ate, his eyes half-closed in ecstasy. The class was down to a handful of us, mostly gawkers, but I was different. I’d done this to him. I’d pushed him over the edge.
He called me to his office one evening, his voice thick with need. He was 550 pounds, wedged behind his desk, his body trembling with every breath. “Jake,” he purred, “you did something, didn’t you?” He wasn’t angry—just hungry. He beckoned me closer, his hand grazing my thigh, and I didn’t pull away. “You want this too,” he said, pulling me against his massive frame, his lips brushing my ear. “Feed me.” I did, shoving donuts into his mouth, his moans vibrating against me as he ground against my leg, lost in pleasure. His hands roamed, tugging at my shirt, his breath hot and desperate. I was complicit, feeding his descent, and it felt like a drug.
By May, he was over 600 pounds and barely human. The department had tried to fire him, but he kept showing up, a hedonistic machine. His body was a sea of flesh, his mobility gone. He’d rigged a contraption in his office—a grotesque machine hooked to vats of liquid lard, tubes pumping the stuff into his mouth and rear. He was hooked up constantly, the machine whirring as it filled him, his body swelling with every gulp. He’d oink between moans, his hands working himself furiously, his eyes glassy with endless orgasm. The room reeked of grease and sweat, his toga in tatters on the floor.
Finals week arrived, and Professor Hawthorne was a spectacle beyond imagination. He was well over 700 pounds, his body an ocean of quivering flesh that spilled over every surface. His face, once sharp and handsome, was buried under chins, his eyes sunken but burning with lust. He couldn’t move anymore, his bulk pinning him to his office, where he’d become a permanent fixture. The machine he’d built was his lifeline, its tubes snaking into his body, pumping lard relentlessly. The whir of the pump was constant, a mechanical heartbeat feeding his endless hunger. His office was a temple of decadence—piles of pizza boxes, donut trays, buckets of fried chicken, and cakes smeared across every surface, including his own body. The air was thick with the stench of grease, sweat, and something primal.
I’d stopped attending classes, but I couldn’t stay away from him. I’d visit his office late at night, drawn by the sounds that echoed down the hall—grunts, oinks, moans that rose to a fever pitch. Each time, he was deeper in his trance, his body growing, his desires consuming him. He’d stopped lecturing entirely, his “classes” now just him hooked to the machine, eating, touching himself, and beckoning anyone who dared to enter. The department had given up trying to remove him; he was too heavy, too entrenched, and too defiant. He was no longer Professor Hawthorne—just a hog, a creature of pure, unrestrained pleasure.
On the last day of the semester, I went to his office to drop off my final project, though grades were irrelevant now. The door was ajar, and the sounds hit me like a wave—wet smacks, guttural oinks, the relentless hum of the lard pump. I pushed the door open and froze, my project slipping from my hand. He was there, immobile, wedged between his desk and the wall, his 800-pound body spilling over everything. His flesh rippled with every breath, rolls cascading over each other, his belly a mountain that pinned him in place. Tubes snaked from the machine into his mouth and rear, pumping thick, glistening lard into him, his body swelling visibly as the liquid coursed through. His skin glistened with sweat and grease, smeared with frosting, sauce, and crumbs from the feast scattered around him.
He was naked, his tattered bedsheet toga long discarded, his body a monument to excess. His hands moved frantically, one shoving food into his mouth, the other working himself, his moans a constant, ecstatic wail. He oinked—loud, shameless, pig-like grunts that shook his chins and sent ripples through his flesh. His eyes were half-closed, glassy with pleasure, his head lolling back as he surrendered to the endless orgasm that consumed him. The machine pumped faster, the tubes pulsing, and he trembled, his body quaking with every surge of lard. It was grotesque, but it was mesmerizing. He was no longer human—just a hedonistic machine, a hog wallowing in bliss.
I stood there, transfixed, my heart pounding. This was my creation. I’d dosed him with E-17, pushed him past the point of return, and now he was perfect in his excess. He saw me and grinned, his face barely recognizable under layers of fat, his eyes burning with lust. “Jake,” he slurred, his voice thick with pleasure, “you… made me… this.” He oinked again, louder, his body shuddering as he shoved a handful of cake into his mouth, frosting smearing his lips. “Come… closer,” he gasped, beckoning me with a trembling hand.
I shouldn’t have moved, but I did. I stepped into the chaos, the floor sticky under my shoes, the air heavy with his scent. He reached for me, his hand grazing my arm, pulling me against his massive frame. His belly pressed against me, soft and warm, his breath hot on my neck. “Feed me,” he whispered, his voice a growl of need. I grabbed a donut from the pile, shoving it into his mouth, and he moaned, his eyes rolling back. His hand tugged at my shirt, desperate, and I felt the heat of him, the raw, animalistic pull of his desire. “More,” he gasped, and I obeyed, feeding him pizza, cake, anything I could reach, his oinks growing louder, his body trembling under my touch.
The machine pumped faster, the tubes swelling as he gulped more, his moans rising to a scream of ecstasy. He was lost in it, his hands roaming—himself, the food, me—chasing every sensation. “You wanted… this,” he panted, his eyes locking on mine. “Now… join me.” He laughed, a guttural, sound that merged with his oinks, and I felt a sick thrill of guilt and thrill. He was right. I’d done this, and I couldn’t couldn’t look away. I was complicit, addicted, to his descent, to the rush of watching him consume himself.
I stayed for hours, feeding him, the machine humming, his body growing before my eyes. He was 900 pounds by the end, his flesh spilling over the desk, the wall, the floor, his mobility a distant memory. His moans never stopped, his oinking a primal chant, his hands never still, his eyes locked on mine, with a wicked, knowing grin. “Perfect,” he slurred, his voice barely audible, over the pump’s roar. “You made… perfect.” He shuddered, his body convulsing quaking, and I backed away, my hands shaking, my mind reeling.
I left the out of office that night, the door swinging shut, behind me, his sounds echoing in my head. I didn’t go to the final exam. I didn’t need to. I’d seen the end of his experiment, the masterpiece I’d helped create. Professor Hawthorne was gone, replaced by a hog, a hedonistic machine, wallowing in endless bliss. And I’d never forget him—or what I’d done
