Here you can read the first chapter of my illustrated story, the sequel or a little epilogue for my wg comic: TYB. All three chapters of this little story is already available on my Patreon, each one with its own illustration!
Tighten Your B.E.L.T.s. Operation:Full disclosure
Oscar adjusted his collar again. Third time since breakfast. The new B.E.L.T. uniforms were supposed to be “next-gen adaptive wear”—designed for flexibility, endurance, and biometric support. But today, his clung in ways that felt almost… personal. It wasn’t tight, exactly. Just snug. A little firmer at the chest, a little more pressure at the stomach. His waistband hugged—not pressed—but hugged, and didn’t let go. Everything is more strict now, there’s no softness. He tightened his belt one more time, as he did before IT ALL happened. You’re not him anymore.
Months ago, he’d been nearly immobile. A walking monument to powdered sugar and weal will. A swollen, blob embarrassment for the agency, lured into a trap by pastries and whispers. Captured and fattened like livestock in a velvet prison of desserts. But he liked it. No, that was the lie. He tolerated it. For the mission. Except… he still remembered the warmth of his gut spilling over his lap, the way donuts melted on his tongue like his heart melted from the friction of thighs, rubbing together with every slow, heavy step. Fullness felt organically. Softness was natural. He hated it. He had to hate it. But sometimes at night, he still dreamed of frosting.
But it all were days of the past, sweet and tempting, trying to steal his focus from today. The new mission appeared in Oscar’s log:
Assignment: Remote Facility Audit – Site 17B
Overseer: M. Fitson (Remote Clearance Only)
A standard audit. Strange readings from an otherwise secure facility. Limited staff. Low contact. Fitson wanted it resolved quietly. Fitson always wanted things quiet. The man hadn’t been seen in person in months—only a floating, half-visible hologram barking rules and rants about discipline. He’d grown increasingly harsh since the collapse of the Well-Packed Society. “Agent Xcites,” he’d grumbled in the last debrief, “your body was a liability. You were a weakness. The new uniform will ensure that doesn’t happen again.” Oscar had nodded. He’d worn the uniform like a second skin ever since. No time to complain about Fitson’s ways of upper management. The agent was lucky to come back at all. He was welcomed not with opened arms though, more like crossed once. Which is only one more reason to hurry up and depart to 17B site. D.O.G. must be waiting already.
Oscar approached the chopper. The air was crisp; the sky a cold blue. And there, standing like a statue mid-sniff, was Agent D.O.G.
All sleek lines (including the perfect lil-belly shape, Oscar even was a bit jealous), glossy boots, and unnatural stillness. He was standing with his enormous head Dog tattoo exposed to Oscar. Xcites felt like this image of a freaky dog, on the immaculately bald temple, was watching him. The agent himself turned only when Oscar was two feet away.
“You’re late,” D.O.G. said without looking.
Oscar laughed awkwardly. “We’re on B.E.L.T. time. Always late.”
D.O.G. finally faced him. “You’re sweating.”
“Not sweaty warm though, my dear.”
D.O.G. stepped closer. Not threatening—more like curious. His nose twitched. Oscar exhaled slowly. “So… I heard about your scent before… Now we’re officially friends?” Xcites smiled, looking at confused D.O.G.’s face.
“You’re wearing a new variant. The uniform. It smells… modified.”
Oscar couldn't hide his surprise. “You can smell that!?”
“I can smell every-y-ythi-i-ing,” D.O.G. sang like he was in an old commercial. “Also, you skipped breakfast but you’re secreting insulin. Craving spike. Something triggered it.”
Oscar looked away. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?” D.O.G. leaned in slightly, sniffing his neck. “I smell frosting memory. Still embedded in your scent.”
“Mr. Henry’s influence,” Oscar chuckled.
D.O.G.’s eyes glazed slightly. “Henry…”
“We can discuss him on our way, you sure have some stories to tell.”
The chopper lifted, slicing into the clouds like a blade. The cabin hummed with soft vibrations—white noise over endless sky. Oscar settled into his seat. And that’s when he felt it. The uniform. It hugged again. His midsection, specifically—just under the ribs. Not crushing, but gently encasing him. Like a padded hand cupping the start of a belly that shouldn’t be there. A tender reminder. He shifted. The fabric stayed. It pressed into him when he inhaled. It cradled him when he slouched. And when the belt auto-snapped to “support mode,” he felt the soft flesh under his navel swell just slightly above it. His thighs were touching. No, more than touching. Compressing. He tried to cross his legs. The resistance was real. It’s just the flight. Air pressure. Fluid retention. A lie. But a convenient one.
And then came the warmth. That small, shameful pulse of comfort that crawled up his spine. That old, forbidden feeling of being held by your own body. Surrounded. Softened. Safe. His stomach gave a low, eager growl. He clenched his jaw. This isn’t real. I’m not that man anymore.
D.O.G. turned to him, head tilted.
“You’re flushed,” he said. “Your scent just changed.”
Oscar stared out the window. “Pressure drop.” He looked away to hide embarrassment, to hide the joy.
“No,” D.O.G. whispered. “Something’s happening to you.”
Then the voice crackled through their shared earpieces—Fitson’s voice, distorted and sharp.
“Report in upon landing. And remember, Agents… the uniform is not just protocol. It’s prevention. It was designed to protect you.”
Oscar flinched. The way he said "designed" made something cold turn over in his stomach.
D.O.G. turned away, frowning, stroking his moustache. “He’s hiding something.”
Oscar’s belt pinched again—just a little tighter. His stomach growled. Louder. And for the briefest moment, as he pressed his thighs together to hide the spreading warmth, he realized something: Part of him didn’t want it to stop.
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