By Wilson Barbers
(Click graphic to super-size it!)
Though some may disagree with this assessment, the bulk of the fables involving Fast Majicke are essentially affirming ones with old-fashioned happy endings for the women or men who fall under its spell. But there is the occasional story that's a little more, well, ambiguous in its conclusion. One such tale revolves around the transformation of a woman named Carly Eaves.
Miz Eaves was a statuesque blond who had fifteen-minutes of fame in the 1990's as a political writer and guest on those talk shows looking for a camera-genic pundit attractive enough to pull in male viewers of all political stripes. Her image was the big draw: a wholesomely sexy American girl who wasn't above flirting but still was holding out for marriage to a suitably attractive and moneyed soulmate. (In reality, she was too much of a workaholic to bother with many sexual dalliances, no matter how provocatively she packaged herself for the talk show audience.) Resolutely reactionary in her politics, Carly was better known for her well-shaped calves and knees - always prominently displayed on the sets - than the arguments she advanced when she spoke. Which was probably just as well. As a political spokeswoman, she was better at the overstated cheap shot than anything approaching thoughtful analysis.
It's not as if Miz Eaves wasn't capable of serious writing: more that she'd decided years before that the majority of the vast flyover audience wasn't looking for anything more than a few catchphrases which it could either accept or reject according to its individual biases. Well-constructed and intelligent argument was boring, especially on television. . .
. . .which somehow made it fitting that the moment to change her life forever came about from a cable news show appearance. She was one of the regulars on a roundtable devoted to discussing the news of the day. The series' host - a former stand-up comedian who'd found it easier to recycle the same set of liberal-&-conservative jokes by changing the name of the target to match the day's headlines - had brought up a recent public pronouncement by the National Institutes on Health on Body Mass Index as an excuse to pull from his personal catalog of fat jokes, then followed it by bringing Wanda Allison to the table.
Miz A. was a successful businesswoman and size acceptance advocate of no small size herself. Apple-shaped, elegantly dressed and wide enough to require her own special seat at the table, she was roundly condemning the National Institutes of Health's recent revision of their calculated Body Mass Index, a move designed to make a larger percentage of the American population officially "overweight."
"It's all a scam designed to drive more Americans into the grasping hands of the weight loss industry," Wanda proclaimed, leaning forward to emphasized her point and emphasizing her voluminous forefront instead. Her round face had a vaguely hippie-esque cast to it, a neat contrast to her opponent's sexy country club look.
Carly was torn. On the one hand, she had little good to say about publicly funded institutions like the NIH. On the other, how could she come out criticizing basic sound business practices? In the end, she decided to side with the diet industry - it made for better television, after all, especially when the debaters were two women.
"Consumer as victim," she sneered sweetly. "You've got a population that's grown fat through their own over-consumption - yet now they're victims when they dare to dream about changing their bodies? The bodies they created through their own gluttony? Did Jenny Craig hold a gun to their heads and force 'em all to super-size each lunch? Was it a Weight Watchers truck that rammed 'em through the Dairy Queen drive-thru?"
"That's not the point," Wanda shot back. "People grow fat in more ways than one, but that's only a side issue here. I'm talking about an industry that colludes with medical professionals to exaggerate the risks of size - and which promotes the idea that the only way to be an attractive worthwhile person is to be as skinny as Miz Eaves here. Not that I don't think Carly is a lovely woman. . ."
"No argument there," the talk show host leered comedically.
". . .but I know women several times her size who could give her a run for her money."
"'Run'?" Carly mocked.
"You've got me there," the fat activist chuckled. "But even if they aren't built for speed, they're healthier than any spokesman for the NIH would predict. And much happier in their bodies than a lot of so-called average folk."
"That's as may be," Carly responded, totally into the flow of it now. "You know some happy fat people and a lot more unhappy ones, I bet. I'd wager there are more dissatisfied people in this country than satisfied ones. You can't blame the diet industry for that.
"Criticize the machinery that runs consumer capitalism, and you're objectively criticizing America itself. Dissatisfaction, the desire to better yourself physically and materially, is what made this country great!"
"And you know that from personal experience?" Wanda asked, half jokingly, though a smidgeon of irritation had crept into her voice.
"In my tax bracket," Carly answered, also half jokingly though it drew a good laugh from the studio audience, "you know it, babe!"
At which point, the show's host moved the conversation onto another hot topic. The rest of the show went smoothly, and Carly returned to her apartment, feeling good about the day's appearance. She had an opinion piece for The National Review to complete, so she grabbed a bottled water and logged onto her p-c. First order of the evening was to check email, though, and there she saw, to her surprise, a missive from her talk show opponent. Perhaps Miz Allison wished to continue their debate online? If so, Carly wasn't gonna waste her time.
The message wasn't a talking point, however: "What you said today about boosting your income level made me think of this site," Wanda'd written, with a website URL right beneath her electronic signature. Though she knew better (what if it led her to a site that infected her computer?), Carly hit the link. Her browser popped open, and a solid black background appeared on the screen; then some blurry greenish lettering emerged from the void as a whispery voice started muttering words in a language she didn't recognize.
This can't be good, Carly thought, ineffectively trying to back out of the site as the words on the screen grew clearer. "Fast Majicke," she finally read, as the voice on her tinny Compaq speaker also grew more distinct but no more comprehensible. A green light suddenly emerged from her monitor, coloring the entire room, and, as it quickly blinked off, so did the voice.
What the hell was that?
Backing away from the computer, she had a flush of momentary wooziness, almost as if she were in the middle of a too-hot room packed with a loudly chattering crowd. The apartment felt strangely closed-in and dizzying, so she headed outside for some air (barely remembering her purse and switching into comfortable flats instead of the leg-accenting heels she typically favored). When she reached the sidewalk, an even stronger urge hit her. Down the street, Carly could see the neon sign of a well-known city restaurant. Though she'd never dined there before, she knew the place had a good word-of-mouth rep. Quickly, she directed her long legs toward the restaurant entrance.
When she entered the eatery, her discombobulating near vertigo dissipated. The darkened restaurant was cool and welcoming, if a bit noisy; its zaftig hostess quickly and efficiently seated Carly at a booth. Feeling famished, she decided to throw dietary caution to the wind and order big.
She selected an order of salmon in cream sauce, a side of fettuccini alfredo, broccoli with cheese, plus a chef's salad with an extra cup of blue cheese dressing. As she waited for her meal to arrive, she nibbled her way through a basket of bread, swirling each slice in a small plate of olive oil. Instead of damping her appetite, it only seemed to further pique it.
Methodically munching on her bread, Carly perused the establishment. It looked to be a quiet night; the only other booth near her with customers had a pair of goateed young businesstypes who were whispering over their wine. It wasn't until she bit into her first fork of salmon that she heard what they were talking about. Though their voices hadn't risen, they suddenly seemed sharper: "But what if we can't make the deadline?" the first voice was asking.
"Not gonna happen," the second confidently answered. "This contract will make our company - hell, once the government announces it tomorrow, our stock'll double in value overnight - and we're not gonna drop the ball. This is our make-or-break moment, buddy, and we won't be broken!"
Now, this was interesting. As she polished off her plate, Carly struggled to learn more. She was so engrossed in eating and straining to hear, that she barely noticed the young waiter when he reappeared.
"May I take your platter?" he asked, and Carly was astounded to observe that she'd wolfed down her meal.
"Sure," she said, "but first could I have another side of the fettuccini? It tasted so yummy." It really had, she thought. She could still taste the remnants of the creamy cheese sauce.
"A side platter of fettuccini alfredo? Easily done."
"Wait," Carly decided, not wanting to finish her meal before her neighbors spilled the beans. "How about a full serving? I've really fallen in love with your alfredo sauce."
"Will do," the waiter said, sweeping a fresh basket of bread to her booth before going off to fill her second order. As she pulled off a still-warm slice, she once more turned her attention toward the nearby booth. It took most of her second helping to get the salient details (they were a software company, and they'd just sold a program to the federal government), but once she parsed it all together, she was convinced the information was solid. When the waiter showed up to ask if she wanted dessert, she asked if there was anything she could take home to eat.
"Now that's a girl with a healthy appetite," she suddenly heard, though the waiter had turned to grab a dessert menu for her perusal and the two businessmen had already left the building.
"Did you say something?" she asked the young man when he handed her the menu. He shook his head, a puzzled look on his face, so she shrugged and turned her attention to the dessert menu. She ordered a carton of tiramisu for two and also bought a purse full of candy bars at the register counter. With that, Carly hurried home to her computer.
Stopping only to ease down the elastic waistband of her skirt and pop open her Styrofoam container of tiramisu, Carly quickly fired up the computer and headed for the market sites. There, she saw Dosharq Systems were going for pennies a share. Pausing a moment to savor the last of her dessert (she could've gotten twice as much - it went down so easily!), she shot over to her online broker's site and transferred a thousand dollars from savings into buying Dosharq stock. It was a crazy thing to do, but she didn't stop to second-guess herself.
Once more reaching down to adjust her gams-displaying skirt (had this thing shrunk or something?), Carly rose and went to the kitchen in search of a drink. Waiting for her on the counters were five corrugated cardboard boxes, each packed with ready-to-eat groceries. Bags of chips and pretzels, boxes of party crackers, jars of peanut butter and fruit preserves, every form of singly packaged snack cake imaginable, plus cartons of chocolate bars.
Where'd this come from? Carly wondered as she opened her fridge for a carton of 1% milk, only to find a full half-gallon of Half-and-Half in its place. Still eyeing the mysterious boxes, she took a quick sip from the plastic carton - just to slake her thirst - but it wasn't as heavy as she expected so she poured herself a full glass. Turning her back on the mysterious additions to her pantry (she'd deal with 'em in the morning), she took her glass of cream and milk to bed.
She woke late in the a.m., lying on top of her bed in her well-stretched underwear, starved for breakfast and barely noticing the array of empty wrappers on the bedroom floor as she rolled off the mattress. Hanging on the doorknob of the closet was a pair of baggy sweats she didn't remember buying. But since she only was gonna do a drive-thru, she decided it didn't matter if anyone saw her in 'em.
She stepped into the unfamiliar sweatpants - which weren't as baggy in actuality as they'd first appeared - then eased into the matching grey sweatshirt. First time she stopped to examine herself in the mirror was in her car - and that was just to comb her hair and ensure her makeup looked passable. She barely noticed how much her face had smoothed; she definitely didn't realize the change her body was undergoing.
Over night, Carly Eaves had added more than fifty pounds to her once lithe frame. There was only a hint of this gain in her face, in the way her cheeks were more prominent, as her waist and legs had received most of her new accumulation. The former had filled in by at least an inch on both sides and forefront; the latter had grown fuller, especially in the calves. As she'd walked from her apartment to the parking garage - moving a little bit more slowly than her usual determined stride - a trace of jiggle could be observed within her sweats.
A few blocks from her home, she found a bagel place that also specialized in sandwiches and ordered two bagels with egg, ham and cheese on them, along with a large decaf chocolate cap and a bag of small apple strudels. It wasn't until she got halfway home and was into her second bagel sandwich that she recalled last night's stock purchase. What have I done? she thought with dismay, scarfing down the last of her sandwich. She'd better head back to her apartment post-haste.
Except. . .she still felt hungry for breakfast. With no regard for the now empty paper bags on the floor of her passenger side, Carly aimed her Cruiser for a nearby fast food joint. There, she purchased a half dozen egg-and-English-muffin sandwiches plus an equal amount of heated pastries and then sped back to her apartment building. Sitting in the parking garage, she quickly polished both sandwiches and pastries off before heading back to her apartment.
As she rushed out of the garage, the band of her sweatpants slipped down her now prominent belly, resting 'neath what had become a definite hanging paunch. On her way into the elevator, the plumpened Carlyy passed a familiar face from the apartment complex: a middle-aged editor from one of the city's more liberal newspapers. He raised his eyebrows and nodded politely, but silently. As the elevator door closed, she thought she heard him say, "Gee, I hadn't heard she was pregnant," but she thought nothing of it since the statement obviously had nothing to do with her.
The apartment Carly returned to was spotless. Pulling a replenished carton of pastries off the kitchen counter, she carried the box into the study and turned on her p-c. While she waited, she polished off a box of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. (It'd been ages since she'd had one of these. She'd forgotten how much she enjoyed the way the chocolate coating melted on your tongue.) Mouth packed with chocolate, she Googled "dosharq" and found on the Wall Street Journal that the company's government contract had been announced that morning. Her stock was worth some real money now!
Carly passed the rest of the workday parked in front of the computer and occasionally returning to the kitchen for a fresh carton of goodies, surfing the net for news of Dosharq System's windfall. "This will make our investors very happy," a company spokesman said, and Carly agreed. If only she'd bought more stock options when they were still dirt cheap. . .
And, then, minutes from market closing, she received her second message from Wanda:
"If you've made a killing on the market today (as I suspect you have), you'll want to check out the fare at Chez Magique tonight. 7:00 p.m." Below this message was a Mapquest street map detailing the route to this unfamiliar dining palace.
Of course, Carly followed the email's advice. She'd finished every box of readymades and was still just short of starved, so why not go out for a good meal and see what else she could pick up? A different Carly Eaves - a Carly who was a day younger, perhaps - would have been appalled to consider the unrecognizable woman who rose to prepare for dinner. Her day of unremitting binging had worked wonders on her body, which was now more than double her once slim weight of 120 pounds.
Peeling off her once baggy sweats, the plump lady pundit returned to her bedroom, where she found a new short skirt and sleeveless red top lying on her bed. It was the kind of outfit she favored - one designed to show off her shape and her legs, in particular - but it was fitted to her more voluptuous size. She donned the outfit and straightened her hair, not even registering how just-plain-round her face had gotten, then headed for her car with the map in her purse.
The evening was overcast, which in the city made every sound seem twice as loud as usual. As she emerged from her car to hand her keys to the restaurant valet, a volley of overlapping conversations struck her, though there was no one within eyeshot. When she entered the restaurant, it seemed almost as loud, which had to be the acoustics since there were hardly any customers in the place. She was on the verge of turning around and leaving when a hostess who looked like she could've been twin sister to the zaftig hostess of the night before - after three pregnancy weight gains - appeared before her. Leading Carly to a table, the plus-sized matron asked, "You expecting someone to join you, perhaps?"
"Not especially. Why do you ask?"
"Our special tonight is a cassoulet for two," she explained. "It's one of Chef's specialties."
"Then I'll have that," Carly decided.
"We don't do smaller portions," the hostess cautioned.
"That's alright, I'll take what's left home," Carly reassured her, grabbing a package of breadsticks and quickly tearing it open with her teeth. Though she'd been munching all day, the smell of restaurant had once more piqued her appetite. As she began to chew on her first breadstick, the noise in the room seemed to abate slightly. She was fully into her cassoulet (a divine blend of chicken, lamb breast and pork spareribs baked with beans and vegetables) when another voice drew her attention from her meal. It was a mousy sounding intonation, but it was also loudly jubilant.
"Europe," it was saying. "Once this merger goes through, I'm moving to France - and buying me a vineyard!"
Carly looked around the room, but all of the patrons she could see had their mouths too full to have said anything so loudly and distinctly. To her right was a single male patron, a balding and bespectacled Casper Milquetoast type with a faraway look. The longer she watched him, the clearer the voice came through to her.
"Thank God for deregulation. We're gonna make a lot of money!"
His lips, she suddenly realized, weren't moving; he was too busy scarfing down his meal. Either this guy was a ventriloquist extraordinaire - speaking clearly even as he took another bite of his beef medallions - or somehow she was "hearing" his thoughts!
"Excuse me, mademoiselle, may I take your plate?"
"Sure, sure," Carly told her waiter, without taking her eyes off Mister Merger. "Could I have another order of tonight's special?"
"But, of course," the waiter replied. "Way she eats, she'll soon be twice her size!" she heard as he turned back toward the kitchen. "Not that I have any problems with that!"
"I beg your pardon?" she asked, with an indignant edge to her voice that vaguely echoed Wanda Allison from their talk show contretemps.
"I didn't say anything, madam," the waiter turned to reply, his face flushing with a guilty embarrassment which told Carly: Yeah, but you definitely thought something.
"Alright then," she said, picking up her refreshed breadbasket as she slathered a large knife of butter on her still warm French bread. Usually, she tried to hold back on the carbs, but there was nothing like fresh-baked bread.
"What an amazing appetite! First time I've served one of these customers - hope she tips good," she heard, but this time she was paying closer attention to the waiter's face. (He was kind of handsome in a pudgy Gallic sort of way.) Like her fellow diner, he hadn't spoken these sentiments aloud.
Somehow, Carly realized, she'd developed the ability to hear men's thoughts. Which explained why she'd been able to pick up the two whispering businessmen last night (she was hearing each sentence as they thought each one, not as they spoke them) and listen in on Mister Merger right now. She could hear their minds! If she could only identify the company he was thinking about, she'd have a second good investment in as many days. . .
Took a good hour before she got enough info to figure out the identity of his business: inexpensive high definition televisions. In that time, she'd gone through her second order, plus most of the items on the restaurant's dessert menu. (She'd never known you could so many things with crepes.) Carly was so focused on her target that she never heard her waiter marveling over her tremendous consumption - or the fact that she seemed to have grown fatter beyond the bounds of all that she'd eaten in the restaurant.
In fact, Carly was in the 380-pound range: as she finished her second plate of crepes stuffed with strawberries and sour cream, the upper half of her prominent belly swelled over the table's edge. If any fans of her teevee appearances had happened upon her in the restaurant, they would've been hard-pressed to recognize the writer. Her model-thin face was fully fat: her cheeks - which flushed with pleasure every time she tasted something new - were apple round. Her chin had a deep line, bulged and hanging more than an inch from where the underline of her face used to be, adding an extra layer of fleshiness to her jawline that curved all the way to her ears. Beneath the table, if they could've seen, her famous legs had maintained their shapeliness, but the extra flesh folded where her lower calves met the back of her heels while a slight striation emphasized their fullness even further.
When she finally rose from the table, it was as a super-sized BBW. Her breasts and belly were at competitive circumferences of fifty-plus inches, while her hips had widened even more to support her extra weight. Both her skirt and top had amazingly kept up with her growth, but they were much more form revealing than they'd been when she first donned 'em. The straps of her bright red sleeveless top were so stretched by her burgeoning bosoms that they bridged from her front to her cushiony shoulders, showing a gap between flesh and fabric. Her short skirt revealed so much fat leg you could see where her dimpled thighs drooped around the top of her calves.
Paying for her meal with her Visa, she barely noticed that her bill was only a fraction of what it should've been. As she reached into the bowl of after dinner mints and grabbed a handful, Carly absent-mindedly pulled the bottom of her top down. Even after she did, it revealed two inches of swelling belly flesh.
"Enjoy your meal?" the plump Chez Magique hostess - who now looked positively waifish alongside Carly - asked as she ran her fat customer's Visa card. Grabbing a second handful of mints, Carly nodded, her round face jiggling, then popped the candies into her mouth. She smiled at the young hostess, then said, "I've never been to your place before, but I know I'll be back. You serve great food here."
"We also deliver, if you're in the mood to eat at home," the hostess chirped back, handing Carly her credit card receipt. The tip she added was larger than her usual, but she was feeling unusually expansive tonight.
"Deliveries. Good to know," Carly muttered, and she waddled out into the city night. She had to get back home, put all her savings into her new stock tip . . .but as she stepped into the open, Carly was suddenly assaulted by a fresh mélange of conflicting thoughts.
"If I can just put a hundred in the checking account off of my credit card, I should be able to make the car payment this month without bouncing anything. . ."
"Wotta day - all I wanna do is go home and get drunk. . ."
"Whoa! Get a hold of that fat mama! What a bod!"
"Frigging city traffic! Why the hell am I still living here, anyway?"
"Harry is going to be so pissed at me when I get home. . ."
"Goddamnsonuvabitchthinksbecausehe'sthebossthatI'mgonnakneelathisfeetandgivehimafuckinblowjob!"
It was that last thought - so angry and full of rage - that drove Carly off the sidewalk and into a neighboring candy store. Once inside, the scent of chocolate was so comforting and soothing she focused on it instead. "You look like a woman who enjoys a good piece of chocolate," a voice - it took a moment for her to recognize it as an actual spoken voice - said as she was drawn to the display case.
"Didn't used to be," she admitted, "but these look marvelous." She leaned forward as much as her belly would allow, her breasts flowing against the glass. Taking a deep breath, Carly felt the intrusive outside thoughts abate. A small tin tray with a dark chocolate truffle was slid in front of her. She looked up to see the shopkeep - a middle-aged man in a white full apron that only covered a fraction of his substantial paunch - and was relieved to hear nothing coming from him. Gingerly, she picked up the truffle and put it between her lips; once the flavor washed across her tastebuds, the outside noise ceased to be a concern altogether. The magical power of chocolate, she thought with a chuckle.
She wound up buying the top shelves of all four chocolate display cases. As the shopkeeper boxed all but a five-pound bag filled with truffles, Carly stood and ate from the sack. By the time he was finished, she was halfway through the bag; she took the candyman up on his offer to help carry the handled bags to her car. As she left the store, she continued to sample the sack. As long as she kept eating, Carly realized, the nattering of myriad thoughts was held at bay.
"Come again," the shopkeeper said happily, as she eased her widened rear onto the driver's seat and adjusted her steering wheel to make room for her forefront.
"Do you deliver?" she asked. In response, the shopkeeper pulled a card from his apron and handed it to Carly. She slipped it under her top, then started the car for home, crumpling up her finished sack of chocolates and tossing it into the back. But when she hit a stoplight two blocks away from her apartment, the thoughts started getting loud and annoying again - and her stomach was simultaneously crying to be fed. Damn, she realized, the candy boxes are all in the back seat.
Thinking quickly, she zipped into a Sonic drive-thru to her immediate right. When the voice on the intercom asked her what she wanted, her response was, "What do you have that's ready to be served right now?" Fortunately, it was a goodly amount: seventy bucks worth of fast food, and she bought it all. As she drove the rest of the way home, Carly greedily stuffed her face with burgers and fries, barely stopping to swallow before she took another large bite. The rich meal pushed all the thoughts back, and when she reached the parking garage, she happily sat and finished off the rest of her mega-meal, wrappers piled up high enough in her passenger seat to reach the window by the time she was done. Ignoring the mound that spilled onto the driver's side as her wide rear left it, Carly eased out of her car and opened the back door for her chocolates. There were, she saw, four handled shopping bags full of the candy.
Carrying all four bags (they had to weigh at least fifteen pounds apiece) and moving her 430-pound body to the elevator was exhausting. Carly was sweaty and out-of-breath by the time she pressed the elevator button. When the door opened, she saw a family she vaguely recognized from the building. They moved way back to let her in, and as the door closed, she could hear the father of the brood thinking, "What's the capacity of this elevator again? 1200 pounds?"
She looked sharply over at him, but the man avoided her eyes. "How can anyone let themselves get that fat?" she heard, and the thought was so piercing it was all she could do to keep from reaching into one of her bags and grabbing a large handful of chocolates. Instead, she held her tongue until she reached her floor. Once she stepped from the elevator, Carly turned to the family and said quite simply, "People grow fat in more ways than one, sir."
"I know that voice," the man said, as the elevator closed behind her. But Carly had already forgotten the exchange as she considered the long walk down the hall. Perhaps, she decided, a little sugar'd give her the energy to carry her down the corridor. Easing onto a nearby loveseat, she dug into her first bag and made short work of it. As she was getting ready to heave herself back off the seat, the elevator opened. It was, she saw, a pizza delivery boy. He was carrying a plastic delivery case in one hand, but his other hand was free.
"Excuse me," Carly asked in her sweetest talkshow flirt voice. "Would you be willing to do me a small favor? Could you take these three bags to my apartment? I'd be happy to pay for the delivery."
"Sure thing, lady," the young teen squeaked. With her hands free, it was easier to walk to her apartment, though the trek was still slow going. Every step she took made her puff from the exertion - her muscles, after all, were being asked to carry over three times her old weight. Carrying two bags on the first trip, the delivery boy was able to make it to her apartment twice before the waddling Carly reached her door. She unlocked it, then rifled through her purse for a twenty.
"Thanks," he said. "You have no idea how much you've save my butt, lady. My last delivery, I was a half-hour late and the customer refused to take the pizza. This here'll pay for 'em." He unzipped his delivery bag. "If you want, I can give you both pies; they're still pretty warm."
Of course she said yes soon as she caught a whiff of tomato sauce. She had the delivery boy carry both candy and pizzas into the study, then she pulled out her last ten and gave it to him as a tip. The young boy grinned happily ("Oh yeah, for the generous fat chicks!" she heard) and gave her a pair of two-liter Cokes. Carly just left them on the floor as she sat down to her computer - she could've sworn her desk chair had arms, but she obviously was mistaken - and logged on. Still no news of the big financial merger, she saw, so she surfed to her online brokerage account and did some heavy duty buying. In the quiet of her office, happily munching on hamburger and pepperoni pizza (the boy was right - it was still warm!), she knew she was on the verge of the biggest deal of her life.
By now, though the fact barely registered on her once hyper-body-conscious brain, Carly Eaves was broaching 500 pounds. Her tight red top rode all the way up her voluminous belly, which surpassed seventy inches seated, while her skirt only perfunctorily covered the top half of her thighs. Her legs had developed extra bulges over her knees and were also starting to droop inwards, while her inner calves had a trio of folds that grew deeper as you went up her leg. Seated at the keyboards, her bare upper arms had grown so heavy they sagged more than an inch lower than her elbow.
She sat up for another hour, polishing off pizza number two (a supreme with everything on it), plus the remaining bags of candy. As the super-sized BBW continued to munch, she continued to expand, but she was too fixed on the tastes of her ongoing meal - and the occasional thoughts of what her investment would bring her - to pay this any mind. By the time she was ready for bed, Carly was firmly in the mid-500's, and the clothes she'd peeled off her torso would never fit her again. She fell asleep on her side, her capacious forefront taking up half the queen-sized mattress.
That night, she had the debut of what would prove to be a recurring dream. She was guesting on a TV talk show, and every time she attempted to make a point, voices from the audience kept interrupting her. The more she tried to speak, the louder the voices grew, until she finally stood and dashed off stage in frustration. As she did, she suddenly found herself in the green room; on every table and chair and shelf, she saw, was a bag of candy from the chocolatier. Whistling, the dream Carly peaked into the closest bag and, like a magician in a stage show, pulled out a ten-pound box of truffles, a plate of French cuisine, a still-hot ham-&-pineapple pizza plus a cake with the legend "627 And Counting!" (this number is the only item that would change from dream to dream) lettered on the top in frosting and enough burning candles to make it her birthday cake. As she settled down to eat, she noticed that the sound of the teevee audience had been muted. She was just about to take her first happy bite of cassoulet when she woke up.
Carly was roused by the chattering of a dozen different thoughts, louder and more discordant than ever. A few of these were recognizable - she was picking up her neighbors' random brainwaves - but that didn't make it any less irritating. Though she quickly attempted to rise, all her unfamiliar poundage and a distended stomach that kept her from reaching the mattress with her free arm hampered her. Feeling both famished and desperate to mute the barrage of brain waves, she let out a mew of frustration. When she finally managed to rock 'n' roll her super-sized body out of bed, she was startled to find Wanda standing in the doorway.
The woman was dressed casually in a sleeveless dark blue dress emblazoned with stars and comets - looking even more Earth Motherly than she had on the talk show - and holding a silver tray with a plate full of croissants piled in pastry pyramid. Eyes locked on this breakfast offering, Carly's appetite pushed its way through the cerebral nattering and demanded to be noticed.
"Chocolate croissant?" Wanda asked. "It'll help with the voices."
Carly grasped the plate without a word and started in on Wanda's offering. With the first pastry, her appetite calmed down slightly, and by the fourth, the outside thoughts were once more manageable. She turned her attention back to her uninvited visitor.
"How'd you get in here?" she asked between bites.
In answer, a smile crossed her hippie moon face. "Get dressed first. Answers later," Wanda told her, and she tossed a voluminous bright yellow sundress onto the bed beside the naked fat girl. Raising her dimply arms, Carly let the sleeveless dress fall around her, then slowly rose to smooth it down her massive hips. The dress went further down her calves than she typically favored, but she supposed it would do for around the house. "We need to check your newest investment," Wanda added. "I've got a real breakfast set up for you in the study."
"But how - ?" Carly began, but Wanda had already left the bedroom. (She moved pretty quickly for a woman her size.) When Carly returned to her study, she saw a row of TV trays in a semi-circle around her desk chair, each with a quartet of plates overflowing with pancakes, waffles, omelets, and more. On the computer monitor was a financial news story announcing the company merger. "It was that website which made all this happen, wasn't it?" Carly realized. "That Fast Majicke site."
"Fat Magic," Wanda said. "A trial spell that gave you the ability to hear men's minds for a, uh, spell."
"Fat Magic," Carly repeated, nibbling on a well-buttered English muffin. "Somehow that tells me the weight I've gained is gonna be damn difficult to lose."
"Make that impossible," Wanda agreed. "The power's linked to your size. No way a skinny li'l thang is gonna be a good receptor when it's the fat cells which hold all the major mojo."
"So growing this large has made me wealthy?" Carly realized. She looked down at herself, feeling her additional chins press together as she did. "If so, then maybe it's a small price to pay."
"Not wealthy," Wanda corrected, "but comfortably well off. You'd need to make a few more great investments to become independently wealthy."
"It's doable, right?" Carly persisted. "As long as I hold onto this ability?"
"Sure it is," Wanda told her, slipping a Danish off the tray closest to her and taking her own appreciative bite. "But you'd have to say goodbye to your old life for good."
"So what's the next step?" Carly said, her mouth full of pancake. The answer was simple. She merely had to visit the Fast Majicke URL a second time, then let the sound file of what obviously was a spoken incantation play again. The file would only be up on the site another day, so she didn't have much time to dally. "Tell me more about how this whole telepathy thing works," Carly said, still digging into her breakfast, an eight-egg omelet with peppers, ham and more than a half pound of cheddar cheese within it.
As she'd guessed, it was the act of eating which gave her the ability to focus and control her power. "It's your locus of control," Wanda said at one point. "You've always had a strong appetite, but you kept it subordinated for years. No wonder it's emerged as the focal point for your abilities." At a certain state of repleteness, she continued, the power was also manageable, which explained why she was able to sleep at the end of a full day's binging.
Her telepathic range correlated to her size, but it took time for her new body cells to become attuned to the world around 'em. She wasn't the first recipient of this particular spell, but to the best of Wanda's knowledge, none of the others had opted to hold onto its power. "There are plenty of minds you just don't wanna read," Wanda said.
Carly sat and considered Wanda's words as she finished her breakfast. At her present size, her career as a TV guest was over, she knew: she had a good hundred pounds on Wanda, who only appeared on camera whenever the media required a presentable fat spokeswoman. (In this, Carly was underestimating a bit as she presently outweighed the super-sized businesswoman by twice her guesstimate, having passed the 700 pound mark in the middle of her fourth stack of pancakes.) Her appeal as a political pundit had been primarily a cosmetic one: there were lots of sharper essayists than her - more intellectually rigorous and thought-provoking - on both sides of the political spectrum. The writing part of her career was probably finito, too.
Her one hope, she decided as she reached for a fresh serving platter of pancakes and sausage, lay in building a portfolio that would sustain her.
Perhaps if she'd thought a bit longer, considered the woman who was watching her devour a meal large enough to serve a small village of South American peasants, Carly Eaves might've turned to Wanda and asked simply, "You're doing well. What's your secret?" But all her life, she'd been so accustomed to doing for herself that it never occurred to her here might be another path from the one laid out in front of her. Wiping the last dollop of blueberry syrup off her last plate with a sausagey forefinger, she cocked her toward Wanda and said, "What was that website address again?"
Wanda told her, then backed out of the study to order lunch and get out of ear and eyeshot from the Fast Majicke page. She phoned an assistant at her office, a literal twin to Chez Magique's hostess, and asked her to contact every restaurant that was part of their network.
"Looks like we're gonna go all the way," she told her assistant, who'd been more offended by Carly's condescending performance on the talk show than her boss.
"Can't wait to see the results," the assistant said, and she clicked off to order Carly's lunches and dinners. Wanda remained in the hallway until she saw the green monitor light fade in the study, then returned with a large picnic basket of Quizno subs.
Carly, she saw, was slumped in her reinforced desk chair, looking gobsmacked. Even leaning back, her imposing paunch drooped atop her thighs all the way to her knees. (Her dress, which she'd thought too long, had ridden up under her belly apron and now totally exposed her legs.) She shook her head, her chins waggling for a few extra seconds, then the full-force of the renewed spell hit her.
For Carly, all the mental noise that had grown mute through her morning-long binge returned with even greater force and range. The clamor of men-thoughts was so overwhelming, it was all she could do to slowly turn her head toward Wanda and imploringly eye the basket of food she was holding. Quickly, Wanda unwrapped the first twelve-inch sub, a Spicy Monterey Club, and carefully placed it between Carly's two fat hands. As Carly desperately bit into the sandwich, the pleasure of each flavor was so strong it washed over the mental noise. Happily, she gestured to Wanda to place the picnic basket on her capacious belly - it sank an inch into her soft flesh, but fortunately the fabric of her new dress kept the wicker from scratching her - and reached into the basket for a second sub. For the next hour, the magicked SSBBW lost herself in the pleasures of total gluttony, unconcerned with anything else.
It wasn't until Carly neared the end of her basket that she remembered Wanda's "locas of control" statement. As she wholeheartedly continued stuffing herself, she began to open herself to the thoughts she realized were still nattering all around her:
"Please, God, don't let me fuck this up. . ."
"Holy chow, would you get a look at that ass? . . ."
"'Twenty twenty twenty-four hours to go; I wanna be sedated. . .'"
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned. . ."
"Goddamn liberals wiping away everything right and decent about this country. . ."
"This contract's gonna lead to big things. . ."
She stuck with that last thought a while longer, but it turned out to be mere wishful thinking (a young writer working on a novel, already fantasizing a big movie sale for his half-completed work). Carly continued to troll the city while Wanda removed her cashed basket, spread a large white towel across her ballooning belly - a table cloth for her paunch! - and placed the first of several restaurant offerings on top of it (a serving plate full of clams bordelaise from Chez Magique). The portions were designed to serve four to six restaurant patrons, but to Carly they were barely an appetizer.
It took longer than she expected to uncover a good lead (she was, after all, in Washington D.C., home of the backroom deal). But when she did, it was a promising one: a consulting contract to aid in the development of some Third World hellhole. Carly stayed with this 'un long enough to nail the pertinent details, then aimed her telepathic antenna to the other male minds in the general area. Turned out she was listening in on a closed-door committee meeting somewhere in the Dirksen Building. Finally, when she had enough data to take advantage of it, Carly ceased lunching long enough to free her hands and log onto her account. She decided to be a bit more restrained with her investing this time - no need to draw attention to herself - but she knew she was on her way. To celebrate, she polished off the rest of the lunches and dinners Wanda had brought her.
She didn't finish dining until late into the night. Weighing in the range of 900 pounds by now, the super-super-sized blond was more belly than anything - like something out of a dated left wing cartoon on the Evils of Capitalism, it spilled ahead of the rest of her, immediately drawing your eye to it. Shadowed underneath her taut yellow sundress, her once much photographed legs struggled to support a front that contained at least four times the poundage of her former full body weight. They were giving in to the growing burden, opening wider and wider to accommodate the mass sagging inbetween them, a belly that now surged several inches past her invisible knees. If she shifted in her seat just a little to either side, her belly apron was likely to drop more in that direction.
It wasn't 'til she finished her mega-meal that she noticed Wanda had slipped out of the apartment. The study floor was littered with discarded Styrofoam containers and empty cartons, but the thought of rising from her chair, bending down to pick them up and carrying the bagged remains to the hallway was overwhelming. She wasn't even sure she could lift her huge end off her chair. Her forefront seemed to have her pinned; it weighed implacably against her, jiggling within her seam-split dress.
But, finally, Carly decided to give this standing business a try. Whipping off the food-stained towel, then slowly shifting the center of her weight forward, she felt her sagging thighs begin to ease up on the seat. Her belly drooped before her, dropping down over her knees and pulling her into an upright position. She started to rise off her chair, but before her front pulled her totally off balance, she pushed to lock her legs straight. Teetering for a sec, then subtly repositioning her feet, she was able to triumphantly stand.
While she gathered her breath, Carly tentatively felt her sides. She'd grown so wide, she discovered, that her arms no longer hung straight down. Flattened against her sides, her upper arms were as thick as the pillows on her bed. Her midriff swelled in a series of rolls that at their fullest added more than a foot-and-a-half of new flesh to both sides of her torso. When she tried to look down at herself, her chins restricted her, and all she could see was the looming front of her sundress.
Here comes the hard part, Carly thought - to see if she could actually walk across the room. It took more effort maintaining her center of gravity, she discovered, than actually lifting her leg, but she was eventually able to slowly make her way to the study door. As she slid each leg forward, her drooping belly tried to flow into the new space created, forcing her to turn slightly and then readjust from that turn. The doorway was almost too small for her to pass through straight on, but she was successful.
Thankfully, the bathroom was between the study and bedroom. Sidling into the shower and stripping out of her now-tight sundress, she ran the shower over herself, cool water cascading over her mountainous body and out the open door. She was gonna have to be careful, stepping out of the shower, because the floor was getting pretty wet. Behind the sound of the shower, she still could hear the murmurs of the city's thoughts, but it was just background noise - like the sound of a working air conditioner.
She grabbed a towel to dry her hair - as she raised her arms, her ears were muffled by their cushiony flesh - then realized her once-sufficient towel was inadequate for the rest of her. Carefully edging out of the show, Carly flipped on the ceiling sunlamp and let it dry as much as it could reach. Happily, there was a bowl of Dove dark chocolates to re-energize her. Once she'd regathered her strength, she proceeded to the bedroom, where she attempted to gingerly lower herself onto bed. But this time the force of gravity was too strong for her. Falling face down onto the mattress, she felt her forefront spread all the way to both sides of her queen-sized bed. Once she'd settled, she was too pooped to even try and roll into any other position. So she pulled two pillows under her head and fell asleep without further ado.
Six hours later, Carly woke feeling famished and headache-y. The male thoughts had returned full force - if anything, they appeared more intense - and it was a toss-up as to which was stronger: the uncontrolled mental yammering or her aching need to fill her insatiable stomach. Sleep had given her strength to roll out of bed at least, while her hunger gave her the wherewithal to trudge into the kitchen. There, she saw Wanda had thoughtfully laid out a fresh spread of breakfast treats. Grabbing a step chair, Carly sat alongside the counter and ravenously crammed her mouth with breakfast pastries. It took an hour of solid gorging to be able to push back the nattering mental deluge.
"How you doin'?" Wanda asked, appearing once with a fresh dress in her arms. It was, Carly noted, considerably bigger than her discarded sundress.
"Okay now," Carly replied, her mouth full of apple fruit pie. "But I wasn't in such good shape when I woke up. The thoughts I pick up seem to be getting louder and more plentiful." She accepted the dress and let it drop over her body. It covered most, but not all of her forefront - though she couldn't really see it, she could feel the lowest part of her belly apron was still exposed.
"I said that your ability is connected to your size," Wanda explained. "The more fat cells in your body, the more minds you're able to received."
Now, Carly realized the trap that she'd so willingly entered: the only way she knew to hold back the mental cacophony was through eating and focusing on her gluttony, yet the more she ate, the bigger she became and, thus, more sensitive to the very mental chaos she was trying to control. It was a maddening spiral: in a way, she'd become a warped metaphor for the consumer culture she'd spent her life praising.
"You're the one who led me to this," she said. "But what's the point? To give me firsthand experience on what it's like to be fantastically obese? If so, I get it." She grabbed her belly with both hands and jiggled it demonstratively. It took some time for it all to settle down within her dress.
"That's not the overriding reason," Wanda explained. "At my level of magical practitioner, I'm required to bring a new initiate into the realm. When I met you in the studio, it became instantly clear to me that you had the potential to key into the magic within you. I knew you'd adapt to it, but I've gotta admit I wasn't expecting to see you willingly take it further.
"I will admit that there's a part of me getting a kick out seeing you outweigh me, though."
"Is that why you're here now, Wanda?" she asked.
"You've become my responsibility," the fat businesswoman responded.
"I'm brought you to Fast Majicke. It's my task to ensure your full initiation goes smoothly."
Carly pondered this last for a few moments, as she opened up a half gallon of Half-and-Half.
"So is there a way," she finally asked, between deep swallows, "to control this power which doesn't involve round-the-clock eating?" She grabbed a fruit pie with her free hand and tore the package open with her teeth. As shards of glazed sugar spilled into her mouth, a huge part of her wondered if she really wanted to abandon her newly unleashed gluttony.
"Like I said, I don't know of any other folks who willingly ventured past the temporary spell," Wanda admitted. "I didn't. But there are stories about practitioners of fat magic who've grown capable of independently managing their powers once they reached their peak weight. Trouble is, of course, that this top weight varies from individual to individual. . ."
"But it's conceivable," Carly pushed, after swallowing the last of her fruit pie, "that I could be just a few more pounds away from my setpoint?"
"It's possible," Wanda acknowledged.
Carly slid off her step chair, her billowy body jiggling excitedly as she braced her legs to touch the floor. "Then let's get down to business," she announced. "Got some eating and a whole lotta day trading to do. . ."
And that was her routine over the next five days: Carly sitting at her desk in the study, mentally trolling the capital and eating everything Wanda brought before her. Each night she wound up several hundred pounds heavier and significantly more affluent. Wanda continued to provide new dresses to accommodate her larger sizes and order Carly's gargantuan meals. As she watched her adult charge fatten to a size she'd heard about but never before seen, the plus-sized businesswoman-cum-sorceress carried on her day-to-day dealing by cell phone.
By the end of the week, Carly weighed over a ton. The floors of her apartment had begun creaking ominously, so in the middle of the night, Wanda arranged for a crew of discreet workers to move her charge from the apartment to a secluded ranch house in Virginia. Carly was not awake during the actual relocating: her swelling psychic powers took a lot out of her, and after she fell asleep at her computer, she wasn't the least bit disturbed when Wanda's crew lowered her onto a wheeled platform and rolled her out of the building.
They had to remove the doorframes for the mega-sized woman - and even then it was a tight squeeze - but at least the hallways were adequately roomy once they took away the potted plants. The elevator's maximum capacity was greater than that nervous father had feared, though none of the hired workers were willing to ride down in it with her. (They had no way of knowing Carly's trip was being monitored by several mages quite adept at averting disaster.) Thanks to an effectively cast glamour, the moving crew didn't see Carly Eaves in all her fulsome glory. If they had, they would've doubted their ability to budge her (and indeed they probably wouldn't have been able to were it not for another helpful dose of majicke). What they would've seen, if all charms were off, was:
A ton-plus mountain of a woman, wearing a white mesh sleeveless cover-up with nothing else underneath, seated on a low platform before her computer station. (As Carly'd gained extra inches in her hips and end, Wanda had lowered and widened her office seating, so that she wasn't perched too high from the keyboard - at this point, she was only a foot from the ground.) Her belly swelled ahead of her imposingly, down her outstretched legs and settling onto the floor. In her translucent cover-up, two deep folds could be seen along both sides of her paunch. Atop her fabulous stomach, her impressive breasts hung outwards, nestled against her draping upper arms, as if striving to grow within reach of her hands on their own.
Her cover-up had two long slits along the sides, revealing her famous legs in their multiply-bulged glory. At her present size, it was unthinkable for Carly to rise from her seat on her own: her lower thighs so surrounded her knees that she could only bend her legs a few inches, while her belly forced her legs apart so far that she couldn't used them for the initial support. Fortunately, the majicke that had made her this tremendous also had eliminated the need for certain regular body routines. As long as there was someone around to bring her food, warm washcloths and fresh clothing, she could go a long time without leaving her seat.
Sleeping, Carly rested both fat palms on her outer thighs and relaxed with her head tilted back; she seemed to be contemplating the sky in her slumber. Her broad back and rear didn't protrude as far from her center - with Carly, most of the action was upfront - but at their fullest, her cheeks still pushed a good two feet from her deeply buried pelvis. As the moving crew pushed her cart along, her body quavered all around her, a sensation that one of the working crew (who was pushing with both hands sunk into a cushiony shoulder blade) found tremendously erotic. Noticing his response, Wanda made a note to herself to see if the guy could be recruited to doing even further work for her group.
Two days earlier, Carly's agent had phoned her to ask if she was available for another talk show appearance. Irritated by the short-term interruption of her afternoon meal, she told the man she was going on vacation and wasn't sure just when she'd be returning. "I'm off the market for now," she said, as she hung up before he could lodge his protests. An hour later, she drafted an email to all her editors, communicating a similar message. Though she'd occasionally get a query in the years ahead, Carly Eaves' fifteen minutes of media fame had effectively come to an end. Within two months, the cable talk show had recruited another telegenic girl conservative to add to its guest roster.
By the time of her move, she'd also become independently wealthy: her stock portfolio had ballooned, and, as her abilities to hear men's thoughts increased a thousandfold, Carly became adept at listening in on the boardrooms of the companies whose stocks she owned. She was rarely surprised by any sudden downturns in any part of her portfolio because she knew the men who were running the companies better then they did themselves. Once she established a good mental link to anyone, it was like they'd become bookmarked in her telepathic library.
She was never, however, able to read Wanda's - or any other woman's - thoughts, no matter how many times she tried.
Carly also, it need be noted, would never contain the voices in her head without indulging in nonstop waking hour gluttony. In a week of binging, she'd already become so accustomed to this situation that her gourmandizing had become habitual: the only time she was bothered by a thought surge was on waking and those rare moments when she went "too long" without food. She didn't really miss her old life because the pleasures of her new one - the near transcendent sensation each new bite brought - were more than enough. Once she got her early morning thoughts under control, she'd learned to eat more slowly the rest of the day, to savor each morsel as it rested in her tongue. If she never felt full - one more offshoot of the majicke, she supposed - it probably just meant she hadn't yet reached her peak weight.
When she woke in her new home, it still took a good hour of glutting before she gained enough control to realize what had transpired. (Even outside the city, the thoughts of all those urban alpha males were plenty strong.) She was, she saw, in a large bright room with tiled floors and a large bay window facing Virginia woods. They'd seated her on a cushiony five-by-five foot platform that rose six inches from the floor. On modular blocks within both arms' reach were serving trays overflowing with breakfast; hanging from the ceiling was a microphone, a small camera, a remote and a keyboard. Before her, angled so she didn't need to push against her chins to look straight ahead was a large flat screen that was currently broadcasting stock quotes. She used the remote to switch to the Food Channel.
"Would you like anything to drink?" a voice from behind her said, and a figure stepped into view. It was the waiter from Chez Magique, rolling a cart filled with pitchers of fresh cream and bowls of strawberries. The sight made her mouth water, but not before she picked up the young man's thoughts: "Oh, my God, I can't believe how overwhelmingly gorgeous she's become!"
"I can hear what you're thinking, you know," she told the young man, and he instantly blushed. To let him off the hook, she followed with, "I could do with a pitcher of cream, thanks." He handed one to her off the tray and watched as she tilted it toward her full lips and then slowly poured it into her mouth. The act, she quickly realized, was definitely interesting the young man in places she wouldn't have expected. He gets off on this, she realized, and the thought brought a sexual tingle that surprised her.
"What are you doing here?" she asked once she'd drained the half-gallon pitcher.
"You hired me," the waiter explained, "or, rather, Miz Allison did in your name. You require a staff to keep the house going - to keep the kitchen active, especially - since you've been moved outside the capital's delivery routes. If you want, I can bring the rest of the staff in for introductions. We're all here at your pleasure, Miz Eaves."
"Maybe later," Carly decided. "In the meantime, how you would like to feed me that plate of strawberry crepes?"
"Nothing I'd like better," he answered, and from listening to his thoughts, she knew this was the truth. He smiled, picked a rolled crepe between his thumb and forefinger and, leaning across her mounding belly, offered it to her. The feeling of his young body sinking into her was like nothing she could have imagined: she felt both powerless and powerful, totally beholden to her magically expanded appetites and yet happy to relinquish herself to them. She'd never been a strongly sexual woman, but when she bit into the first of what would prove to be a lifetime of fed meals, she experienced the first great sexual climax of her life.
"By the way," she asked after weakly raising her heavy right arm and gesturing for him to feed her a second crepe. "What's your name?"
"Jean," he thought, as he lightly dabbed a trail of powdered sugar off her chins, then he said his name aloud. As he did, she could detect a trace of a French-Canadian accent.
"That's a nice name," Carly said, as she blissfully experienced a repeat of her first full body response to his feeding. There was, she tasted, a healthy layer of sour cream and fruit within the rolled crepe. Better cut back on the sour cream, she jokingly told herself, you don't wanna get fat!
As if in answer to this thought, the monitor suddenly blinked, and Wanda Allison appeared on-screen. She was seated behind a desk, munching on a chocolate biscotti. "Morning, sunshine," she chirped.
"This is getting kind of old, Wanda," Carly said. "Bringing me clothes, changing the furniture, moving my ass around without tell me first - is this how you treat all initiates?"
"Not all initiates," Wanda chuckled. "And I notice you didn't include 'feeding me' in your list of complaints. . ."
"You're right. I didn't." Looking over toward Jean, she nodded yes to another powdered crepe.
"Well, if you don't like the home I found for you - the floors are built over solid concrete, incidentally - you've got the means and money to move. It was my responsibility to set you up in a place more conducive to your present lifestyle. But if you don't find it to your liking, that's up to you. Same thing goes for the staff we hired: consider it a starting off point.
"You don't need my help anymore," Wanda continued, "though obviously you'll require some staff to help you with the day-to-day. Get to know the gang before you make any decisions, okay?" Before she signed off, the sorceress/businesswoman concluded. "Your initiation is over. But I'd love to be able to stop by some time just to visit. . ."
"Come by any time," Carly replied, then she turned her full attention back to Jean and the rest of breakfast.
Once she finished her stimulating repast, Carly met the rest of her staff: two cooks, a tres plump maid who demonstrated preternatural strength by helping Carly move on her platform, plus an even rounder brunette named Chelsea who had given up her position as Wanda's personal assistant to oversee the workings of the house. They all had living quarters on the premises, though Carly never saw these rooms. She did become acquainted with her staff over time, and she had to admit that Wanda had made good hires.
Carly spent her days, sitting in the house's epicenter, being served by Jean and mentally exploring the vast realm of menthoughts. She continued to fatten further (though not as rapidly as she had that first week), and as she expanded physically, so did the range of her mental receptivity and the need to control it through daily gormandizing. Most Fridays, Wanda came by to visit and have dinner. One of the chefs, she revealed, had also worked at Chez Magique.
"They still haven't forgiven me," she chortled, waving a fork of cassoulet in emphasis, "for hiring him away for you."
By year's end, the retired pundit managed to pack on more than a thousand extra pounds. She was now significantly wider than her seated platform height, and over time her staff had been forced to add to the five-foot square platform to make room for her spreading self. Reposing with her legs resting fully on the platform, spread to their limits by a paunch that swelled beyond the soles of her feet and rose imperiously from front to back up to the height of her chins, Carly Eaves was an immobile mass of mega-sized woman flesh.
Her one concession to her old-fashioned Amerigirl modesty was a custom-made sports bra that basically did little more than cover her nipples (and periodically slipped off when she reached for something on her own - something she did less-and-less frequently as her arms grew bulkier). Carly's lower extremities were totally protected by a looming front no man could lift without heavy machinery, so she had no modesty issues there. Whenever she wanted to lay back or otherwise change her posture on the platform - something she did hourly - she enlisted the aid of Molly, her personal maid. With her preternatural strength, the girl was able to lift Carly's cumbersome abdomen and help her roll into a new position. No matter how she faced the world, however, her body fat shielded her sexual area.
A year of daily gorging and sexual stimulation had transformed Carly's well-chinned face. With her blubbery lips nearly always open in anticipation of the next serving, her flushed bulging cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes, hers was the face of a total voluptuary. The only time she lost that expression was when she was being assaulted by male brainwaves. This happened with greater daily frequency as she grew vaster, but Jean was always there with fresh trays, so she didn't stay distressed for long.
The house buzzed along efficiently over the year with only a few small changes among the staff. Six months in, Carly realized that Jean was slipping into the maid's bedroom at nights - and apparently doing a bit of night-time feeding, too, since the girl was adding poundage daily. She therefore wasn't surprised, when the two of them married. She'd known about their plans days before Jean openly brought them to her. She wasn't bothered by it: so long as Jean was there for her during the day, she was content.
After a month of doing it herself, Carly handed the responsibilities for her continued online trading over to Chelsea. The girl set up a computer station within reach of the buffet-sized trays and carried on Carly's business, which they both could see on the large-screen monitor. The super-sized personal assistant grew significantly larger as the year progressed, adding two hundred pounds to her old weight of 478. And though Carly wondered if this gain was sparked by proximity to her magically massive self, in truth, Chelsea was developing on her own as a practitioner of Fast Majicke. Several nights a week she snuck out of the house to cavort and picnic in the woods with a fellow fat magician. The initial irritation she'd felt back when she first saw Carly on that talk show had long ago been replaced by admiration of the woman's prodigious appetite. She left Carly's employ two years later, just a few pounds shy of a half ton and ready to do some magickal growth in her own home.
With Chelsea's disappearance into parts unknown, further known details about Carly Eaves' life become scarcer. Occasionally, tantalizing rumors will persist in the Fat Magic community about the mega-sized mind-reader: of a woman grown so swaddled in fat that she's incapable of moving arms or legs or even her head; of a body so swollen that only the most prominent parts of Carly's face are visible within the cascading bulges of shoulders, back and forefront; of binges that go deeper and deeper into the night as the maddening mind barrages cut further and further into her sleep time. But the only one in the outside world who still has contact with the transformed Carly is Wanda Allison.
And she's not giving anything away. . .
