by Wilson Barbers
Illustrated by Vic Martin
Jeanie Razton, hostess of the high-rated morning "Jump With Jeanie" show and star of a half-dozen best-selling videocassettes, adjusted the front of her loose-fitting kimono and smiled. It was late Friday night: Hugh, her producer and lover, had just left for a weekend with his wife, Bernice, she of the obese proportions and strange richgirl hobbies (she claimed to be a witch, according to Hugh). Jeanie had the weekend to herself and, but for her daily exercise regimen, intended to do nothing at all the whole time. She popped a videocassette into the Super Beta, sat back on the nylon-covered couch, and watched herself critically on the tube. "Jumpercise" was her most recent video, and she had to admit she looked pretty damn good in it: firm, sexy, full-bodied enough to grab most any male's attention, trim enough to make most of the weakwilled pudges that passed for American womanhood (Hugh's wife especially) feel guilty at the mere sight of her. Guilt, Jeanie Razton knew, was money.
Halfway through the second routine, she got up to the kitchenette for a Perrier. As she rummaged through the fridge, she heard a knocking at the front door. By the time she made it to the peephole, however, there was nobody visible in the hall, only a large, wrapped package leaning against the wall opposite. It looked large enough to cover a whole human figure. That's nice, she thought with a grin, one of my fans has mailed himself to me. She stepped out into the hall, picked up the package (it proved to be remarkably light) and brought it into the living room. The parcel definitely was for her; there was an address label with her name and nothing else pasted to the top. Laying the package on the couch, she proceeded to unwrap her anonymous gift. She bet Hugh'd sent it.
It was a doll. A blown-up inflatable doll similar to the ones seen in adult shops with two noticeable differences. The crotch was covered with a red pair of exercise shorts and the face was hers. She stood the doll up. The resemblance was remarkable: light blond hair, slightly cleft chin, blue eyes, prominent cheekbones. Whoever was responsible had put a lot of work into the model. Even the proportions were perfect!
She smiled at her plastic double, standing between her and television (now into routine number six). What to do with the thing? She'd leave it as it was to show Hugh on Monday. She carried the doll into her bedroom. Unwrapped, with arms outstretched, it was a little more awkward lifting. "You putting on weight, honey?" she said to her gift as she pushed it into the closet. "We'll have to get you jumpercising in the morning." She returned to the living room, finished her Perrier then decided to turn in.
She was awakened an hour later, by another knocking on the door. Grabbing her kimono, Jeanie stomped to the door, determined to give her mysterious giftbearer a piece of her mind, but, again, there was nobody there. A pile of thin cardboard cartons rested against her door, however.
She knew what this was, even without opening them. The odor was flavorfully strong. They were boxes of pizza, large-sized from a popular local pizzeria that advertised late-night deliveries. On the top box's sales receipt was her name and address, along with the legend "paid." She'd given up pizza years ago, but the scent was still damn attractive. Jeanie lifted the cartons, brought them into the kitchenette, then wondered what to do with this newest offering. Throw it away, she thought.
Instead, she lifted the first box's lid for a look. Pepperoni and black olive with lots of cheese. She knew she shouldn't, but that didn't stop her from lifting a piece to her mouth for just one bite. A remembrance, she thought, a piece of nostalgia for the days when she could eat anything and never gain an ounce. She finished the piece - it was even better than she remembered! - then carried the box into the living room and set it down next to her on the couch. Fifteen minutes later, she had finished the pizza.
But that was okay, because there were five more boxes waiting for her. Jeanie dashed into the kitchen, kimono falling open, breasts bobbling with an excitement that surpassed anything she had ever known with Hugh, grabbed all five boxes and returned to the living room. When the all-night grocery delivery boy arrived at her door, two hours later, she was finishing her last piece of sausage and mushroom. Her anonymous benefactor had struck again: the delivery boy was bring three crates of groceries, all good-tasting readymade stuff, too, none of this taste-like-soybean health food crap. Tipping him generously (and forgetting that she had left her kimono undone, giving the boy a view to remember), she dug into her latest acquisition.
She fell asleep at six, tired but hardly sated. When she woke up five hours later, Jeanie was ready for breakfast: large pancakes topped with whipped cream and blueberries, bagels with great heaps of lox and cream cheese, lots of sugary cereal, buttermilk. The fixings had been left outside her apartment once more, the morning delivery person being considerate enough to keep from knocking.
It went on like that all weekend. Her appetite was unbounded; she never left her apartment. She was unable to stop herself from eating everything she saw, and just when she'd run out of things to see, another delivery would show up at her door. At Sunday midnight, she passed out exhausted, surrounded by ice cream cartons, pizza trays, burger bags of every make, grocery store bakery boxes, cellophane chip wrappers. . .
The alarm clock woke her, set for its usual weekday wake up time. Jeanie sat up on her bed, surprised to see she was still in her kimono. She felt muzzy and had a strange taste in her mouth. Her arms felt tingly, almost as if they were about to fall asleep, almost as if she were wearing something tight enough to cut her circulation. But that was impossible, she thought; she was wearing her kimono. She would have to be as big as a house for it to be tight on her.
That was when she looked down at herself to see: two huge breasts pushing through the front of her robe, an even larger roundness jutting out beneath them - her stomach! She turned to her arms, stout and squeezing against her kimono sleeves like two overstuffed pillows. With a moan of dismay, Jeanie stood from her bed, peeled off her robe (which started tearing along the back), and rushed into the bathroom to look in the full-length mirror. She was immense, a massive mama close to four hundred pounds. Her belly hung hugely before her; her thighs pushed out against each other, spreading behind both sides of the mirror. Her face was multiply chinned, resting on a torso that ballooned before her and behind her.
That was when she thought of the doll. She pushed out of the bathroom (damn, but she felt hungry!), went to the closet and opened the door. Her double fell out. And it was still her double, as corpulent as her, the exercise shorts stretched to the point of rending. Was that a trace of tomato sauce on its lips?
Was this responsible for her unnatural obesity? She didn't understand it, but by some witchcraft it had to be. There was only thing to do, Jeanie thought.
Let the air out. . .
"I wouldn't do that," a voice behind her said. "The last woman to try it got so dizzy from the sudden weight loss, she passed out before she could put the stopper back. By the time I got to her, there was nothing left but two empty balloons." Jeanie turned to confront the voice. "A case of bad timing on my part, I'm afraid."
It was Hugh's fat wife, fashionably clad in a frock and hat, plump legs crossed as she sat on the living room couch, several boxes resting beside her. "I took the liberty of cleaning up for you," Bernice said. "You left the place in quite a state."
"What are you doing here?" Jeanie cried, turning away from her plastic double to the witch (for it was obvious that Bernice really was what she claimed to be) who had designed it.
"Isn't that obvious?" the sorceress answered. "Fighting to get my husband back. You're not the first skinny bimbo he's used to cheat on me. Though I have to admit you are the most talented. For television, that it."
"You did this to me!"
"Of course, though I did have a little help from you," Bernice answered. "Aren't you the proponent of will power and jumpercise? Of guilt and health food? This," she said, indicating the doll in the bedroom, "was only a prop." With that, she snapped her fingers and the doll disappeared. "I brought some clothes for you," she continued. "Something that'll fit. Then we can go to breakfast. You must be starved."
Jeanie did as she was told, dressing in the tight-fitting skirt and blouse Bernice had brought her. ("You got a little bigger than even I thought," the witch told Jeanie. "You're my largest yet. That speaks well for your magical abilities.") Then they went out to the area's most expensive restaurant, where Jeanie ordered a record-breaking tab, while Bernice explained her magic.
"Sorcery," she said, "works without guilt - which is why there are so few real witches around these days. You must experience the fullest before you can get in touch with primal forces." Jeanie listened attentively, enjoying every bite of breakfast all the while. After the initial shock and anger, she was amazed to find out resigned she'd become. Perhaps it was because she knew that Bernice meant her no real harm. Perhaps it was because the joy of eating so unrestrainedly was like nothing she had ever experienced before - getting herself in touch with primal forces. She would put herself in Bernice's plump hands. . .
They still run old episodes of "Jumping With Jeanie" in syndication, six months after her mysterious disappearance. But an even bigger seller these days is the newest item from Hugh's production company, "Cooking With Carla." An unexpected smash on independents across the country, the show has been a hit largely because of its hostess, a mammoth blond bombshell named Carla who is so unabashed in her love of the food she prepares on-camera that's almost sexual. To see her push her great breasts over the counter, waddle exultantly over to the stove, loll her tongue over her sausagey lips as she tastes her finished produce, to see this is to find a stimulation unmatched on television. At least that's what her audience thinks - and her director, too, a thirtyish bachelor who's been spending a lot of time at Carla's apartment. She sees him nearly every night, except for those times she meets with Bernice and the rest of the coven for an evening of meals and magic.
Occasionally, Carla in the privacy of her apartment will accidentally flash past an episode of "Jumping With Jeanie" and smile. The only jumpercising she does is in bed, her director boyfriend bounding atop her ballooning (and well-tended belly). Rumor around the studio has it that Hugh has a new girlfriend. But that, Carla knows, won't last.
Corrected version copyright (c) 2000 - Oakhaus Designs
