by Wilson Barbers
The damn windshield wiper had slipped off again. Flopping around uselessly in the downpour, it forced Ron to hunch over the steering wheel and desperately look for a turn-off. Didn't pay to try for the shoulder when you were in the midst of highway roadwork with a big-ass semi prodding your rear. Soon as he spotted an exit, he shot for it, skidding alongside a row of orange cones.
Two nights on his way home from a site review, and he was eager to get back to his wife. Ron hated motel beds, hated the bland uniformity of motels themselves. He'd spent the second night on site perusing a plumper magazine, imagining his wife Lucy's head on some of the riper bodies, then putting her in place of the fiction's heroine. Pretty adolescent, but you did what you could to sleep on a strange mattress.
The exit was barren - not even an abandoned Stuckey's to be seen - but it looked safe enough to get out and snap the wiper back into place. Taking a deep breath, Ron leapt out of his Mazda and reached for the wiper blade. It was only the work of a few seconds to properly reposition it, but in the time it took, he got drenched. Cursing under his breath, Ron plopped back into the driver's seat and took a deep breath. Idiot! He never remembered to replace that wiper until it started to rain.
Once he started up the wipers once more, he found limited visibility again. Aiming the Mazda into a u-turn, Ron headed for the intersection that he knew was less than a hundred feet away. Only thing was: it was no longer there. Where the highway exit should have been were two sides of rain-drenched cornfields. Ahead of him, a country highway lead to who-knew-where. Had he somehow gotten himself switched around? No such luck. When he turned the previous direction, Ron found it just as devoid of intersection.
This was ridiculous. He'd barely driven off the exit ramp. Where the hell was the highway? Aiming for the shoulder, Ron decided to wait until the rain let up. Five minutes of that - with nothing but radio static for company - and he decided to get moving. Easing back onto the road, he squinted in search of a road sign, something to tell him where he was.
A heavy rain is like limbo: no sense of time or change, all identity pummeled into gray. Though the clock on his dash told him he'd only been driving a few minutes, it seemed like forever. When the neon motel sign finally blurred into sight, Ron aimed for it eagerly. McKay's Slumber Palace. Ron could relate.
He pulled into the parking lot, snagging the last space. The Slumber Palace was a large two-story house that looked like it'd been built for some nineteenth century local bigwig. Not the kind of place you expected to see packed with cars.
Grabbing his satchel for cover, Ron dashed for the entrance. Once inside, he found himself in a large room full of dark wood hues and comfortable furniture. There wasn't a soul to be seen, however. "Hello?" he called, but the only answer he received was the deep pounding of the rain. Maybe folks went to bed early around these parts.
He looked back through the front door window. The rain was relentless. Best thing to do was grab a chair and wait it out. Eventually, the owners would show. Picking a chair that looked like it could take his damp body, Ron plopped down and let go of his satchel. Probably wasn't a good idea to pull out his plumper mag, he decided.
So Ron sat and waited once again. On a table to his left was a bowl of wrapped candy with the legend, "Compliments of McKay's Slumber Palace," stamped on each wrapper. He picked a piece and unsheathed it: white chocolate, one of his favorites. They seldom bought it, though, since Lucy only went for milk chocolate. Ron took a few more pieces and slipped them in his pocket, then carried on waiting.
He was on the verge of dozing off when a sudden rustling to his side jolted him into alertness. What the hell? His satchel was on its side, unlatched. Someone, he discovered, had swiped his men's magazine.
Maybe it was for the best: Lucy wasn't all that keen about his reading this stuff. Though plumply pretty, his wife was ambivalent about Ron's appreciation of even larger figures - and none too thrilled with some of the fiction that appeared in the magazines he bought. He tried to explain that it was all just a fantasy, but she never seemed to accept this.
"I don't get it," she'd rebut. "Why can't you men be satisfied with the women you've got? And what's the deal with those weight gain fantasies? How realistic are they? Women who do nothing but eat all day and grow bigger and bigger: how is that any different from a porno nympho fantasy?"
Whoever had stolen his mag probably wasn't expecting to see a bunch of naked fat women. Nervously, Ron rose from his chair and called out once more. No answer.
This was starting to creep him out. Picking up his satchel, Ron headed for the entrance. Though it continued to pour, the thought of remaining in that room by himself much longer seemed worse than getting wet again. He opened the door and stepped out of the house. . .
. . .and found it had suddenly stopped raining.
Service with a smile, Ron thought, looking at the cheerily sunny sky overhead. There wasn't a trace of the storm clouds. Made you think of every area's favorite weather joke: you don't like it, wait a few minutes - it'll change.
"Hello, young man!" Ron heard, and he turned to see a stooped figure standing in the doorway. An elderly man, with comically large nose and glasses perched on them, was gesturing to Ron. "I see you're hungry! C'mon in!" He stopped to hiccough loudly, then put a gloved hand on Ron's shoulder and lead him back into the house. Amazingly, Ron found himself following.
Something awfully familiar about this, he thought, as the old man indicated a chair at the head of a long banquet table. The whole room was improbably, observably smaller. Had he entered through a different door? And why'd this moment seem so familiar?
Once he sat in the chair at the head of the table, it came to him. He'd seen this scene in an old Warner Bros. cartoon: young cartoon pig is invited into a cottage by a cackling mad scientist, strapped into a chair and force fed by a series of Rube Goldbergesque machines. A cautionary tale on the evils of gluttony, it'd made a major impression on him as a boy. Just the memory of it made him chuckle.
Then he saw the straps on his wrist.
Good Lord, he thought; this was real! Heart pounding, Ron looked toward the elderly scientist who pulled dramatically on a large wooden handle. Quickly, the chair sunk through the floor and into the basement. "You want food!" the scientist shouted. "I'll give you food!"
The chair shot across the gloomy basement like a carnival ride, stopping in front of an old-fashioned automat. As he arrived before one of the windows, a mechanical arm shot out with a large cake. The pastry was forced into Ron's face, and as it did, he felt a rush of fear. He was going to suffocate! Vanilla icing pressed against his eyes and nose; the scent of lemon was overpowering. Ron started eating as fast as he could. Every time he downed enough cake to catch a glimpse of light, it was pushed in closer.
A shift of gears and the seat backed away from the nearly empty plate. It zoomed over to what had to be the world's largest submarine, a Guinness Book of World Records sandwich if he'd ever seen one. Before he could even register the sandwich fixings, Ron was face into it, chomping like there was no tomorrow, swallowing just as fast as he could. It all went down so quickly, he could barely think. All that mattered was eating his way through this sandwich. When he finished, Ron gasped and took a long, deep breath.
He was still gulping for air when he arrived in front of the cauldron. It looked like one of those large vats you saw in iron works, only instead of molten ore, it contained cheese soup. As a funnel was placed in Ron's mouth and the vat started to tip, his panic returned. He was going to be scalded! Ron tried to spit the funnel out, but it held fast. Then the soup was pouring down his gullet.
It was lukewarm, he discovered, very rich and tasty. At least his jaw was getting some respite - all he had to do was let the liquid flow into his mouth and swallow.
For the first time Ron noticed how stuffed he was beginning to feel. His belt was growing tighter by the second, progressively more uncomfortable. The cartoon pig, he remembered, never had to worry about his clothes binding; with cartoon logic, they had apparently grown with him.
With that, the discomfiting feeling abruptly ceased, and Ron was facing a large bowl of potato salad with a wheel of ice cream scoops. This was a topsy turvy meal; the courses followed no discernible order. A full scoop was shoved against his lips, forcing a mouthful of potato salad into his gaping maw. He swallowed it rapidly and another followed.
From there it was to a man-sized milkshake blender with a hose that emptied an unbelievable amount of chocolate malted into his belly. Then back to the automat wall - and a full banana cream pie.
Ron rode through the entire route so many times, it blended into one long montage of gorging. His earlier panic was dissipated. He could handle all the food that was given to him, he realized, and he almost began to look forward to each new course. When the chair finally rose out of the basement, his first emotional response was one of disappointment.
"Had enough?" the cackling scientist asked as he unstrapped Ron's bonds. Though he still felt hungry, Ron nodded. He needed to get back home, he thought: Lucy would be waiting for him. It wasn't until he tried to get out of his seat that Ron realized how fat he had become.
He'd grown puffy and globular, a great ball of a man who looked like a doll overstuffed with padding. His tie had been loosened to accommodate his chins and sunken neck; his shirt gapped between every button. His belt sunk into his flesh by at least two inches, forming an equator on his spherical torso. The sides of his body pushed through the arm rests; if the chair had been lighter, he might have taken it with him. He looked at least five hundred pounds.
The aged scientist hiccoughed and poked Ron in the side. "Had enough?" he repeated, and for an instant, his voice rose in pitch, sounding almost feminine.
It took a bit of work - like shedding a wedding ring that's been on your finger for years - but Ron finally squeezed out of his chair. Better get out of here, he thought, and as he took his first step, Ron felt his center of gravity shift. Only way he could walk was with a rolling waddle. Slowly, he headed for the door. His arms pressed against his sides; his inner legs rubbed insistently.
Though he shouldn't have been able to, Ron watched himself move across the room. Even his face, he saw, was broader than its height: his cheeks puffed out like overripe apples; his chins dangled several inches below his mouth. His rear stuck out almost as far as his front, stretching the middle seam perilously. Looking at this obese figure, Ron was amazed he could walk at all.
As Ron neared the exit, the scent of chicken struck his nostrils. At the end of the banquet table, he saw, was a plate full of fried chicken. It looked so good, it penetrated to the deepest part of his fat body. Hadn't the old cartoon ended like this? he thought, as he picked up a chicken leg. Hadn't it ended disastrously for the overstuffed young porker? Thoughtfully, he lifted the leg to his mouth and stepped through the door. It was all a dream! he thought before everything changed once more.
First thing he noticed was the rough-wood porch. Old and weather-beaten, it scraped the bottoms of his bare feet. Bare feet? What had happened to his shoes?
When he looked down to examine them, he discovered something even more surprising. In place of his blubbery male body, he saw a large pair of woman's breasts, just barely covered in a clinging yellow-with-black-polka-dot dress. Beneath it, his hands felt a flat tummy and deliciously swelling hips. Shocked, he shook his head; strands of long reddish hair waved before his face.
He was a woman! Not just any woman, but one with the killer body of a sixties crime paperback bimbo. Before him was another long banquet table packed with food, only this time she had company: a circle of scraggly men and stacked women, all dressed in ragged clothing like a road show version of "L'il Abner."
He recalled this scene from his childhood, too. A Sunday sequence in the well-known comic strip, featuring an almost preternaturally buxom hillbilly named Stupefyin' Jones. Miz Jones was so gorgeous that her mere proximity was enough to incapacitate any red-blooded male. So to counteract this menace to domestic stability, the women of the strip decided to fatten her up. Fortunately for their plan, their victim was willing to go along with them and be fed round-the-clock. The results: a considerably bigger Stupefyin' Jones.
Like the force-fed pig cartoon, the images from this strip had made a lasting impression on Ron. He'd fantasized about Stupefyin' through most of his prolonged adolescence, had memorized every panel of the strip. Now he was this pen-and-ink goddess!
Amazingly, he was living the lead roles of his most cherished weight gain fantasies.
Looked like she was near the end of the story: a gourmand billionaire had starved the people of Dogpatch in order to force Stupefyin' back to her hourglass form. To celebrate the upcoming nuptials, a banquet table for the entire town was set up. But when the gluttonous Miz Jones got to the wedding feast, she quickly ate herself back into happy obesity.
Well, here she was with the banquet table before her: what could she do, but sit down and eat?
Stepping off the porch, feeling her curvaceous body provocatively move of its own accord, she hustled over to the tempting offerings. She grabbed a ragged stool at table's end, settled her shapely rear onto it and picked up a leg of ham. It smelled so good, her mouth started watering. Eagerly, she took a large bite.
The original comic strip had been frustratingly sketchy when it came to showing Stupefyin's growth. It was clear the transformation happened quickly, but beyond that, the artist hadn't shown much. The adolescent boy reading that strip had imagined the process pretty clearly, though.
She attacked her food ravenously and with total abandon. Clearly, this was the most pleasure this backwoods bombshell had ever experienced. Too gorgeous to achieve any sexual pleasure from another - her stupefying looks inhibited that - she'd turned all her hedonistic energies towards eating. She could strip a ten-pound ham off the bone in minutes, down a two-gallon jug even quicker. Best of all were the cakes and pies. The ladies of Dogpatch specialized in them, and she had learned to love them all.
As she worked her way down the banquet table, her poundage rapidly reasserted itself.
Her hourglass shape started to bulge in the middle; her hips began to widen on the stool. Her fulsome breasts kept up with the growth, though, and since Stupefyin' obviously didn't truck with bras, they grew freely. In the space of maybe three meals worth of food, she was plumply zaftig; halfway down the table, and she was out-and-out fat.
She ate with the speed of a frightened bachelor on Sadie Hawkins' Day. She could feel her body expanding around her, feel her sides thickening and pushing against her arms, feel her upper arms starting to droop. Her dangling chins rubbed against her neck. Neath her yellow dress, her belly had started to drape between her thighs, pressing against her crotch teasingly. Her legs retained their shapeliness, but, of course, they were now four times their old size.
She'd grown, she knew, to the size of a six-hundred-plus pound circus fat lady: no longer Stupefyin' to the men of Dogpatch, but pretty darn hot to a young fat admirer viewing her transformation. The table was almost empty as she held the last ham before her, drooling openly at the beauty of it. This was the way she wanted to spend the rest of her life: fed by an endless line of Dogpatch women with a stake in seeing her fat and satisfied.
She closed her eyes happily, relishing each bite of ham as she pulled it off the leg. "She's a female me!" she heard a male voice - the sensualist billionaire, she supposed, though his voice sounded more familiar than that - complaining. "Let's get out of here!"
When she opened them again, Ron saw he was no longer in Dogpatch. He was himself once more, dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing before his amazing transformation.
"Quick!" a voice behind him cried. "Let's move!" He followed the voice and turned. Standing behind him was his wife, Lucy. "Ron!" she cried. "They're coming! We've got to get out of here!"
Off in the distance, he could hear a pack of dogs barking. They appeared to be in a forest, one of those peculiarly grayish woods that you saw in old movies before the days of location shooting: a sound stage forest. Lucy grabbed his arm, then pulled him off down a pathway. In a gray blazer and skirt, she looked like a plump Ingrid Bergman, a comparison he'd made more than once in his married life.
Her fear proved to be contagious. Soon as he started after her, Ron began to sweat. Who was chasing them? What had they done? He didn't know, but that didn't alleviate the sense that they had to avoid being caught at all costs. They dashed through the woods and the sound of the dogs abated. "We've got to find some cover!" his wife gasped, and as she said it, the cottage appeared before them.
I know what this is, Ron thought, as Lucy grabbed the front door and yanked it open. His first self-created adolescent fiction, one that had carried him through his earliest onanistic explorations. He hadn't thought of it in years. In truth, the fantasy seemed a little childish to him now, rooted as it was in adolescent persecution imagery.
No wonder he didn't know why they were running. In building the fantasy, he'd never bothered to think of a good reason for their flight. What mattered was their need to escape.
Following his wife into the cottage, Ron grew calm once more. Somehow, he seemed to be going through a series of weight gain fantasies that were near and dear to him. Was he dreaming? Hadn't this begun with a cartoon dream?
Before he could take this further, a male voice cleared its throat. Standing on the other side of the vestibule was a massive figure: a middle-aged male with a napkin tucked into his much-strained slacks. He had to weigh at least seven hundred pounds; his waist's circumference surpassed his standing height. Hair slicked down on his globular head, he looked like they'd just interrupted him in the midst of his evening meal. Behind him, they could see a large dining table, an even fatter female seated by it.
"You've got to hide us," Lucy was pleading.
"Hide?" the fat man said, eyes darting above his bulging cheeks. "There's not a lot of space to hide in here!"
That was true; from the size of the cottage outside, it looked as if the building was primarily dining room. Behind him, his female companion rose from the table and waddled up to them. Just this brief exertion, walking across the room, seemed to take great effort, as her face had reddened noticeably. She was at least as big as Stupefyin' Jones, though more matronly seeming than the sensualist Miz J. "Maybe we could disguise them," she panted in a kindly hausfrau voice, stopping to take a bite from a cupcake in her hand.
"Disguise?" the fat man said, turning her way.
"We've got some clothes and some blankets," the fat woman explained. "I've got some makeup." She turned toward Lucy, and her voluminous forefront brushed against her. "We could make you totally different!"
"If you really think you can do it, hurry!" Lucy decided. The fat woman disappeared behind her husband and quickly returned - from where they couldn't tell - with a dress and suit, plus a large pile of blankets and pillows.
"Fit you into our clothes, and they'll never know it's you!" she explained, leading Lucy into the dining room.
The fat man stepped in front of Ron, a comforter and pillow in his pursy hands. "You, too," he said. "It'll make a whole new man out of you!"
I bet it will, Ron thought, once more going along with the fantasy. He stripped off his shirt and pants, grabbed the pillow and slid the front of his jockey shorts over the tag end. When he was just coming into his sexual awareness, he used to act this part of the fantasy out with his sister. Just the feel of the pillow could arouse him.
His fat guardian ignored the sign of Ron's excitement and started wrapping the comforter around him. When they'd finished, he pulled out a pair of pants wide enough to cover a table top and helped Ron into them. Then he handed over a shirt and sweater. When he finished, Ron could hardly move. He was stuffed in the man's clothing, swaddled in blankets with a massive pillow paunch pushing ahead of him. No matter how much he tried to bend forward, he couldn't see his feet.
Through the walls of the cottage, they could hear the dogs once more. Despite himself, Ron started to sweat inside his costume.
"Into the dining room," the fat man ordered, so Ron slowly shuffled into the room. "We don't have time to do your faces, but maybe if we dim the lighting!" Ron joined his wife at the dining room table. As he slowly lowered himself onto his chair, he could hear his pants protest.
"Maybe we overdid it," the fat man said. "Too late now!"
"Best way to hide your faces is to start eating," the fat woman told them both. "Keep your mouth stuffed, keep some food in front of it, and they won't take time to look too closely."
Ron looked over at Lucy. She was, he saw, equally overstuffed into one of the woman's white dresses. Who'd have thought that some blankets and pillows could so convincingly impersonate the human form?
A loud knock came on the front door. "Coming," the fat couple said, and they vanished from the dining room to answer it. Quickly, Ron grabbed a fork and dug into his full plate. The table, he saw, was set for four, almost as if they'd been expecting them. He took a bite of German pot roast, found it delectable, and then grabbed a large glistening roll. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at his wife: she was gnawing on a turkey leg, jowls quivering excitedly.
Using both hands, he kept his face obscured and his mouth full. It wasn't difficult: everything he tasted made him hungrier for more. From the other room, he could hear their rescuers talking to their pursuers. "Have we seen anybody strange in the area? Not at all. Just been eating dinner with our friends!"
"Friends?" a deep bass authoritarian voice boomed. "Let's see these so-called friends!" Ron grabbed the companion to his wife's turkey leg. Lucy smiled nervously, her plump cheeks packed with buttered small potatoes, her triple-chins quivering. He bit into the turkey leg, grabbed a large bronze goblet, and took a large swallow of mead. Two storm trooper types stomped into the room.
The bigger of the two peered at them from across the table, then pulled out a photo. He held out the photo - Ron and Lucy in their wedding garb - then snorted. "Looks nuthin' like 'em!" he pronounced. "Hell, they're fat enough to be four of 'em!" He turned and left the dining area, his companion nipping at his heels.
"Thought they'd recognize us for sure," Ron whispered, dropping his depleted turkey leg and turning to face his wife. But like the woman in his adolescent fantasy, she no longer resembled the slightly plump Lucy of their pursuers' photo. Instead, he was looking into the face of an eight-hundred-and-fifty-pound blond: Ingrid Bergman in a fun house mirror.
Her face was exuberantly chinned, while her round cheeks bulged even when she wasn't chewing a mouthful of turkey. Her long blond hair spilled onto a pair of puffy shoulders; her white dress revealed a pendulous cleavage that could only come from breasts made stupendously fat. Lucy's belly spilled ahead of her, pushing her at least an extra two feet from the table.
"You're obese," he said, as she grabbed a buttered roll and stuffed it into her mouth, unperturbed by his observation.
"So are you," a male voice said, and Ron turned to see the former fat man and his wife in the entryway. The duo was wearing their old clothes; they fit the couple better than they had either Ron or Lucy. "We've been waiting a long time for two like you," he continued, "but there aren't a lot of folks in this neck of the woods."
"What are you talking about?" Ron asked, more out of formality than a desire to know. He knew the score: this was, after all, his own fantasy.
"We've lived here for decades, waiting for someone to take our place," the woman said, sounding much less matronly now that she was lithe and slender. "Eating. Growing fatter by the day and still eating." She hugged her male companion happily and noted, "I can reach you! And get my arms around you!" She then walked up to Lucy and looked her over appraisingly. "Looks like you're about a hundred-and-fifty pounds heavier than I was," she decided. "Of course, you didn't start out slender!"
"You can stay here as long as you want," the man told them. "It'll make a good hideaway from the authorities. If you leave, you'll never have the chance to get another couple to take your place, but that's your choice. Stay and you'll have all the food you could ever want." He pointed to an area of the table that seconds earlier had been devoid of food. Resting there was a fresh German chocolate cake, surrounded by bowls of fresh strawberries and whole cream.
"What is this place?" Ron asked, as the two turned to leave. "Why are we being kept like this?"
"Haven't the foggiest," the man said. "All I know is: this enchanted cottage was here before we arrived. The couple who preceded us had been here for close to two centuries. You think you're big, you should've seen those two. Of course, they had much more time than we did."
Ron rose from the table, huge belly lapping over the table edge and knocking back the dinner plates. Beside him, Lucy had returned to her gourmandizing, sending pieces of turkey every which way. Taking a deep breath, he stepped away from the table and slowly moved his corpulent form away from the table. Behind him, he could hear his wife loudly gorging, and for a moment, the desire to return to her side was so strong he could barely move.
Instead, he followed the laughing, slender couple to the cottage front door and watched them race out of sight. Catching up with them was an impossibility: he was gasping for breath already. Where had the duo come from? What had they been before they, too, had been transformed by the cottage? More unanswered questions. Ron's stomach rumbled hungrily. He thought of Lucy, her mouth packed full and belly apron swaying in the shadow of the dining room table. Clearly, she'd accepted their situation without a second thought. Imbedded within the weight gain fantasy was the hidden assumption that almost anyone had the potential to give into the lure of gourmandism.
As for the house-bound piece of the fantasy, Lucy had ridiculed it in the past, but as a man who traveled as part of his job, it had its appeal. There were days he even wished he could switch responsibilities with his homemaker wife; the working world, he found, was not that interesting in the long run. Perhaps some day he'd grow as tired of the cottage as the previous couple, but for now their future life there seemed heavenly. Hitching his belt, the fat man licked his fleshy lips, anticipating the meals ahead.
Then his hunger suddenly vanished.
A rush of air, a slap of woman's hair belonging to the passenger sitting beside him: the scene had changed once more - Ron now was sitting in the cab of an amusement park ride. One look at the source of his follicular assault, and he immediately placed the scene. He'd switched fantasies again and was now the hero of a movie from his teen years.
The film was called "Bedazzled," a British comedy from the sixties. In it, hero Dudley Moore made a deal with the devil to win the woman he loved. Midway into the movie, the devil took him on a double date with two of the Seven Deadly Sins. Moore's hero was saddled with Gluttony, though from Ron's perspective, that was hardly a problem. To his young eyes, Moore had gotten the better part of the deal. Though the actress playing Gluttony was not as big as the young Ron might have wished, he'd done much embellishing when he later reconstructed this scene. Every time he brought it back up, the actress had grown a little fatter. He'd kept this growing image with him far into adulthood.
Now he was in a roller coaster with the cinematic Gluttony.
She was blond and super-sized, packed in a tent dress that hugged her like a static sticker. Her massive arms flattened against her sides, quivering with the rocking motion of the cab; her belly spilled ahead of her, taking up all but an inch of available space. She munched on a Coney dog that miraculously managed to retain all its fixings; mouth crammed with hot dog, she nonchalantly ate her way through the hair-raising ride. Soon as she finished with one item, another popped into her puffy hand.
The cab hit a turn, forcing his date to lean into him, her great wide side softly flowing against him. A whiff of freshly baked goods caught his nostril, then the scent of pizza. It made sense that a female Glutton would be perfumed with appetizing aromas - and would be so adept at maximized consumption. Even after the track straightened, she remained pressed against him. Not an unpleasant sensation, Ron decided, until the female emblem started to press even harder.
Chowing down on a large container of buttered popcorn - again without dropping a single kernel - she turned to smile at Ron. A shiver of recognition and lust coursed through him. The gourmandizing figure was Lucy, only a Lucy three times the size of the woman he'd left at home.
Three times? Better adjust that estimate to three-and-a-half times, for she was growing visibly larger in front of him. The space between her and the front of the cab had disappeared, and her belly was starting to bulge over it. The pressure Ron was feeling had nothing to do with her leaning against him. Lucy was palpably widening in their seat. Developing to match his memory of her.
As the ride started another slow dramatic ascent, her popcorn was replaced by a giant ball of cotton candy; it, too, disappeared with the speed of a dust bunny on the working end of a Hoover. By the time, she started on her foot-long hoagie, Lucy edged his upper torso out of the cab; his legs and hips remained pinned between the door and his expanding spouse. If the door gave, he'd be pushed out and off of the coaster in an instant.
And then - just like a quick cut in a movie - the two of them were on a carousel bench. Plenty of butt room here, he thought, as his gluttonous spouse raised a triple-scoop ice cream cone to her lips.
He watched her continue to gorge herself, calliope music dancing all around them, and it was a marvelous sight to behold. She truly embodied the character of Gluttony, Ron thought. Larger than the fattest woman ever seen on film, she placidly ate and ate, her jowls quivering with the pleasure of mastication.
He was running out of room on a bench typically meant to seat three to four. The Gluttony Lucy was more than thrice her original size, bigger than the sideshow-sized Stupefyin' Jones or Lucy in the cottage - over a half ton in weight. The hem of her dress crawled up her drooping calves; the hang of her belly peeked out from under it. She looked too big to even lift herself from the bench.
God, she was glorious!
Ron loved his plump wife passionately. But in this living movie moment, she was close to perfection. Her lively personality, the joy in living that had first hooked him, shone in her fat-framed eyes and in the loving smiles she regularly shot his way. While her appetite had become the prime means of expressing her joie de vivre, he knew that it wasn't the only way.
Ron stepped back to get a better look. . .
"There she is," a voice whispered in his ear, "the scourge of the international espionage community: quite a package, eh?"
"Sure is," Ron agreed, looking through the window at a Lucy he had never seen before. Tall, buxom, in a clinging black dress and heels, she looked crisply exotic and in control: the kind of woman who - in the luridly pulpish words of the men's mag story that had first given Ron this scene - was "capable of charming the cojones off a man." He'd shifted once again: this time, to the men's mag piece that he'd read the night before.
It was his mission in the story to neutralize this woman's provocative charms. Much like, he realized, the women of Dogpatch had neutralized Stupefyin' Jones.
"Tubes ready?" he asked his assistant. The underling nodded. Ron stepped down the hall and into Lucy's cell. She stood in the center of the room, arching an elegantly made up eyebrow questioningly. He bowed slightly to the sexy secret agent and said, "I hope you haven't been kept too uncomfortable."
"Not at all," she purred, slinking up to him. Her accent was Continental but ultimately unknowable. "I know you're only doing your job."
"You're right," Ron said, and he plunged the hypodermic full of appetite stimulant into her deceptively soft looking arm. As Lucy sank to her knees, a trio of assistants wheeled in a gurney. Woozy from the injection, she was easily lifted and strapped onto it.
"What are you doing?" Lucy asked, shaking her head for clarity.
"You've ruined our best agents," Ron told her, in the expository manner of the best genre fiction. "Last time we had you in custody, you managed to escape before we could properly interrogate you. Too many men are susceptible to your beauty. I'm here to neutralize that and at the same time make you beholding to me."
The three assistants rolled in a large gleaming machine with two tubes connected to it. One led out of the room; the other was mouth-sized and considerably shorter, just long enough to reach the prone woman on the table. Ron put it into Lucy's mouth, but, of course, she spit it out.
"I've given you a newly developed appetite stimulant," he told her calmly. "In a few seconds, you won't be refusing my offerings because you'll be hungry enough to eat a horse."
"To hell with you!" she shouted. Ron just stood back and waited. Soon, Ms. Lucy wouldn't be so contrary.
The details of this scene were so much clearer than any of the earlier ones - perhaps because he'd only just read the Billingsley story that had inspired it. He wasn't usually into domination, but something about the spy fantasy had appealed to him and softened the sexual fantasy's darker implications. If this fantasy had always been a part of him, the Billingsley story had been the first time he'd fully appreciated it.
Looking down at his victim, he could practically count the pores on her flawless skin, note the color of her provocatively jutting lips, the expertly applied makeup on her high cheekbones. She looked back at him with those soul-destroying blue eyes, and he watched as she felt her appetite grow. This was a woman who had always been in control, who'd used her control ruthlessly. Now that control was slipping away.
When he slipped the nozzle between her lips a second time, she wasn't so resistive. Gesturing with his right hand, he heard the machine pump and watched as a paste of pureed food made its way to her mouth. This concoction had been engineered to be as digestible and fattening as possible; to eat it was practically the same as applying the weight directly on the subject's body.
"Should have taken off your dress," he told her as she frantically swallowed her offering; "after all, we don't want you to be uncomfortable with this." Already, he could see she was starting to bloat. Her form-hugging dress was starting to rise in her abdominal area. At first, it rose and fall as the digestive system's contents were rapidly distributed onto her body, but as her stomach turned into belly, this became less apparent. Her dress began to ride up her widening hips, showing off her shapely, thickening calves.
Grabbing the first of four aerosol spray bottles, Ron began to coat her legs and thighs. This was the second part of the process: a formula that made fat cells split and replicate many times over. It was designed to be absorbed through the skin. Donning rubber gloves - like the mad scientist in the pig cartoon - Ron grabbed a scalpel and slit up the middle of her dress. No bra or panties, he noticed, applying the second bottle to her breasts, neck and arms. He used the other two primarily on her middle, spraying just enough between the arch of her back and the gurney. Then he took a formula-treated cloth and wiped Lucy's face.
"This should speed things up even further," he told the still ravenous woman agent, as he pulled out a second hypodermic full of appetite stimulant and applied it to her other arm. Then he gestured to his assistants on the other side of the observation mirror to increase pressure on the pump.
It was only a couple of minutes for this newest treatment to take effect. You could visibly see her fattening, as every portion of her body started to expand. The separated dress beneath her body became less visible as Lucy widened; the gap between her legs quickly vanished, as thighs and calves began to flatten against each other. Atop her thighs, Lucy's belly was ballooning and beginning to explore new territory as it bulged in the direction of her knees. Her once round and firm breasts started to sag towards both arms. Fortunately, her upper arms had thickened enough to provide a good base.
Now, Ron could begin to build her up in earnest.
He'd kept the pump's source out of sight for fear the sight of its contents would spark additional resistance. Connected to a tank with enough food paste to feed a small village, it was designed to take Ms. Lucy as far as she could go. In the original Billingsley story, that'd been very big indeed.
"Enjoying your meal?" he asked, as she continued to suck and receive his offering. The foreign agent nodded, and as she did, her double chin became more prominent, then began to fold into a third chin. Between her swelling breasts and expanding chins, her once swanlike neck was no longer visible.
The more she filled out, the lovelier she looked to Ron. To his superiors, this treatment was meant to neutralize her beauty. From the very beginning, though, he knew it would only augment it. He'd kept his preference secret for years, but it had fueled his research from the very beginning.
He placed a palm on her fifty-two inch middle and felt it rise against him. Lucy's flesh was warm from the energy of still-reproducing fat cells. Though her skin also added cells to accommodate the growth, it also was starting to show the texture of the very fat: stretch marks, cellulite, dimples in strategic places. Modest in accumulation, this was still sufficient to cement her status as a very fat woman. The slender temptress was gone forever.
With his third injection of appetite stimulant, Lucy was his for good. She would never have a waking moment when she didn't feel at least mildly hungry. That scheming mind of hers would be totally fixated on food.
While the gurney was more than four feet wide, her hips were starting to edge over it. Her thighs were each now larger than her full hips' measurement had been - with a trio of folds on their underside. Lucy's kneecaps looked like dimples, sinking between her encroaching flesh. At her ankles, a similar obfuscation was beginning, as her bulging calves began to roll over them. Her divided dress was totally covered by her body.
Lucy's jowl-ridden face had grown flush, and visible sweat beads had appeared on her protruding upper lip. At the tip of her pendulous breasts, the signs of sexual arousal were becoming clearer. Not only was she growing addicted to gluttony, it was merging into her sexual life, too. Perhaps, he considered, the two urges weren't that far apart.
The crest of her belly was more than a yard from the platform. Its base flowed past her dimpled knees, creasing all the way to her navel in parallel to the line between her legs. He estimated her waistline measure to be close to 110 inches - quite a circumference.
Ron had loosened the straps on her feet and hands twice, but now he could unlatch them altogether. Lucy wasn't going to dash out of the open room. Even if she was able to pierce her hunger-addled consciousness long enough to consider it, she'd grown too fat to walk without some sort of assistance.
With her arms and legs no longer trapped, her belly settled a couple of inches. As her limbs moved outwards to better accommodate their own broadening, her forefront flowed into the space they left. It wasn't long before it returned to its previous height, however. She was adding more than fifteen pounds every minute.
An hour of this and Lucy had almost depleted the tank. She was close to a ton in weight: her belly towered above him - understandable when you were looking at a waist of more than 180 inches. Her body spilled over both sides of the gurney by more than a foot and a half, butt cheeks and thighs drooping several inches towards the floor.
He'd never seen a sexier woman than this weight-bound ravenous figure. Her lipstick had faded, her long blond hair lost its wave. Every piece of carefully layered beauty had been buried under overlays of avoirdupois. It only made her primal beauty more apparent.
Perhaps it was the thought of carrying all that weight, but she looked exhausted to Ron. Tenderly, he pulled the feeding tube from between her distended lips and mopped her forehead with a cloth of witch hazel. Lucy looked around in dismay.
"Why'd you stop?" she finally panted, taking deep breaths between every word.
"You want more?" he gasped, stunned by the depth of her appetite.
"More," she said simply, so Ron replaced the tube and ran the pump to the very end. By then, she'd passed his goal of a ton by a hundred-and-fifty pounds.
"That it?" she complained. "I'm famished!"
He left her to his assistants as they emptied the equipment from the room. When he returned to the observation room, his superiors were full of congratulations. "In a few short hours, she'll be ready to give us everything we want for a simple cheeseburger," he told them, watching her through the window.
She lay there stoically, unwilling to repeat her question to the silent underlings. Clearly, she knew what was up. The room cleared, and she slowly turned her had toward the mirrors, chins sagging with her as she did. Ron sat by himself and took in every inch of her. Alone in the observation room, he felt himself fall in love.
This, Ron thought as he rose to begin the rescue that would take both Lucy and him away from this place, was the essence of the force feeding fantasy: the moment when controller and controlled switched places. He couldn't let her be interrogated any more than he could let her go hungry. She was everything he'd dreamed of in a woman!
It was easier to get her out of the complex than Ron expected. The biggest task was rolling her into the vat that had held her pureed meal. From there, he was able to drive to the loading bay and forklift the tarp-covered vat into a food service truck. In no time at all, they were fleeing towards the border.
They raced through the night, across a landscape that changed character every time he looked at it. One moment they were in a forest, the next, a plain of cornfields. The only thing that remained constant was the rain landing on the windshield. Back in the trailer, Lucy was riding and enjoying several shelves worth of pastries.
He wished he were back there with her.
With that thought, the windshield washed away. . .
. . . and he was looking at the dimly lit walls of the truck trailer, every shelf within reach filled with empty cake tins.
There was no one else in the trailer.
Only her.
Lucy felt her body all around her, felt her simultaneous hunger and repleteness. It was, she decided, the most erotic sensation imaginable. Seated on the cool metal bed, she looked down at her forefront: it sloped like some breathing pyramid and settled past her feet. Spreading towards her sides, her breasts hung past the fat swaddled crooks of her arms. She wiggled her toes, noticing the press of her mountainous paunch on the top and inner sides of her legs. Her body had adapted to accommodate the weight. If it hadn't, she thought, her legs would be asleep, too numb to feel the empty pastry cartons poking into her voluminous hips.
Everything uneaten was just out of reach. Straining to bend her arms as far as her bulges let her, pushing her breasts up against her face in the process, Lucy found she could only graze the end of a pile of boxes with her fingertips. She'd already tried scooting along the floor, but her flesh was just too settled for her to lift it.
And then - Eureka! - the truck hit a series of bumps that edged the boxes within reach. Grabbing a flap with her thumb and fingers, she slid the pile of boxes closer to her. The uppermost box dropped onto her belly, and she quickly - more quickly than she thought she could have moved - caught it before it slid to the floor.
It was a carton of cream puffs: two dozen in all. Happily, she smacked her lips loudly and shoved the first into her great, wide mouth. The taste of custard, chocolate, whipped cream and pastry was almost cosmic in its magnitude. Lucy greedily stuffed her face with the rest of the pastry, felt the space between her cheeks and jaw pack with cream puff.
If she had any sense of restraint, she'd have savored this sensation. But moderation was a thing of the past: she eagerly devoured it then followed up on the rest of the package. After almost a ton of liquid feeding, the act of mastication was orgasmic. When she finished, she knew Ron's biochemical magic was still in effect; her underbelly pressed against her crotch emphatically.
There weren't a lot of agents who retired from her business, yet with this final mission Lucy had managed to do so. By submitting to Ron's new formula, she was able to pull off an unprecedented seduction and bring one of the other side's top scientists with her. No sacrifice is too great for my country, she thought as she sucked the filling from a cream horn and let it slide down her throat. Tapping a bulging side with her free hand, she watched her belly flesh undulate in response.
With that, the truck shuddered to a halt, making the front wave even more fervently. In a minute, her lover would appear in the back of the truck for the obligatory men's mag sex scene. Aroused by the prospect, she started cramming even more pastry in her mouth, sending squirts of cream and custard across her great draping breasts.
Closing her eyes, Lucy dreamed of her life ahead. As payment for this last assignment, she'd be getting an allowance to insure that she never went hungry for long. She knew that Ron would never tire of feeding her. She'd become his deepest fantasy; the two of them were intertwined and inseparable.
Lucy heard the doors open; the light struck her eyes. The rain had stopped on the highway, and they were almost home.
Home from the Slumber Palace. . .
"Honey, I'm back," Ron said as he stepped into the room.
Lucy saw his belly push through the bedroom door first. At six-hundred-plus pounds, her husband was predominately bellied. But that was one of her favorite features. As he waddled through the double-sized doorway, his lower paunch swayed fetchingly within his trousers. When he sat, Ron's belly apron became two separate hangs; standing, it was one impressively massive slab.
"Hard time on the road?" she asked, concerned. "I saw on The Weather Channel that 74 was in the middle of a storm system." She indicated the mounted television, broadcasting something from The Food Network now, with a wave of a massive hand. Ron shook his head, and his chins added emphasis to the act.
"Had to pull over for a few minutes is all," he explained, shucking his tie, then kicking off his extra-wide loafers. The shoes hit the edge of the bed unseen by either of them. "Hope I didn't worry you."
"Actually," Lucy admitted. "I fell asleep." She indicated a nearby waste can filled with sandwich wrappers and crumpled chip bags. "May have overdone it at lunch because I found myself feeling soporific afterwards. Conked out while you were somewhere on the road."
Ron examined the waste can. From the debris it looked as if she'd close to doubled her usual lunch. He was more than a little envious of her appetite: Lucy must have eaten straight through the afternoon.
"Have any good dreams?" he asked with a grin.
"Usual feeding ones," Lucy told him. "Seem to have a one-track mind these days."
Ron beamed and leaned over the bed, kissing Lucy on a shoulder. "It's one of things I love most about you," he said, and as he stood back to consider her, Lucy did likewise in a vanity mirror.
After she'd gotten up to receive her lunch delivery, she'd re-entered their bed as minimally dressed as possible. Uncovered by sheet or blanket, Lucy lay at an angle propped by a mountain of pillows, a lap tray filled with books and snacks standing on both sides of her. (No way could they straddle one thigh, let alone her nearly invisible lap.) Her naked flesh glinted in the bedroom light, so much flesh that it broke beyond the yard-wide confines of the mirror.
Though she couldn't remember when she'd last been weighed, could only vaguely recall a time when she hadn't been this gargantuan (it was like she'd always been this way!), Lucy knew she was more than twice her husband's weight. Such a size should have carried its own particular inconveniences, but she'd never felt them.
She'd grown accustomed to moving at a snail's pace. Though it took a good half hour to do so, she still could walk across the house and did so daily. Lucy regularly showered and blow dried herself, picked out a fresh muumuu, did her hair and face while seated on a bench in front of the vanity, waddled to the front door for lunch and mail - in no way the weight-ridden victim that anyone glimpsing her would have predicted.
It was as if all physical laws around her 1200-pound body had somehow been suspended. Even though all but a few hours of each day were spent in bed, she did not have any of the physiological aspects of the bedridden. Her skin, though nicely dimpled and textured, was unblemished and lovely.
Like Ron, her body was mostly belly. Resting back in bed, she felt it balloon almost to the top of her feet; if she stretched her toes back, she could sometimes touch it (a divine sensation as her underbelly was erogenously sensitive). At both sides of her torso, she could see a trio of folds, forced into her ultra-wide exterior by the pressure of paunch atop her legs. Her thighs spread even further out; seated, she covered an entire five-foot bench.
Her calves were covered by her encroaching forefront, but her knees and outer legs were visible, the former characterized by deep indentations where her overflowing flesh came to meet. Her ankles had been swallowed by a two-inch ringlet of avoirdupois. Her hips were highlighted with cellulite made more prominent by her weight against the mattress.
Lucy's upper half was nearly as imposing. Leaning back, her breasts draped down both sides of her torso; she'd given up on bras, since the shelf of her paunch offered all the support she needed when she was upright. In her half reclining position, the weight was evenly distributed between ribs and upper arms. The latter, which themselves measured more than forty-five inches in circumference, were one of Ron's favorite body areas. He never seemed to tire of them.
Then again, there were few parts of her that Ron didn't like. The advantage of being her size: it was easy to approach her from a different focal point every time. At times, he would touch someplace she'd swear had never been touched before, and the feeling was like making love to some exquisite stranger.
Absentmindedly, she pulled a piece of candy from the bowl to her right. "Compliments of McKay's Slumber Palace," it read. The name was vaguely familiar to her - probably a motel Ron had visited: he was always bringing back little somethings from the places he stayed.
It was, she discovered, white chocolate. One of her favorites. She popped the mini-bar into her mouth. Her chins, flattened against the rise of her upper breast, pushed out further when she opened her jaws. As it melted atop her tongue, she moaned happily. Lucy never could understand Ron's indifference toward this brand of chocolate.
The candy, of course, woke her appetite, but that was nothing new. They'd order out tonight - their usual routine those nights Ron came back from traveling - so she'd push for something speedy. Grabbing a fat fistful of white chocolates, she dropped them on the belly shelf cresting at her cleavage and started rapidly feeding herself. Ron smiled happily at the sight.
He loved to watch her eat, she knew, and she loved to have him watch her. Once the act of eating had been something furtive, but now she reveled in it. Though she couldn't have said when this change had occurred, she credited Ron with allowing her to be the woman she was: honestly gluttonous, guilt-free in her gluttony. She was living a fantasy, but if pressed, she couldn't have said if the fantasy was hers or her partner's. In the end, it ultimately didn't matter.
"So what's for dinner?" she asked.
"Everything you want," Ron said with a grin. Lucy took a fresh handful of candies, closed her eyes and smiled. When she opened them again, she was still herself - lovely, impossibly huge and hungry - lying in bed in front of her worshipping husband. It was, she knew with happy certainty, the way that things were meant to stay. . .
Corrected version copyright (c) 2001 - Oakhaus Designs
