By Jay Tee
Part Four: The World is Not Fat Enough
Deborah Crimpton enters her office at the White House. She's surrounded by at least a dozen assistants, all of them carrying cellular phones, all of them talking.
“Enough!” She screams out loud. “Jesus, I need a break people… Phil is about to speak to our fellow Americans and I need to read this… I just need a couple of minutes!”
“Six minutes, Mrs. Crimpton - possibly less,” exclaims a short guy in a pale green suit without unplugging the mobile from his ear.
“Thanks, Jason. Now, leave for a second, pleeeease! Hush!”
The door closes, and the feminine figure sits in a comfy black leathered chair. She looks exhausted, and there's a reason. In the last three hours, almost the entire population of Manhattan has become extremely obese. There's no known reason for this an incredible overnight change. Now, it's 6:54 a.m., and she needs to quickly review the text of her husband's speech. Just two hours ago she was asleep.
“Better get through of this as quickly as possible,” she thinks. The paper in her hands says nothing more than the usual: “we're going to investigate this as quickly and thoroughly as we can.” There's nothing much to say really. Deborah knows that no communications have been received from any terrorist group or cell in the world. That's the present status, and the agencies are working their asses off.
Her eyes run across the lines, “We promise a quick response…” Usual… Usual… “No significant secondary effects were…” Mostly the same speech using National Security protocol, she thinks.
Deborah holds a coffee mug that's about to get cold. She sips slowly while her eyes continue their task. Her make up is basic; she's wearing a cream-colored suit and skirt. She thinks about her husband Phil Crimpton delivering this speech to the nation, when . . .
. . . suddenly, a strange numbing sensation invades her entire being. She thinks there's something wrong with her chair.
“What's that? What…?”
She stands quickly. There's nothing wrong with the chair, she sees; the electricity seems to be running through her body. Quickly, she presses the intercom. “Alison, Bob, Jason… somebody! What the hell is happening? Are you feeling this… thing?”
“Oh my god!” And several other screams start to spread out over the speaker. Something is happening in the room next door, too.
Then the first button - the button of her skirt - pops out. Her eyes wide open, Deborah Crimpton, the First Lady, watches as her belly starts to fill in. She's caught between dismay and shock, but the slow, constant expansion is captivating.
She had been a little plump before her husband become president - and started to work off the extra inches when Phil's presidential intentions were just a whiff in the political arena. As his wife, Deborah had been the real creator of her husband's image. So she'd worked herself down from a hefty 145 pounds to a trim 115 in less than a year. How afraid of food and fat she had become: for the last eight years, the once nice and chubby Debbie Addam Crimpton had been but a memory. . .
Deborah starts to develope a double chin. Her skirt rips out. Her white blouse unbuttons, spreading the small golden buttons all around the floor. Her First Lady breasts balloon out, stretching her satin brassiere to the limit of its cups; her bra is made of very good fabric, but it's still about to burst… Her suit, unable to contain so much sudden flesh growth, splits in two along her upper back, exposing a strained blouse that's ready to follow the same path.
Her blouse finally disappears between rolls of fat. Now Mrs. Crimpton displays an 80-inch wide belly hanging hefty and protuberant. Her arms are also unveiled. Several inches of pale stoutness fill their contours; they sag in three different layers before reaching her elbows. She manages to look at her back, and the image of an enormous mammoth ass is what she gets. There's no trace of her classy underwear in those immense islands of plumpness and cellulite.
She can't be First Lady with all this poundage. “Oh, my…” Deborah whispers. She's now the fattest First Lady in the history of the United States: 490 pounds of charming presence. “Damn it! I know Phil likes the fatty kind a la Monique Kaminski… But this is too fucking much!”
The door of the office finally opens. It's the short guy, Jason. He's as fat as her, perhaps fatter. He covers his intimate parts with a memorandum.
“Mrs. Crimpton… Jesus! We… we all are fat now… And… Oh, I'm so sorry…!”
And he turns his eyes off the vision with a hint of a blush running through his cheeks. Deborah Crimpton's melon boobs are fully exposed, resting quietly upon her gigantic pale belly. She looks in his direction to see all her six assistants in the same situation - extremely obese as well.
Then Deborah starts to think how big her husband could be: “Oh my god! He was huge enough before this!”
“Right on time, commander Darleen! Good shot!”
“Thank you, general sister Jennifer. My guess is we won't see President Crimpton talking on TV,” the hefty brunette at the command station proudly answers her superior.
“Not right now, it seems,” Annabelle adds. “I wonder how they expect to explain this mess to the nation. Right now, all the agencies must be busting their brains, trying to decode the frequencies we've used to direct our beam. But GlobalTech is unbreakable.”
“I hope so, dear Belly… I don't want any rangers messing around here… We should be as subtle as we can. Our fat-friendly investors will show us their backs if we can't complete Phase One, the entire United States. And I don't want to see their backs! I have enough with mine, and believe me… it's wide enough! So watch out, sisters!” Jennifer finalizes, grinning.
The big red-haired girl is completely sure of her leadership and totally comfortable with that fact. Annabelle knows this, and since the beginning she has accepted it. She also knows that the chemistry between both was only possible thanks to their different approaches to life.
Jennifer, the bold woman, is the fire: 252 pounds of wild flesh, a natural leader, a femme fatal. “Action before thinking” is her motto. On the other hand, Annabelle is all mind and ice. She's the coolest person around: 305 pounds of intellect and fatness. She would never charge in on a situation without the necessary advance. That's her: “Mind before substance.”
But as with any other big ladies, there was common ground for both girls: food. They loved to eat enormous amounts of delicious meals in the old times - and they still do. But for some odd reason, they've both stayed their present sizes since the whole project officially started two years ago.
“Stress is keeping us thinner than the rest, Belly.” Jenn says as they both entered at the complex's lunchroom. “I miss the days when we used to gain and gain.”
“It's funny you've mentioned it, Jenny; I was thinking the same… And that's got me wondering about our own place in this operation,” the green-eyed scientist replies.
“Wow… wow… Hold your horses, my little devil. What is that suppose to mean?”
“A surprise for us both,” she adds cryptically.
The lunchroom is completely empty and the lights begin to blink. A strange electrical weird feeling runs above the girls' bodies.
“What did you just do, Belly?” Jennifer asks, opening her blue eyes as big as possible.
“Just a little self-adjustment: a small percentage of our own creation, tasted and self-indulged to our complete satisfaction. Relax.”