A Rat TF/Weight Gain Story
(Shared from furaffinity)
Claire was not a people-person, which made her mother’s passion parties a biweekly and hourly house-arrest sentence from six to eleven. Not that it was difficult to remain in her room during that time—she had everything she needed: a subscription to several streaming services, a bookshelf of read and unread books, a laptop with internet access, and best of all: her mother, Patricia, who knew and respected her desire for privacy—but knowing a part of her house became less inviting never sat right with her, especially given she was 19, an age when sexually active girls began investing in things like vibrators, dental dams, and lubricants. Just imagining the older women pulling her into the conversation made her red in the face with equal parts embarrassment and an increased heartrate.
Patricia entered only after she knocked, and waited for her daughter to let her in. She appeared in the room with a large plate of catered food for Claire: grapes, crackers, sliced meats, a portion of a large sandwich containing olives, chicken, jalapeno and mustard on a rye loaf; and a generous helping of cheeses. She set the plate along with a glass of wine on the TV tray. Claire looked at her mother with surprise.
“I figured you’re ready to have at least a few glasses if you’d like,” she said. “At least, under my supervision.”
“That one’s called a Malbec,” Patricia said. “It’s the one your aunt Ethel brought over last week when she wanted to talk divorce at me. How is it?”
Claire pursed her lips together. “I think I can get used to it.”
Patricia smiled. “Anything else I can get you?”
Patricia disappeared, leaving Claire to her food and her library copy of Akira on DVD. She took a sip of the wine again, then a bigger drink. Within twenty minutes, the glass—which was already overfilled by her mother—was emptied. Claire was surprised at how quickly she fell into favor with its flavor. She remembered hearing something at school about how tastebuds develop as people age, and wondered if that was the case now.
Whatever it was, she wanted another glass. But if she went out now, she knew she’d be cut off or something by her mom, so she sat and continued to watch the movie, picking at the food on her plate with small bites, starting with the grapes.
Eventually, Claire made her way to the cheese, which she had been avoiding until then. Not that she particularly hated cheese, but she liked very specific kinds of cheeses, and was no good at identifying provolone from brie. Some of them, with their odd colors and flecks of whatever inside the slices, she had no idea about, but Claire generally had a rule for cheeses: the fancier or smellier the cheese, the worse it tasted.
But then she thought about the wine, and maybe her feelings on cheese had changed too. So she began eating. Some of them were brittle and a little too rich. Others were smooth yet a little tasteless. But she found, especially by cleansing her palate with sharp cheddar, she appreciated all their flavors in one way or another.
The movie was nearing its climax: Kaneda was on his way to the sports complex to have the final showdown with Tetsuo, when suddenly there was a movement in Claire’s stomach. She shifted in her seat. It felt enough like digestion to ignore it. Perhaps a little heavier, a more pronounced sound emerging from her stomach, but digestion nonetheless. Then it happened again. This time it felt more like a drop. Was she hungry again already? Claire was puzzled, but didn’t think too much about it other than the fact that it would give her the chance to get more wine and cheese.
Claire paused the movie and prepared herself to meet the regulars: Helena, the single lesbian in her fifties; Regina, the youngest one of the group who usually brings a new friend each meeting; Esme, the dominatrix; Opal, the trans woman with the only laugh loud enough to pierce the walls of Claire’s bedroom; and her mom, of course, who tells Claire about all these people with enthusiasm. Claire slipped into her baggiest sweater, her Orioles baseball cap, and black dust-mask with white, sharp teeth painted on the front. When she was ready, she grabbed the empty glass and plate and headed out.
She walked quickly but quietly, but no amount of stealth could hide her from the company. In order to get from the bedroom to the kitchen, she had to open her very squeaky bedroom door, walk down the hallway and down the stairs that curved around the wall and exposed her to the living room. The kitchen was across the room from there. There was no need to worry about drawing attention to herself. It always seemed that Opal was the one to be on the lookout for Claire, to say hello and wave her arms as if the queen herself had arrived fashionably late to bless her citizens with her grace and presence.
“Claire, hello! How are you?!”
And with that, the whole room turned to look up and greet her. A garbled wave of greetings poured over her like a tidal wave of bullshit social norms. Claire gave them all only a nod as she passed toward the kitchen. She made eye contact with her mother as she passed, and her mother made eye contact with the empty glass and followed in after her.
“I take it you’ve gotten used to it.”
Patricia smiled as she finished pouring the glass. “Well, you’re welcome. But please, take it a little slow this time.”
Claire saw the cheeses and began piling them onto her plate. Her mother asked her about the sandwich, to which Claire responded by placing it back on the serving tray with the rest of the portions. “I don’t really like olives or jalapeno,” she said.
“I thought you ate everything.”
“I do, it’s just…not in the mood I guess.”
“Well, all right, but try not to eat too much cheese. It’s not good for the digestion. Blocks you all up.”
“Thanks for the specifics, mom. Really helps me eat.”
Esme called Patricia’s attention, and she returned to the living room. Unsupervised, and with her head starting to buzz faintly from the first serving of alcohol, Claire gracelessly added several more handfuls of cheese onto her plate and moved covertly back up the stairs, shielding her mom’s view of the plate with her body. The moment she closed the door, Claire set the glass and plate down on the tray, sat down on the bed, pressed play on the remote, and hunched over the cheese, eating one piece after another.
There were countless times where Claire, wrapped up in her work or watching her favorite series obsessively, where she’d forget how hungry she was, which would result in eating large helpings all at once. But this felt different. It wasn’t a hunger out of desperation, it was a hunger derived from pleasure. The more cheese she ate, the better it tasted: the nutty, sweet flavor of the gouda, the creamy texture of truffle brie, the tanginess of sheep’s milk in the ombra – all its deliciousness, paired with a second glass of wine, caused her stomach to radiate with a warmth from her contentment.
Claire slipped her sweater over her head and tried to adjust her t-shirt when she noticed two things: First, her shirt seemed shorter. Second, where her belly poked out from beneath the shirt, there was a patch of color surrounding her navel. Curious, she ran a single finger over the spot of gray to discover that it was something like short fur.
Was this what it was like to be drunk? Claire thought. Can you hallucinate from too much wine? Claire knew from television that people sometimes got double vision, but what about this? It felt real to her, and not only that, it felt… good. She ran her whole hand across the fur one way, then the other, feeling the electric tingle when the fur was stroked up, and the soothing relief when it was stroked down.
One of the cheeses was especially fragrant, and only after it had been sitting there awhile, in the heat of the space heater, did it register with Claire. She ate even more pieces, arranging the cheeses by types and eating several slices at once. Her stomach growled louder now, as if it wasn’t just hungry but demanded attention. Something slid up her stomach toward her breasts. Looking down, Claire realized her shirt had given away to more stomach and more fur.
A part of her was worried. What would her mom say? What about university? Was this a disease? If it were, it was definitely an unsightly one – one that would surely have her mocked in school: Belly Hair Claire, she imagined. It wasn’t much worse than her old high school nickname, Death Glare Claire, but she didn’t need one in a new setting. How could she hide this?
Another part of her, as she ate the cheese, head spinning – too much wine? – was feeling light, and happy. The fur crept around to her lower back, and caused her to shiver in delight. It moved to her armpits, then down her forearms. It caressed the inside of her wrists as it moved to the top of her hands and brushed against her knuckles. It was a similar experience feeling the fur spread down her buttocks and her inner thigh. With the fur pressing against her leggings, it felt tight but warm. Her feet were especially ticklish as the fur spread across the tops of her feet and stopped just at the webs of her toes.
Claire decided, since it felt right, or at least good, she would embrace it. The fur, the wine, the cheese. She tried to grab the stem of her wine glass but it fumbled in her grip. She caught it with her other hand and held it at the bottom of the bowl between both. She hardly paid any attention to her hands, swelling and curling into shorter, but certainly stubbier digits. Only after she finished the wine and moved onto the cheese did it register with her. She couldn’t simply pick any of the pieces up with two fingers as she was used to, but instead had to cradle the cheese between both paws. But once she began scooping up larger helpings of cheese to eat at once from her paws, she was back to fully indulging herself, cramming her mouth full of food.
Now, even with the smallest piece of cheese, it seemed Claire’s stomach grew bigger and bigger. Soon it was too tight, and Claire struggled out of her shirt, ripping the fabric at the collar with her claws and tossing it aside. She leaned forward for more cheese and the TV tray almost toppled forward. She adjusted herself, moving from sitting on her knees to her bottom. In that position, she felt the heft of her torso, the weight of herself on her legs. True, more weight meant that she would have to get different clothes, but it also meant there was more skin to be covered with that fantastic feeling of fur. She ran her paws over her breasts, down her stomach again. This was the most fun she had in her room in ages!
But once the cheese had run out once again, the sound of Opal’s laughter through the wall reminded Claire that, if she wanted to continue to eat more cheese, wanted to keep feeling this good, she would have to endure the company of her mom’s passion party. The realization plummeted like an empty cable-less elevator from the top floor of her heart. How could she be seen like this? She looked at herself in the mirror beside her door, held out her hands, her feet, which had also turned pink and clawed. Even being that close to the door, Claire could smell the Gruyère wafting from the kitchen.
Desperate, Claire went to her phone. With her fingers altered into paws, she couldn’t surpass the lock screen. She used her nose instead to dial her mom.
“Can you bring me up another plate of cheese?”
Claire could hear her mom excuse herself from the festivities. “Can’t you come down and get it yourself?”
“No,” said Claire, “not at the moment.”
“Sweetie,” asked Patricia, “is everything all right.”
“Just leave the plate outside, all right?”
Claire’s mood lightened when the plate was delivered. When she managed to open the door, and slide the plate in across the carpet, she began eating with an intensity that felt like an absolutely need.
The laughter grew louder from downstairs. Claire only heard Opal first, but then there were other voices: inflections that suggested normal volume but seemed louder than before. In the mirror, eating from the cheese plate on the floor, Claire watched as her ears grew rounder, pushed out from beneath the hood of the sweater that no longer felt so baggy on her anymore. She felt the cartilage stretch and thin. She listened as she ate. She could hear the whole conversation. The conversation she always assumed was about her and how antisocial she was and how her mom wished she’d get out more.
But she was surprised. It was nothing like that. Opal called her a dear, Helena suggested inviting Claire as a way to communicate openness about sex and sexuality, Regina said she’d love to have anybody closer to her age in all honesty. This was a conversation she wouldn’t have otherwise heard, that nobody would suspect that she was hearing, but it was positive and supportive.
She finished off the cheese, feeling her nose and jaw take the new shape of a snout, and a thick pink tail slip from the waistband of her leggings and thump against the floor, slithering outward as it grew in length. Admiring its sleekness in the mirror and the feeling as it swished against the light bristle of her carpet, she felt loved, and loved herself, and with one last appreciative rub of her stomach below her sweatshirt, she pawed at the handle of her bedroom door and made another appearance.
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