Prompt:
One of the cute girls in your friend group suddenly starts paying more attention to you after you've gained weight- exposing her as an ffa
I love this one! It's turning out to be pretty long so it'll span multiple chapters. Here's a little taste from the middle of chapter one. The rest of it will be going up here.
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I wander my apartment in a low-slung towel, drying in the slants of afternoon sun while I scroll through a delivery app. The anticipation is already beginning to bubble—so new yet already a well-established addiction. A secret which won’t be secret for much longer, whether I like it or not. I had barely five minutes of lucid thought—my brief gasp of post-nut clarity before thoughts of heavy hot hanging fat dragged me back under.
Pizza, tiramisu, bacon… I skip past anything green, looking for fried, for cheese, for sugar and fat. Bouncing hard on the balls of my feet, desperate to feel my little indiscretion jiggle, but there’s not enough of it yet. I choose a burger place, add to order, add to order, add to order, add to order. My cart blows out with excess, I know I shouldn’t be doing this. There’s a small voice shouting at me from somewhere above the water level, begging me to stop while I still can, but I’m too deep. Caution can’t reach me here. Place order. I wince at the subtotal but ignore it. There’s no dollar value I wouldn’t pay for my new body—the body of my dreams, the body of my nightmares. Money is the least of what I’m paying for this to happen.
It arrives in two straining bags, and I can’t even meet the eyes of the guy who hands it to me. The moment the door closes, I’m a whirlwind. Closet door open, mirror, chair. I bring a bottle of whole milk from the fridge, getting closer and closer to heavy cream every day. Trade the towel for underwear—not for modesty, but because they’re starting to dig in. I want to feel the shameful bite of a waistband that used to be loose. I groan as I lower myself to the chair, already aching. Clouds of hot salt and grease billow from the bags as I open them, smelling like obesity. Smelling like my addiction.
The first burger explodes satisfaction through my body. I get it down fast, too fast, just for the thrill of it, the excitement of being too greedy. I part my legs, longing for a soft, heavy gut to drop between them, but I use the longing as motivation—grabbing at the subtle new softness, shaking it roughly as I devour the second burger.
By the third, the smell is no longer inviting. The grease is off-putting. I’ve had enough, my stomach aches. I want to lie down, I want fresh air, water, anything but more food.
This is when the real work starts.
I unwrap the burger, trying not to look at it, trying not to breathe in. I close my eyes and build a mental image—a reminder of why I’m putting myself through this: a belly that fills up my lap. Dimpled, cellulite-coated thighs that rub and force me into a waddle. A fattened face, constantly flustered, cushioned by a lewd and wobbling double chin. My panic, my embarrassment, my thrill, my constant overwhelming obsession as clothing strains, stretch marks emerge, rolls thicken out, buttons burst, and people say, “Oh my God, is that you?”
I devour the third burger in a few desperate bites.
/ / /
“Hey!”
It’s raining this Sunday for brunch, and the cafe we chose is quaint and old and a bit French, with large windows and hanging planters filled with wildflowers. A mint green bicycle leans against a lamp post outside, the basket on the handlebars slowly filling up with water.
As I shake the raindrops from my umbrella outside the front door, I’m deeply aware of the intimate cling of my shirt to my rapidly forming new belly. I didn’t have to wear something this tight—I still have plenty of looser shirts. But something had happened to my mind over this month since our last brunch. Hiding away in my apartment and eating, and eating, and eating, and finally, inevitably, fattening had made my constant heady state of lust a difficult thing to shake.
Careful neutral smiles come across the faces of everyone at the table… or maybe I’m just imagining it. There’s no real way to tell a convincing fake smile from a real one, especially when 80% of my brain capacity is stuck on the feeling of the cold buckle lovingly nestled beneath fresh fat plumping over my belt. It’s electric in its newness. I twist to put my umbrella in the stand by the door. My t-shirt pulls, smacking with audacity. It clutches my tender new gut, my erogenous zone, publicly.
This is going to be the world’s longest brunch.
[to be continued...]
