All you can eat buffet that keeps giving you larger portions
Walking through the food selection area and spying all the different meals, beverages, and desserts, all ready to be served to your table at a moments notice. You point out a few, mark them on a card, and hand it over to the person clearing tables. They give it a quick once over, grin and then scamper off back to the kitchen to relay the news, while you sit down, unaware of what's to come
The first wave of food is exactly as you ordered it. An easy cup of water to wash stuff don, large dinner plate of assorted meats and cheeses, slathered in a sauce that makes them shine in the light of the private room you're seated in. A few smaller appetizer plates sit nearby, breads, and fruits adorning them. What makes you blush is when you spot the dessert plate you'd ordered before hand. With eyes seemingly bigger than your stomach, you let out a hiss of air between gritted teeth as you observe the glistening glazes that lay atop the cake slices, the nearly transparent flakes that just barely hang on to the pastries, and the trickling drizzle that is dripping down the sides of your ice cream bowl.
When you finish, you pat your stomach as a joke while the waiters clear that table. Joking about how they'll have to roll you out of the room. Though you're quick to nod when they offer a repeat service.
You sit back and await the next set of platters, shirt a bit snugger than before, and belt actually feeling as though it's holding you back. But you ignore the sensations, sit up, and set your napkin back in your lap.
The second set makes you raise an eyebrow as it's set out in front of your. The plates a bit smaller than you remember, or maybe simply more covered in foods and their assorted juices as they cram together for space. The appetizers seem to confirm your suspicion, as their plates are upgraded from small side plates that let them fit nicely in the center cup, to larger platters that they now cover most of. The dessert set makes your stomach grumble, low and practically pushing out your skin as the cakes brush and land against each other with small sticky sounds as their glazes and frostings catch and unstick to one another repeatedly. A whine catches in your throat as they set down the water and ice cream, having been upgrade to jug and bowl respectively.
The table is cleared and you do your best to stifle the burp that builds in your throat. How many services is this? You lost count a while ago. All you know is that the tables smeared with crumbs and drips of whatever you've managed to spill while eating. Your shirt has a similar treatment, drops of assorted colours and pieces of food from assorted natures cling to your bubbling gut with such fondness as you tilt your head down to look. You can see the corners of the napkin, still laying in your lap but now squeezes by the protruding mass of your gut, small silk corners barely peeking through from where they hang off your knees. You reach down to touch at your stomach, domed like you've swallowed a beach ball, and tinged different hues where the skin has begun to strain. The consistent cup, pitcher, and now galloon jug of water they keep bringing out has left your stomach feeling less stuffed, and more fit to burst. Where the food sits like a heavy stone low in your gut, the water pushes, demanding expansion and demanding your attention when the slightest movement makes an audible slosh that leaves your face red, and some of the servers trying to conceal giggling or their own blushing.
You attempt to sit up, but your belly has no give. Seemingly no extra space in that rumbling mess of a gut, and when you trace your fingers over the skin, you feel just how little give there is. Those stupid, big, balls outside of the shopping center would probably feel more pliable than your belly as gurgles and bubbles spawn deep in your guts. It's almost embarrassing how quickly you ballooned. Pants seam squeezing and then popping as you ate, and they now sit barely hanging on by a thread. Your shirt ridden up and straining against your chest as your gut sits heavy. Engorged. Like you're somehow 9 months pregnant with twins- no, triplets that eagerly want out if the noises of your stomach are anything to go by.
You feel ready to pop when you see what you can only hope is that last set of plates get brought out. The food sits on top of platters now. Long, ornate platters that would seem at home in some kind of fun house caricature of how a king would be brought his meal. The food stacked atop it only seems to drive home that idea. The steaks brimming with veins of fat and sputtering out juice as the waiters begin to cut them for you. The loaves of bread, empty calories with a thick crust lay nearby, soaking up the meats juice as the waiters drop heavy slabs of butter that begin to melt and slide off the golden brown edges. The fruit has long since been abandoned, instead replaced with gravies and other sauces to smear onto the meal.
Your brows knit together to form a face akin to distress as you watch them drop the jugs onto the table, liquid sloshing and awaiting, chilled before hand to practically sting as it goes down your throat. But this part that makes you whine is the desserts. Full cakes adorned with slathers of whipped creams, seated next to what you can assume to be thick sheets of brownies, coated in fudge and still puffing off smoke as if they'd come fresh from the oven. That'll burn. But the next dish placed in front of you has been the one you've been begrudgingly awaiting. Dreading but also eager, simply to see how they up their game. Ice cream runs down the sides of the glass in thick globs, only stopping in spots where it meets the hot fudge and turns stationary. Creams adorn this one as well, in different shades and styles as they begin to droop from size and losing their fruitless battle with gravity. Luckily, they fall onto the thick, pizza-sized cookie they set the glass in the middle of.
You're about to insist you can't take another bite, can't possibly swallow anymore, you can barely reach the table regardless, when a waiter sits down next to you, practically squashed against the wall from your gut, but they work despite that. A fork in their hand that seems utterly insignificant compared to the sizes of the foods, but they still move, feeding you bite by bite even as you hiccup and moan and they cautious rub your distended gut as though worried you'll split from the touch.
Sweat, grease, crumbs, and thick globs of food coat you and the table. A straw in your fattened lips as you try to drink up the last of the melted ice cream. Your gut rumbles, and you feel the waiter shift in response. They're now pinned to the wall as you fill out the entire private booth, arms and upper body resting atop your bloated gut, but besides that, everything else obscured beneath your fat. The same can be said for you. You're not sure, but occasionally you feel something touch the bottom of your gut and you're almost sure it's the floor. You touch tentatively at the mass of fat you've trapped yourself under, only to hear the groan of your guts at, a gurgle that rumbles low in your stomach as you attempt to stop yourself from burping.
When a different waiter comes by to clear the table, you hiccup and surprises another burp before attempting to speak through food coma sleepiness, that you "Definitely didn't order all this."
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