“Hold still, piggy," the manager mutters, his voice as flat and clinical as the fluorescent lights overhead. He doesn't look at your face, he’s too busy assessing the fresh real estate you’ve developed since yesterday. His gloved hand glides over the soft, doughy muffin top spilling over your waistband, kneading the warm dough of your side before he presses a large, cold stamp against the skin. You shiver as the ink takes hold, leaving a perfectly centered advertisement for the Oreo McFlurry now decorating the bulge of your waist. It’s your first "contribution" of the day, and it earns you a fifty percent discount, but you know you aren't leaving until you’ve earned the whole tray.
He moves to your chest next, muttering about your growth being “impressive” under his breath as he realizes how much your cleavage has overgrown since the last session. He has to ask you for help to push your heavy breasts together, just so he can fit the "20 Pc. McNuggets" stamp across the top of your udders. You’re breathing heavy already, the scent of fryer oil and salt making your head swim while you watch him tally up the "Ad Space" on a digital tablet. You’re becoming a top-tier partner in the Rewards Program, a status that’s reflected in the way your pants are screaming at the seams, the fabric literally failing to contain the "McGriddle" deal stamped across each cheek of your ass as it spills out the back. These days you’re wondering whether you should wear fewer clothes or not, after all it’s more ad space visible and you’ll outgrow them soon enough anyway. He grabs the next stamp~
It’s time for crown jewel, the front and center ad space… the underhang. The manager has to kneel down for it, his hands bracing against your thighs as he hoists up the massive, sagging apron of your belly. It’s thick and heavy, flowing out over your waistband like a slow-motion landslide of fat. He carefully aligns the "Big Mac" logo, pressing it firmly into the center of your belly where the fat is softest and most visible. You let out a shaky breath, your legs trembling from the effort of standing as the ink bites in. It’s a foolproof business strategy really, you’re more than enough proof of that. You’ve grown so much that the ads are starting to warp, the golden arches stretching out into long, thin lines across your hips, but you don't care. You’re too addicted to the constant flow of salt and grease, too deep in the hole to ever pay for a meal with actual money again. You traded it all away for your gluttony.
"Excellent growth," he says, finally looking up with a smirk as he slides a tray across the counter. It’s stacked high with enough food to feed a family, but it’s all for you. "You've got enough room for the Premium Piggy tier today." He pulls out a set of darker, permanent-looking stamps, and your heart skips a beat. These aren't for the menu. He presses the first one into the curve of your shoulder: Body Built by McDonald's. The next one goes right on the peak of your distended gut: Property of the Golden Arches. You watch the ink settle into your stretch marks, realizing that you’ve long since left customer status and moved into the category of ‘asset’ and McDonalds wants a return on their investment~
You’re tearing into the first burger before you’ve even left the counter, your mind a hazy, sugary mess of submission. This happens more often than not, you can’t really stop yourself anymore once the food is front of you. The manager has to shoo you away to a table as you waddle past the line of waiting “billboards”. They’re all different levels of obese, some smaller and some bigger than you, but they all have the fading ink on their overfed, overgrown bodies as evidence of yesterday’s advertising efforts. Most of them are breathing heavy just from standing, but they’ll gladly wait it out for today’s ads and food. You waddle toward a table, each thudding footstep echoing through the restaurant, announcing your presence as a "Fast Food Piggy" to everyone in the booths. You know they're staring at the way the ads jiggle and warp on your flab, but the shame's been drowned in a sea of high-fructose corn syrup and a growing pool of pleasure between your thighs. You're already thinking about tomorrow, wondering if you can squeeze out a few more inches of ad space on your thighs just to see if he'll give you a second tray. It’s worth a shot you think, as you polish off your fries. Every day is a cycle of constant gluttony and anticipation for you, a permanent billboard for obesity, a loyal, branded cow who's found her purpose at the bottom of a fast food bag <3
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