Emblems, Inc.
By Wilson Barbers
But Tracie knew nothing of that. All she knew was: she'd driven home from the auto plant, pissed off and tired, after a long night shift. As usual, when she got off feeling sick of work, she was looking to escape with a box of donuts and the classifieds. The ad had leapt out at her.
"Looking for something exotic? Stimulating?" It asked. "Emblems, Inc. has the position for you!" She'd read the ad twice, strangely rejuvenated by its message, and then dashed into the shower. According to the paper, E.I.'s office opened at nine; Tracie wanted to get ahead of the competition. Anything had to be better than assembly line work, she thought.
She examined her reflection in the long window lining the door to Emblems, Inc., wiped off a smudge of powdered sugar, and sighed. She was lightly made up and wearing a full-length denim skirt with a blouse, but nothing could hide her thickset factory girl body, her plain face and Brillo pad hair. Hopefully, they wouldn't hire on the basis of looks alone; her dumpy physique had lost her more than one public job.
At least she was the first one there: maybe promptness counted for something.
Tracie reached for the door, only to find it opening ahead of her pudgy fingers.
"Ms. Pilgrim?" A silky voice asked. "Good to see you made it on
time."
Any other time she might have wondered how this strange voice knew her name,
but as soon as she looked up to see its source, all questions vanished. The
figure before her was so commanding, it was easy to imagine that he instantly
knew everything about you. Tall and lean with slick dark moussed hair and an
angular face, he stood in the reception area, posed like a vampire inviting in
his next willing victim. Tracie entered without a shred of hesitation, somehow
certain that in doing so she was taking a step into a whole new kind of life.
"C'mon into my office," the dark man said, ducking into a small
bright room off the side of the reception area. "I'm Harley Pluto,
regional manager of Emblems, Inc. Understand you're looking for a position in
our firm." He squeezed into the small space behind his desk, leaned back
and indicated the plush wide chair before him. "You've come at an
opportune time. With all the growth this area's seen, we've had to expand our
operations substantially. I've got five positions available for women with the
right stuff." The chair was so plush that it seemed to swallow her; she
struggled to right herself and look attentive.
Mr. Pluto rotated in his chair and indicated a white board with a statewide
organizational chart drawn on it. Under Pluto's name were two clusters of seven
boxes: the first were already filled in with male names; the second had only
two boxes assigned. In addition to the names, each box in the cluster had one
of the following labels: Anger, Envy, Gluttony, Greed, Lust, Pride, and Sloth.
She remembered the list from Sunday school.
"That list, that's..."
"Our regional staff list," Pluto completed. "I've got seven
position titles with a male and female counterpart." He swept across the
first cluster with a wave of his hand. "As you can see, I've filled all
the male slots. Now I'm lookin' for a few good women." He leaned forward
and looked Tracie straight in the eye. "I know you're right person for one
of my positions. You wouldn't have seen the ad in the paper if you
weren't."
What kind of nuttiness was this? She thought, falling back in her chair. ”What
are you talking about?" Tracie finally asked. "What do the people in
these positions do?"
"Why they represent, of course," Pluto answered. "That’s our
business, offering symbols of behavior that will-umm-resonate through a
community, inspire your neighbors. They may not even know you exist, but as
long as you're around, they feel your influence. That's the job."
"Sounds crazy," Tracie said, suddenly overcome with a strong case of
the second thoughts.
"Let me introduce you to someone," the manager said, appearing on the
other side of the desk. He led her out of the office down a hall that was
longer than it had any right to be and brought her to a room with an open
double door. Inside was the largest human she'd ever seen.
He was seated on a couch that struggled to enclose his vast frame, his mammoth
paunch spilling out before him. The fat man was talking on a phone and chewing
on a whole barbecued chicken at the same time, sauce dribbling down his
multiple chins. Under the hang of his great growing gut was a strapped-on
modified unicycle. The room was rife with the scent of tantalizing foodstuff.
"Like it?" The gourmand asked, tossing the phone casually on its
cradle, indicating his belly wheel. "Got the idea from a comic book. Makes
gettin' around the house easier." He took another chomp out of his chicken
as a comfortable matronly woman appeared by his side with a pitcher full of
beer. "Thanks, love," he said, swigging about half the pitcher down
his great maw of a mouth. His whole body shivered as he affectionately swatted
the woman on her cushiony rear.
Okay, Tracie thought, stunned by the display: if this was some kind of test,
she’d go along with it. "You must be Gluttony," she said, as he
finished off his pitcher.
"Fred
Foil, Gluttony - Male Division," the fat man said, pulling a handkerchief
out of his shirt pocket and wiping his broad moon face. "You signin' on to
be my female counterpart?"
"Are you kidding?" Tracie yelped, backing into Mr. Pluto. Foil was
like a living version of her worse self-fears. How could anybody let themself
get that big?
"My wife likes to cook," the glutton answered, as if she'd voiced that
last question aloud. "I like to eat. Got no health problems: Emblems Ink
takes care of that. This is my idea of a dream job!" He spread his hands
on his burgeoning belly and smiled. Then the matronly woman (who could only be
his wife) pushed her way past Tracie, carrying a tray piled with fettucini
alfredo. "Duty calls," Fred said, as he started to tuck into his
spouse's latest offerings. It smelled pretty good, Tracie thought, her mouth
watering, all horror at the sight of foil vanishing. She wouldn't mind having a
plate or two herself: It looked awfully tempting.
"See how it works?" Pluto suddenly said, leading - practically yanking
- her back into the hall.
"Fred's awfully good at his job. He had you feeling famished within the
space of two minutes. If you were male, he could make you ravenously hungry all
the way across town."
"Just what I don't need," she said. Ten feet away from Gluttony's office
and her head started to clear. "Are all your - umm - employees this
effective?"
"Most of 'em," the regional manager replied. "Though few come
with as much natural aptitude as Fred. Helps when you have a spouse with as
much interest in your work." They stood out in the reception area, and Mr.
Pluto smiled at her. It was the kind of smile that made you want to vote for
him. "I trust that gives you an idea of the nature of our operation,"
he said, leaning on the vacant receptionist's desk. "It's pretty basic:
through specialized enhancement and some training, we're able to make our
employees over into fully qualified behavior representatives. Every one of them
is capable of stimulating their respective target behavior: if I'd taken you to
meet one of our two Anger reps, you'd have started feeling pissed off; if I'd
taken you to Envy, you'd have..."
Tracie peered into his office, checking the chart once more. "What about
Lust?" she interrupted.
The tall man sighed loudly. "Had a feeling you'd ask about that 'un. Everybody
does these days."
"The position's not taken," Tracie persisted. "I see the box is
empty on your chart." She turned back to the manager and crossed her arms.
"Having a hard time filling it?" she asked.
"Lust is the easiest position I've got to fill," Pluto replied in a
bored voice.
"Keeping it filled is another matter, though."
Her face showed her puzzlement.
"Lust isn't as easy as it used to be, what with the present-day climate of
hysteria," he explained. "It's a position with a high turnover rate."
"I'd like to try it," Tracie' proclaimed.
"You and every other gal that walks through that door," the manager said.
"What makes you think you've got the right stuff to keep the position?"
How about a lifetime of desperation? Tracie thought. Twenty-plus years of peasant
body and plain face and solitude? How about an adolescence full of smart-ass
high school boys making fun of her weight? How about a miserable night shift
job and a blank of a social life? How about a determination to make the most
out of anything she was given?
"You said you could train and make me over," Tracie finally said aloud.
"Have you got the stuff to make someone like me into an exemplar of Lust?"
"It's a snap," Pluto said, and with a corresponding click of his lengthy
fingers, Tracie suddenly found herself in an elaborate fitting room. She was
naked, standing before three fitting mirrors. If she had any doubts about the
reality of her present situation, the sight of herself in the mirrors banished
them. For one thing, she'd grown five inches taller; from short and dumpy to
tall and stacked. Her thick midriff had shrunk to a pinched waistline; her
pendant breasts had grown full and firm; her hips were round and cellulite-free.
She was a knock-out!
She ran her fingers through her long black silky hair (no more frizzy kinkiness
for her!) And blew a kiss at her reflection. Even her lips looked sexy, she
thought, turning her attention to the wardrobe hanging behind her. She picked
the tightest, shortest cut dress she could find on the rack: it hugged her
gorgeous form eagerly. Posing like a sixties era movie goddess, Tracie reveled
in her new physique.
"Like it?" Mr. Pluto asked, once more suddenly appearing beside her.
She preened and nodded - it was adolescent, but she couldn't help herself. Pulling
her away from the mirror, he led her once more down the hall. "I need to
get you to our training area right away," he said. "Got another
interview in an hour." They passed Gluttony's office, but this time the
odor wafting from his doorway held no attraction to her. Two more rooms down,
and they passed a querulous, busty looking woman in the doorway. She snorted
loudly as they passed, and as Tracie craned her neck to look back, the observer
gave her the finger.
"Who was that?" She asked the manager as he continued to hustle her
along.
"That
was Envy," Pluto told her. "She used to have your job..."
Once she signed her W-2s, the rest of her day was spent in orientation with two
experienced Lusts from out of state. Her first four days were devoted to
training, being coached in dress and walk, the proper use of inviting expressions
and innuendo, the ins and outs of sexual positioning. She was a quick learner:
her instructors were founts of information. By the end of the week, she was
ready to meet the men of her town.
And meet them she did. In bars. In stores. In restaurants. Outside of church.
She'd become one hot item, the kind of
full-blooded woman most men thought lived only in stroke books: ready, shapely
and provocative. The look of eagerness that she brought to men's faces was
exhilarating, a whole new experience for her. They'd see her sashaying into the
room, and they immediately came to attention. Tracie loved the feeling of power
it gave her. All those men at work who wouldn't look at her twice, all those
boys in school who'd given her a hard time - she had them panting for her!
Her work schedule was around the clock, but this was one job where she didn't mind
doing overtime. Each A.M. she'd visit her office (across the hall from Foil - for
some reason she never saw her male Lust counterpart) and log the previous day's
conquests: every male whose mind she'd made stray with a shake of her jigging
bod, every man she'd driven to distraction or infidelity, every boy she'd
bedded.
Afternoons were made for further training, and with it her canniness and sensory
acuity grew. Within a week, she could detect a quickening pulse, a moist upper
lip, a borning erection from across the street.
She loved her new job.
Two weeks after she'd taken the position, she ran into someone who would change
it all, though. It took place at one of her regular watering holes, a sports
bar catering to desperate singles and former work mates. She was showing her
cleavage at the pool table when he came through the door.
Cal Lyst, the boy who'd dumped her in high school. The moment came back so
quickly that her carefully studied poise dropped. Suddenly, she was a junior in
high school again, reliving that night of the senior prom. Two weeks before Cal
(a gawky nervous boy one year her senior) had come up to her in the hall and
asked her out of the blue if she'd like to go with him. The invitation was as
unexpected as it was delightful. She'd spent the fourteen days floating through
anticipation and the rituals of preparation. Night of the prom she'd skipped
dinner, dressed and stood in her bedroom, waiting for word that he'd arrived.
She was hungry but too scared to eat, eager for the moment.
He never came to pick her up.
Tracie never saw him again until now. She'd looked for him the rest of the school
year, but he somehow was able to duck her. When school ended, she heard Cal was
leaving for the service. By then she was feeling too disgusted with herself to
pursue the matter any further. For this she'd skipped dinner?
But now. . . She watched him take a solitary table in one of the corners and
order a pitcher. He was older but still identifiable, lost in thought, with a
hangdog expression that almost kept her from coming near his table. Ignoring
the usual crowd of leers and suggestive comments, Tracie stalked her prey.
Propping a shapely leg on the chair across from Cal, the dim light of a beer
sign delineating her curves, she asked if the seat was taken.
"No," Cal said, barely looking up, indicating with a wave of the hand
that she could take the chair away. She straddled it like Dietrich, looked him
straight in the face and asked if he was waiting for anyone. He glanced up, and
for the first time she got a full look at his gaunt eyes and furrowed forehead.
Cal looked her over, took in her fulsome body and gorgeous face, shrugged and
said, "Naw, I'm not waitin' for anybody." He lifted his mug, then
returned to his examination of the tabletop.
Hold on there, she nearly said aloud. What's the deal, buster? Here she was in
a low-cut tank top designed to thrust her assets at him, and the mope was
barely paying her any attention! She scanned with every heightened sense she
had, and it didn't add up. Lyst wasn't gay - there were ways she'd learned of
sensing that - yet she didn't seem to be able to get a single rise out of him.
She tried.
For the next two hours Tracie pulled out every line and wile she'd learned, every
seductive pose and contact that she could. It drove the men in the tables
nearby wild, but it didn't dent her target's depression.
Finally, she just asked him what was up. Cal looked at her as if he'd forgotten
she was even sitting with him and said, "Nuthin' much. I came to town, lookin'
to see if I could apologize to my past, but it hasn't worked out." He
poured his last half glass out of the pitcher, swigged it down, and stood. "I
ran out on someone once when I was a kid," he said. "Couldn't admit
what I was. I'd like to apologize to her; but I haven't even gotten the nerve
to look her up."
With that; he turned and quickly left the bar; a dumbstruck Tracie in his wake.
Mr. Pluto was waiting for her in the parking lot. She'd run out of the bar looking
for Cal, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Looks like ol' Cal didn't
recognize you," the manager shouted from his BMW. Word got around fast;
she thought, turning back to Pluto, her fists clenched. She'd blown it with
Cal, she knew, and she knew there was going to be some kind of consequence. "I'm
disappointed;" Pluto said, as if following her train of unspoken thought.
"Tomorrow, we'll have to talk about your place in the organization." Revving
his engine; he squealed out of the parking lot.
Talk about anticlimactic; she thought; turning back to her car. Tracie got home,
feeling vaguely muzzy and hungry. This was the first time she'd returned home
early since she'd started her position, and all she wanted to do was kick back
and forget about her failure. She trudged into the kitchen, opened the
refrigerator and pulled out a piece of cheesecake. Carrying it into the living
room, Tracie flicked on the tube (two English comedians were chatting up
Racquel Welch), kicked off her heels, sat back and dug her fork into her snack.
She lifted it to her full lips.
She noticed the texture first-softer and creamier than any cheesecake she remembered
(where had she bought it? She couldn't recall.) Then the flavor hit her. Sweet
and piquant, it was easily the best tasting confection she'd ever had. She took
a second bite, and it didn't disappoint. Within seconds, Tracie finished the
piece. She just had to have a second!
Dashing into the kitchen, she pulled the pastry out and cut herself a slice fully
twice the size of the first. She started into it on her way back to the living
room and finished before she could even sit down. On the teevee screen, the
shorter of the two comedians was on a carnival ride with an immensely fat
woman. Tracie didn't notice; she'd quickly turned around and aimed for her
Westinghouse.
The appliance was packed with food, she saw, all of it ready made and
unwrapped, demanding to be eaten. Pulling up a wide stool, Tracie reached in
and grabbed the partially eaten cheesecake. She didn't bother cutting into it,
just grabbed a utensil and started spooning the rest into her mouth. It tasted fabulous!
Each bite made her eager for another.
When she finished, she perused the open fridge's contents then decided on
something more substantial. She grabbed a drumstick - it tasted heavenly - then
lifted a chilly platter full of roasted chicken to her lap. It was cold against
her thighs, but she didn't mind. Halfway into her poultry, she pulled a quart
of macaroni salad out and started alternating between it and the chicken. This
was even better than sex, she remembered thinking at one point. As Tracie
happily ate in front of the fridge, her body started steadily growing. Minute
by minute, as she ravenously shoved food into her widening mouth, her fulsome
form packed on the pounds. By hour's end, she finished both chicken and salad,
polished off six twelve-inch subs, drank four gallons of chocolate milk and
devoured untold quarts of potato and pasta salad made with sour cream. She'd
gained sixty pounds, a taller echo of her old thickset self. Tracie's jaw line
softened, and her face filled. Between her top and shorts, her wasp waist
disappeared, transforming into a potbelly. Her hips and thighs were also
spreading across the stool. She neither noticed nor cared. The supply of food
appeared unending, her appetite insatiable. She lost herself in the sensation
of nonstop eating.
By midnight, two hours into her feast, she'd put on ninety more pounds. No
longer just plump, Tracie was in the upper two hundreds - fat and growing
fatter by the minute. Her potbelly was a full-fledged paunch now, and it was
developing folds on both sides. Seated, it hung two inches over her crotch. Her
thighs rubbed together near the top and had started to dimple; her calves'
curves were more strongly delineated by nascent stretch marks. Higher up, her
upper arms started to sag at the elbows. Her siren's face grew round, gaining
an extra chin.
Tracie's transformation was proceeding apace. Somewhere near bar closing time,
she discovered her freezer packed solid with half gallon cartons of Breyer's
ice cream; by the time she'd made her way through every full-fat flavor that
the company offered, she was up to 450 pounds, a super-sized beauty whose belly
pushed ahead between her segmented thighs as if trying to mirror her limitless
appetite. Her neck vanished behind her dangling chins and widening face; her
upper arms matched her widest pre-transformation measurement.
The night was still young, however. While she'd been focusing on the freezer, the
fridge's lower section had somehow gotten restocked with cartons of fresh figs
and dates, with bowls of tapioca pudding liberally topped with whipped cream.
Ordinarily, she wouldn't have had much truck with any of this, but once she bit
into her first date, she couldn't get enough of them. She tilted each container
of fruit to her lips and let their contents slide into her waiting mouth then
she shoveled down the rich pudding. She never stopped to consider the fantastic
nature of her feeding; her hunger overrode all rational thought.
By four A.M., Tracie had passed six hundred pounds. When morning light was bright
enough to illuminate the room, she was in the middle 800's, the circumference of
her waist was over a foot greater than her standing height, her torso had
widened so much that her upper arms were held straight out, making her look
like she was elbowing up to an invisible counter. Both elbows formed a line
with the edge of her hips; at her current weight, she was up to four feet wide
and still ballooning.
Tracie finished up the night on a mixture of heavy cream, flavored with sugar
and vanilla extract. Swallowing it by the pitcher, stopping only to wipe her
sausagey lips with her hand and then lick the cream off, she glutted herself on
enough cream to stock a milk truck. You'd think she would have gotten sick of
the very scent of vanilla, but, in fact, the opposite was true. When she
finally came to the end of her all-night binge, her first cogent thought was to
wonder where she could get the recipe for the drink's exact proportions.
Turning on her stool, Tracie shifted her ponderous body to examine the kitchen.
The whole room was different; cleaner, with wider counter space and more upscale
cooking appliances. It had even grown in size to accommodate an extra freezer
and more cabinet storage. The doorway had substantially widened, too. Through
it, she could glimpse a huge plush couch, home entertainment center and what
looked to be a combination bar and soda fountain. The thought of the latter
made her mouth water - maybe she should belly up to it for something sweet and
creamy.
Belly up. Just the phrase made her start giggling. She looked down at the great
white paunch swelling before her, hiding her fat bare feet. It was obvious what
had happened to her over the night.
"Quite a spread, eh?" Mr. Pluto said, appearing in the doorway.
"Do you mean the apartment?" Tracie asked. "Or me?" She
took a deep breath then slowly lifted her mammoth form off the stool. Her flesh
quavered all around, momentarily putting her off balance, but she soon
recovered. Swinging her right arm, she took her first step then she laboriously
waddled out of the kitchen. Behind the bar was a mirror.
She was, she saw, still dressed in her tank top and shorts, though they'd obviously
undergone their own magical transmutation to fit her billowy body. Her top
hugged her cumbrous breasts, which had grown larger than the most exaggerated
silicone starlet's. They spread on both sides of her globular stomach, leaving
a vast gap for the top of her paunch to swell through. Her shorts futilely
strained to hold the hang of her huge belly up; when she sat, it came within
inches of touching the floor. Tracie's upper arms surged over her elbows, while
her lower arms did a similar number on her palms. Her feet were never going to
meet each other again. And yet, for all her corpulence, the beauty from her
phase as Lust still lingered. Her hair was still long and silky, her lips still
luscious. Though her eyes were nearly hidden by the rolls of fat of on her
face, her neck obscured by her jowls, she had an air of womanly
self-satisfaction that was undeniably attractive. She felt beautiful in her
bulkiness, as lovely as she'd been when she was Lust. She should be looking pissed
and petulant from the change, Tracie thought, but somehow it seemed right. This
wasn't what she'd asked for, but she wasn't feeling resentful.
"Of course you aren't," Pluto said, pulling a chocolate malt out of
the mixer and handing it to Tracie. "I didn't need Anger; I'd hired her
already. But the minute I saw you, I knew I had my female Gluttony." Aiming
a remote control over at the flickering teevee, he switched the channel to a
Betty Boop cartoon; on the screen, a roly-poly version of the cartoon flapper
was laughing and expanding, singing a paean to jovial obesity.
"Guess you were right," she said, finishing off her soda and reaching
into a bowl of cordials for a fat fistful. She smiled at her reflection, counting
the chins beneath her full-lipped grin. Even without a scale, she knew her
present weight: an even eleven-hundred pounds. Her waist measurement was now
large enough to equal her height doubled, though she noted that she'd lost an
inch of her former 5'10" stature - probably the result of holding her legs
so far apart. "You knew me better than I did myself."
"It's my job," Pluto said humbly. "Want to see the rest of your
place?" He switched the television off as Betty ceased her song, still
laughing, still growing rounder.
"Sure, but give me a refill first." She held out her empty glass, flabby
arm swinging with the move, and Pluto smiled approvingly. He refilled her drink
and led her into the bedroom, with its extra-wide king-size bed and vast
wardrobe. She was slow following him, her feminine poundage quivering and
rolling with every step. Each room, she noted with satisfaction, had its own
small dorm fridge within reach. Off to the side was a study with a desk and
shelves full of cookbooks. On the wall were photos of famous circus fat ladies
- Ruth Pontico, Celeste Geyer, Amanda Siebert - all of whom she surpassed in
size. The bathroom had a bidet and Jacuzzi that looked large enough to fit
eight. It probably would even fit her, she thought.
Mr. Pluto had returned to the main room to put some music on the CD player. Over the hanging speaker, a bluesy male voice was exhorting listeners to "dare to be fat."
"This is wonderful," Tracie said, when she'd returned to her stool and
another handful of cordials. "But I'm bothered by one thing. If you knew I
wasn't going to be a successful Lust, why have me go through all that training
and that failure with Cal?"
"Everybody deserves a chance to try out different roles," Pluto said.
"Besides, your experience with Cal was a good preparation for your next
meeting with him."
"My next what?" But by the time she'd swallowed her mouthful of candy
and gotten the question out, Pluto had vanished and somebody was knocking at
her front door. Naturally, it was Cal.
He stood in the hallway, hung over and disheveled, and gawked at the ballooning
beauty who'd answered the door. "Tracie?" He said in amazement, struggling
to process the magnificence before him, failing to take all of her body in. He
looked comical, but even more important (her sensory acumen from her tenure as
Lust still working), he looked aroused at the sight of her!
"You here for our date, Cal?" She said throatily, her wide body blocking
the entryway. "it's a bit late, isn't it?"
"My God, it is you!" Cal stammered. "You look gorgeous!" She took both his hands and led him into the
apartment. His erection grew as they got closer to the bedroom. "I like
your apartment," Calsaid feebly.
"Small talk later," Tracie said. "I'm hungry...
Her outfit came off easily (all her old Lust outfits came off easily), and Tracie
stood before him, showing off her naked body. Her skin was textured by her
avoirdupois. Her unfettered belly protruded in growing folds, swinging ahead of
her. Her mams shimmied with her own building excitement.
Cal grabbed her bulging hips, barely able to reach her sides, and pulled himself
against her. Tracie's blubbery front yielded like a firm foam pillow, but it
wasn't enough for him to get to her face. He backed off then jumped onto the
bed. Tracie turned to meet him. Kneeling on the mattress, his arms resting on
her puffy shoulders, Cal leaned over her forefront and parted her lips with his
tongue. Tracie leaned against the bed, and it pushed her inflated breasts up
against his chest.
As they continued to kiss, Tracie reached for Cal's belt. She had a bit of
trouble getting her fat hands past herself - she was still getting used to her
extraordinary size - but she managed. Cal had his face between her cleavage
now, kissing the crest of her paunch. He traced the folds along her sides,
feeling her dangling arms. For all her massiveness, she felt extremely
sensitive all over her body. Fat is an erogenous zone, she thought.
Finally, they broke their embrace. She rolled onto bed, and Cal shucked the
rest of his clothing. Carrying the bowl of cordials into the bedroom, she
reached for two mouthfuls, savoring the taste, her fat-shrouded loin tingling
with arousal. Cal climbed back onto the bed and began to taste her quivering
torso. Lying on her back, her paunch had spread and widened to both sides of
her. There were still some condoms on the bed stand, she saw, so she tossed one
to him. Cal sheathed himself, pushed past her sagging thighs and lifted her
belly apron. He quickly penetrated her, momentarily worrying if he was going
get deep enough inside her. A quick gasp put him at ease. They pushed against each
other happily, and Cal marveled at her entire body. It almost covered the bed,
and with each thrust he made, the accumulation of what looked like years of
gormandizing shimmered in waves across her. She came before him, and with it,
the scent of sexual satisfaction filled the room - a mixture of musk and
chocolate.
When they'd both calmed down sufficiently, Cal explained his no-show the night
of the prom.
"I was attracted to you chubby," he said, leaning over and putting a
cordial in between her waiting teeth. "But I didn't know how to deal with
the fact. I thought there was something wrong with me, something sick. So
instead of going through with our date, I chickened out. Took me years to
actually admit that I found fat women sexy."
The rest of the morning was spent catching up on each other. Cal told of his
travels in the navy as a ship's cook, the areas he'd visited where size was
viewed so much differently. The longer he talked, the more Tracie remembered
how she'd been attracted to him: he was both smart and sensitive. She told him
of her time with Emblems, Inc., and while she was initially afraid he’d think
she was crazy, he accepted her tale readily.
"I've seen a lot of strange things in this world;" Cal said, returning
from the kitchen with a bag of Oreos. "I'd be a fool to doubt you after
seeing all this. You don't get a place this tailor-made, workin' in an auto
factory."
That afternoon, Cal spent making Dagwood sandwiches and serving her. He loved
watching her stuff each preparation into her mouth. They made love two more
times that day between meals. By night, she'd packed on another fifty-two
pounds, nowhere near her astonishing gain of the night before but enough to
make her clothes even tighter on her. She'd changed into a sleeveless sundress
that showed off her overflowing upper arms and great dimpled knees. Her belly
hung lower than the hem of her dress. She was looking at all this in the wide
bedroom mirror when the phone rang. It was Fred.
"Heard you came on as Gluttony today," he said between loud crunching
chomps. "Congratulations! I knew the first time I saw you that you had it
in you!"
"In me and on me," Tracie answered, "I've really piled on the
pounds in the last twenty-four hours." She waddled over for a squeeze
bottle of coke, grabbed it and began slurping. At the rate she was ballooning,
she’d soon be needing one of Fred's wheels to get around the apartment.
"Well, enjoy it," Foil was saying. "There ain't many who get the
leeway to live the way we do. Like I said before: one advantage of this job is
the ability to get as huge as imaginable without any problems. Enjoy the
Freedom."
"That I'm doing...
"Hear you have a new boyfriend - and he knows how to cook." Word
really did get around the office quickly, Tracie thought wryly. She peaked out
into the kitchen and saw Cal stirring a great pot full of something that
smelled delectable. "He sure does," Tracie said, a sudden vision of
the years ahead stretching before her - years of great food and great sex. This
beat plain old Lust any day.
"Maybe he and my wife can swap recipes," Foil said, chuckling. “See
you in the office tomorrow..."
She hung the phone up and steered herself into the kitchen. Cal blew her a kiss
from the stove then sampled his wares with a wooden spoon. Looked like
proximity to her was starting to show on him already: a small pot belly had
started to hang over his belt. The contours of his formerly gaunt face had
filled in. Pretty soon, he'd be looking as chubby and comfortable as Fred’s
wife. The thought was both endearing and erotic to her. If she worked on it,
she could probably double his weight by the time they got married.
Tracie came up to Cal and placed a stout hand on his shoulder. A quizzical
expression flitted across his face. "What you thinkin'?" he asked.
She grabbed the spoon and took a sample herself. She could hardly wait to dive
into it in earnest.
"Just how much I love my work," the Gluttony rep said.
