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Old 05-02-2014, 11:55 PM   #1
Wondering Where You Are
Join Date: Apr 2008
Posts: 336
JimBob can now be the recipient of "two cans" jokesJimBob can now be the recipient of "two cans" jokesJimBob can now be the recipient of "two cans" jokes
Default How Much Have You Had ([~BBW, ~BHM, ~XWG]; ~Fantasy/Sci-Fi, ~Sex, ~Threesome, ~Satire

Well, my friends, this is the proverbial 'it'; the finale to the saga of "A-Dust", and thus the one where I pull out all the stops and go craziest. Frankly, I'll be surprised if you can get past this one without howling with laughter.

But then again, stranger things have happened...

This story is affectionately dedicated to the art of Jay Tee, without whom I might never have embraced my love of the fuller female form.

How Much Have You Had

There is no need to worry about mere size. We do not necessarily respect a fat man more than a thin man. Sir Isaac Newton was very much smaller than a hippopotamus, but we do not on that account value him less.

- Bertrand Russell

Phase 1 (of 5): What Spring Is Like

The Moon hangs in the sky between the Earth and what lies beyond, a fragile dance partner that grows ever-so-further away each year. Almost as if she's waiting for something, anticipating the final crescendo in the waltz that will leave both dance partners breathless and gasping.

The space station Dumont-Fitzgerald lies between the two of them, as if a curious child had tugged at their mother's dress during the waltz and demanded that they be allowed to take part.*

Picture Dumont-Fitzgerald, if you can: a miracle of engineering, the combined work of several world government resources and many more corporate interests. It resembles an immense table-lamp, round-bodied at one end and conical at another, floating idly around its parent planet in serene peace.

Close in on that round little body in the spaceship and find yourself in the cool, sterile environment of Dumont-Fitzgerald's hold. It's a white, clean place divided into four storage rooms. One for food; one for equipment, instruments, other resources; one for...well, we'll get to that later; and one for its most precious resource: people.

A long rack of 250 'sleep pods' are arranged here, each containing a single human being in stasis. There could easily be more in this hold, but for the pods themselves being rather large, each a sphere allowing five feet of extra space for its occupant in all directions, though for now that space is taken up by water as they float freely in their induced coma. The passengers are trained, athletic volunteers specially selected from the tops of 'best employee' lists amongst the controlling corporations; attached to the side of each pod is a laminated, signed consent form. Here they dream endless dreams and await a second birth, soon to become colonists of Luna, our lovely moon.*

The cargo hold is monitored and operated by Mathilde Laurier.

(Ah, Mathilde. Pale and wiry, your muscly limbs hardened by decades of vigilance and exercise, your dark hair buzzed close to your scalp, your crystal-blue eyes cutting down anyone who meets your gaze. You have nothing in your life but goals, and the fervent need to run after them. Lovers, interests, family; all have fallen in your wake as you rushed to get here. You swore you'd become a 'space scientist' at age 8, and here you are 28 years later, surveying your kingdom on a strict daily rota, ready soon to begin the experiment of a lifetime. This is what you think you need.)

Mathilde floats elegantly around the hold, noting down the ratio between free-floating subjects and those who have gone into the foetal position on her clipboard; and having satisfied herself that today is entirely incident-free, proceeds to ascertain the security of the contents of Holds 1, 2 and 3. “Bon", she says crisply to herself after the inspection is complete. Food is plentiful; resources are intact; and Dumont-Fitzgerald's compliment of Compound GML remains uncompromised.

You may have heard of Compound GML. It’s very popular back on Earth.


Cast your eyes down to Dumont-Fitzgerald's communications hub, a room adjoined to its command centre. In the centre of an Art Deco wet dream, all screens and smoothness and fuzzy chairs, Lewis Grossman is teleconferencing with his superiors on Earth. Several important corporate interests went into this mission, and Lewis is here to make sure they're still represented as it continues.

(Lewis, you little rat. No, rat is too ugly a word; you resemble more a trained puppy-dog eagerly attempting to please your master. You're all of 26, and you've built up a personality around pleasing other people, and your appearance reflects upon it. Look at you, with those Arabic-ancestry good looks, the curly hair and the trimmed goatee, the rectangular spectacles, the lean body that tells of having done the bare minimum of exercises that'll make you look good standing beside a CEO, and make him look the better for employing you. You perk up and speak with clear confidence if anyone asks your favourite pizza topping or what movie you look forward to this summer, but you'd stammer and change the subject were anyone to ask about your schoolboy crush. You find your thermodynamic space uniform too baggy and itchy; a thousand times you'd prefer an elegant suit and bow tie.)

"Ms. Laurier is doing the final check as we speak," he says into the thin microphone receiver. "We'll soon be ready to commence experimentation."

Before him, an immense projection of a gaunt and elderly face nods, satisfied. "Just remember, Grossman - that's our people amongst those sleepers, and they're good and able-bodied people too. Just make sure they're looked after."

"I can assure you, Sir, that they'll be kept healthy and awaken happy," Lewis tells the gaunt and elderly face, "And you'll see the evidence of that in my weekly report."

"I'd better. The board are still pretty darned jumpy about this whole operation, and it's only me keeping them interested enough not to pull out. I'm putting a trust in you, son. Don't betray that trust."

"You can count on me, Sir," Lewis replies, and waits for the other person to terminate the call.


Descend from Communications and Control to the lounge of this commercial ship, a 'relaxation area' designed for a crew of 15-20 people. Connected to it is a gym hall with different equipment set up on every surface. Here, there's a pleasant-sized big-screen TV, a well-stocked library, a full bar and safety kitchen and as many sofas and beanbags as can be functionally used without gravity.

Lounging on one of these with her nose buried deep in The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft, is Gloria "Ginger" Silverman. It is her job to pilot this gigantic machine.

(You'll always be beautiful, Ginger. You have it written in the centre of ever freckle of your rosy skin, smoothed into your wide hips and tangled around every strand of your ridiculous orange hair. When someone tells you a joke, you laugh like you're being tickled, but when you're at the helm your hazelnut eyes smoulder with seriousness and professional ability. You've never gone a Friday night without a drink since your were 17. You're always trying to make something happen. You went into space because you were bored.)

Lewis glides in as she flips over onto her front, exposing her wide, toned bottom and letting her waist-length ponytail flutter in the antigrav like a flag. He coughs and tugs at his collar, but he didn't get to where he did today by sexually harassing female employees and so he is soon able to focus on other things.

Preparing himself a small green tea in a vacuum-sealed cup, he casually states over his shoulder, "We're about to start the procedures. When Mathilde is ready, that is."

Ginger shrugs. “Whatever you say.” She turns a page ever-so-slowly, yawning a little as she does so. “I’m just lounging here until we get to moving this heap ‘a junk.”

Lewis doesn’t like to hear the ship being called that, but he doesn’t rise to it. There are very few things Lewis really likes to argue about; he never sees it as worth the effort. Besides, he likes Ginger, as abrasive as she can be. And as uncaring about her appearance; she really ought not to have her hair so long. It’s not just being careful in space (after all, didn’t his employers get the very best engineering and design that money can buy to make this the safest weightless environment possible). It just looks so…untidy. Absolutely without the least bit of fashion sense.

“As you like,” he says quietly. “I certainly think it’ll be an interesting enough spectacle, noticing how our passengers react to their treatment. In fact, they could - “

The buzz of a new intercom message breaks out across the Dumont-Fitzgerald’s speaker system.

“Speak of the devil,” Ginger says, sitting up, as Mathilde’s crisp French voice begins to make her announcements.*

“Hello, crew, come in crew. Are you there? Attendez.”

“We’re in the hold together,” Ginger shouts. “What’s the haps?”

An audible pause, the length of one of Mathilde’s frustrated sighs. “I would wish you could spend a little less time being a fool, Captain. We have a situation here of the gravest importance. Someone…” she sighs again, and so seriously that the other two are at last forced to sit up and take notice.

“Someone has tampered with the cargo.”

“What the hell do you mean someone’s tampered with the cargo?” asks Lewis incredulously. "That’s impossible! It was inspected multiple times before takeoff, and security cameras never detected any intruders - “

“Calm it, honey,” interrupts Ginger. “What’s the problem? Do I need to turn this thing around so we can go back for more food?”

Non. I have not inspected the food yet, but rest assured we have enough to last the three of us for many years of travel, if that were required. It is the compliment of…the compound.”*

Mathilde is examining the contents of the hold as she says this, carefully selecting ‘bricks’ of Compound GML out of the larger crates in which they’re contained, unwrapping their paper covers to inspect the colouring.

“The compound? What about it?” Lewis interjects as Mathilde nods, satisfied by the results of her quick assessment.*

“You have the results of the pre-flight inspections, my friend,” she replies crisply. “Tell me how much of each variety we were meant to have.”

“Of course.” Lewis’ voice is suddenly devoid of all its previous hysteria as he handles data, facts and figures, the stuff which is truly his element. He’s glad of the distraction, knowing that stressful conditions sometimes manifest physically in his skin pores, giving him unpleasant zits. He doesn’t want his fellow crew members to see his zits. It’s not dignified.

“In order to facilitate the study of Compound GML, aka “Alice Dust”, in weightless and sterile conditions, on a number of willing volunteers. As opposed to the street method of grinding it to a powder and mixing it in foodstuffs, the method here used is to reduce weighted quantities to a liquid state and - “

“I know,” interrupts Mathilde, “what the method is. I devised it. Just tell me how much we are meant to have.”

“Approximately three crates, each containing a metric ton of one variety - ‘Flex’ the kind that stretches, ‘Midge’, the kind that shrinks and ‘Bloom’, the kind that, um, expands.” Lewis is not looking in the direction of Ginger’s generous hips as he makes that remark. He’s being very obvious about it, too.

“I can see where this is going,” says Ginger. “How much do we have?”*

“Three crates,” replies Mathilde. “One of them contains three equal measures of each kind. The other two are all Bloom.”*

There is a pause, on Mathilde’s end, which lasts for two minutes and ends with a couple of voices perplexedly asking: “…What?”


Barely a quarter of an hour later, the three are hovering in Mathilde’s “lab”, having donned their highly sterile lab-suits and helmets as an experiment takes place.*

The contents of the first two crates have turned to ‘Bloom’. This is undeniable; the bricks are of the far blacker hue that is typical in Bloom than in the other two varieties, Flex being golden and Midge a tea-brown.*

Still, Mathilde is testing the ‘Bloom’. She has cut a small slice of it (its consistency is not unlike jelly, though thicker), and with care she eases it onto a wad of blotting paper treated with a chemical which reacts to it, soaking it up on exposition. (In some circles, they use a skin cream laced with the chemical to localise the effects of A-Dust in certain bodily areas.)

The result is as she suspected; the “Bloom” is absorbed wholly into the paper, which becomes spongy and slightly wet before she deposits it in waste disposal with her tweezers.

“As I thought, rather than just changing colour, the quantities of Midge and Flex in those two crates have changed property. Whatever they were, they are now entirely Bloom.”

“I have to talk to control,” Lewis blurts, but Ginger has him already by his collar.
“Not so fast, weasel,” she says. “We have to discuss this as a crew. Mathilde, is there any reason to abort the mission?”

Mais non. We were sent here to study the effects of “Alice Dust”, in its pure form, in sterile condition, and to land on the moon at the close of the experiment. If you can do your job, I can do mine.”

They begin to float out of the sterile lab environment, Ginger still holding onto Lewis’ stick-like form as she ‘swims’ her way up through the hatch. “You don’t think the experiment is compromised, then?”

“Not at all. I still have enough of each variety to test on a third of our volunteers; I can keep another third as the control group as originally planned, and the last third will be tested on only with Bloom.”

Ginger considers this as they pull up next to the ship’s lockers. The ship is designed to cope with greater increases in mass, given the nature of Mathilde’s experiments, and the spheres holding their volunteers are sturdy enough to keep a small elephant from breaking them. It might take some difficulty landing, but she likes a challenge. A thought occurs.

“So…you’re just going to give them a diet of unfiltered Bloom every day, for weeks on end? Don’t repeat users just blow up until they can’t move?”

As they strip of their science-suits, back down to their regular uniforms, Mathilde does something she never expected: she grins. A little mischievously.

Oui,” she replies. “But we do not know what happens next, now do we?”

Closing her locker, she makes her way to the ship’s observation deck, leaving the other two with puzzled looks printed on their faces. Ginger settles her hand on Lewis’ shoulder.*

“Alright, weasel. Will that be good enough for your big bad bosses? No need for me to change trajectory at any time?”

“I’ll discuss it…” he replies, attempting to be cool in his caution. “But I don’t think they’ll have any objections. Just as long as their name is still on the side of the ship.”

Ginger smiles, now. “Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be in the canteen.”


She’s still there about half an hour later, as Mathilde arrives back from her tests. She’s stirring a warm ‘chicken pot pie’ and mashed potato concoction that she put together in the microwave, and musing to herself, dreamily. Probably thinking of relaxing with a movie if nothing else presents itself; or just gazing out at the emptiness through the observation deck. Space has an infinite possibility for entertainment, if you look.

“You think it was sabotage?” she asks, absent-mindedly.*

Mathilde straightens up, and as she turns Ginger giggles inside, musing how chicken-like this woman is in her mannerisms, her physicality, her stern expression; or perhaps she only thinks this because she’s eating chicken now. She swallows another spoonful as Mathilde shakes her head briskly.

“I...do not think so,” Mathilde says, almost as if trying to convince herself. “No - the evidence clearly shows that whatever the compound is, it has a life cycle. It would be interesting to test the effects of a compound half-way through the transition; would it cause someone to grow bigger, but stretchier? Able to pull themselves into a thinner shape?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad, actually,” Ginger muses. “You could be apple-shaped one day and pear the next without crash-dieting.”

“All conjecture, alas,” the scientist shrugs, helping herself to a compressed apricot smoothie from the canteen. “We are only able to test with the materials we have, and they are too precious to waste.”

Ginger shrugs. It’s only important to her as a spectacle, and she has no real interest in the greater implications. Plus, her fellow crew-member’s way of speaking puts her off; all that flowery language and refusal to use contractions. If she relaxed a little…let her hair grow a bit…she’d be quite cute, actually…

The pilot shakes her head nonchalantly and attempts to think of star-charts in order to ward off blushing, but luck is on her side, for at that moment a startled, effeminate scream echoes through the corridors of Dumont-Fitzgerald. That old adage about space is, sadly, inaccurate when you’re in a ship.

Neither of the two women go to an intercom system, for they can hear frantic panting and the thud of elbows, knees, heels and toes against metal panelling as the third crew-member makes his way towards them from his own quarters. Bursting into the canteen, Lewis stares wild-eyed at the two of them, his usually neatly-combed hair slightly out of place, and cries: “Which one of you two idiots did it?!”

The others stare at him in faint surprise, less due to what he has said and more to the fact that he said it; and already he is turning red and murmuring apologies under his heaving breath. There is something else Ginger notices different about him, something she can’t quite put her finger on…

Mathilde, however, with her analytical eye and her ease at noticing changes, spots it right away. “Lewis. Give me your wrist.”*

Her business-like tone has him obediently thrusting his arm forward towards her, and she prods it with her well-manicured fingers, pinching and squeezing here and there. Then she pronounces it, at the split second Ginger works it out: “Lewis, you are fatter.”

He is, as well. That formerly Hiddleston-esque body, with its wiry musculature and carven abdominal muscles, is now infused with only the teeniest layer of softness; but what a noticeable difference, in a man who has foregone crisps, chips, anything deep-fried and all forms of chocolate save a slice of cake at christmas for twenty-two years!

What a difference in his reaction, too: the man is seemingly racked with outrage, and more than a little fear, and mortification, and needless shame.

“This cannot be happening - not so fast - and I’m still so young - and I did everything I had to - and it’s not fair, not at all - and - and - “ Ginger quickly floats around to pat him comfortingly on the back.

“Evidently this is not due to some caloric miscalculation. You have not tried experimenting with the Bloom? We will not judge you,” Mathilde says, in her usual crisp scientific tone but as hushed as she can manage, to appear gentle.

He shakes his head, violently. “Never touch the stuff. Why would I? I’m not some body-fetish freak.” Ginger rubs his shoulder, awkwardly, as he buries his face in his hands, suppressing a mortified sob. She has never met a man this concerned with his appearance, and doesn’t know whether to hug him or tell him to suck it up.

“Then it appears some measure of Compound GML has made it into our food, perhaps in a dryer and dustier form. We might even be inhaling minute, ineffectual traces as I speak.” Mathilde consults a small tablet, making notes and juxtaposing them against facts and figures. “I suppose you weighed yourself?”

“Yes,” he sniffs. “I’m 9.8 and - I was 9.8 stone,” he corrects himself bitterly. “And now I’m 10.01. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “What the hell kind of executive would want to be seen with me now? I’m ruined, ruined…"

Ginger is looking at him as he says this, assessing how his prominent jawbone is now a little swaddled, his waist pooching out a bit, his wrist bones less pronounced and the cuffs of his spacesuit riding up a bit on his barely chubbier arms. Even his cheeks are a bit warmer, a sight not unwelcome on his olive-coloured face. Yet he’s still so smooth…she can bet there wouldn’t be stretch-marks, if she inspected.

Mathilde taps her stylus onto her tablet and collates her data. “Hm. I still have no reason to suspect sabotage; but the greater extent of the problem remains to be seen. That is to say…” she eyes Ginger’s wide hips. “Ginger? Take another bite of your chicken pot pie, and let’s all be absolutely quiet. Lewis, dry your eyes and stop being une infante.”

As the once-beanpole-ish assistant dries his eyes and sniffs, Ginger - playing along, having caught her colleague’s train of thought - dips her fingers into the little metal tray of food and chews on a lump of re-heated chicken, slowly and carefully.*

The three of them listen. Then…so softly they almost miss it…


…Ginger’s hips get a little wider. So does her smile. She prods her tummy a little, feeling a new ‘give’ to it, and touches her cheek. “…Golly,” is all she can say.

“As I suspected. What is your mass, Captain Silverman?”

“How much do I weigh, you mean? 148 pounds, last I looked.”

“You had better look again. And you will have to do so again, and again and again, unless you want to live on smoothies, milkshakes and soup. We all will. No, my friends…it appears this is the situation. Everything to eat on this ship, that is not a vacuum-packed liquid, has been…contaminated. It will be safe to assume there are traces of the compound in all of it. At this point, our choice is clear.”

Lewis and Ginger look up at the tall, chicken-like woman as she emotionlessly pronounces the new state of affairs. “Either we grow enormously fat, simply by eating…or starve to death.”

The other two share expressions of horror and curiosity. As Lewis begins sobbing anew, Ginger shrugs. “So…same deal as always, then?"

End of Phase 1
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Old 05-04-2014, 09:35 AM   #2
Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 52
Vongola27 can now change their title

Intriguing! Love the set-up and the character introductions. This shows a lot of promise already, and I can't wait to see the next phase!
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Old 05-15-2014, 12:11 AM   #3
Wondering Where You Are
Join Date: Apr 2008
Posts: 336
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Phase 2 (of 5): Hold My Hand

In the hold of Dumont-Fitzgerald, Mathilde the scientist is floating, delicately arranging her instruments and setting her timers. Her lithe fingers stroke the apparatus delicately, tenderly even, going to the most extreme lengths to prevent inaccuracy of any kind.

After a moment, she hiccups beneath her surgical mask, and has to pause to hold her breath for thirty seconds to make it go away. She has been starving herself over the past few days, taking only the bare minimum of her daily rations, for fear of overstepping the boundary between scientist and subject. She cannot begin to get rond, not if it will interfere with her work. Besides, the effect on mental health…it does not bear thinking of. A part of her is curious about the supposed increases to charisma and intelligence; but it is a very small part of her.

She does not pause on her own recent decisions, but presses on with her research. It’s time for the daily ‘feeding’. With care and attention, Mathilde begins to select ‘bricks’ of Compound GML, unwrapping them from their coverings with sterile, latex-bound fingers.

These, she then places in a machine which heats them into a liquid state, the thickness and consistency of sticky toffee pudding or gooey chocolate cake. Their honey, sugar and treacle-like colouring in different varieties only adds to the enticing nature of this process, and Mathilde feels an itching somewhere in the deepest base of her scalp - an itching to dip a finger in and taste it.

Thank goodness for her latex science-uniform and her iron restraint, then. No such silliness will happen, today.

Instead, she sits back in the air and watches as her fine-tuned machines begin to deliver equal measures of “Midge”, “Flex” and “Bloom” to her sleeping subjects, or as she sometimes affectionately nicknames them in her progress journals, 'mon petits anges'.

She does not know why she has begun to call them this. It is a very small part of her.

The results are as one might expect. Those robust, tall specimens who receive a small but concentrated dose of “Midge” are gradually losing their stature, though their proportions remain the same; rather than becoming like those individuals born shorter than the rest, they are literally shrinking, occupying less space in their floating spheres of liquid than ever before. Mathilde is wary of overdosing them; she does not want them to disappear.

There is not a marked difference in those who are taking “Flex” intravenously; not until their spheres are rocked or tapped, as Mathilde occasionally does with fine-tuned instruments. In deference to their liquid environment, their skin ripples and shifts, and seems to grow less dense when needles are prodded into them.

Then, of course, there are those who receive some of the bountiful supplies of that variety of Compond GML known as “Bloom”. They grow fat, as human beings always grow fat - depositing it in their bodies with subtle difference as opposed to a uniform shape, no one body matching another. Yet already Mathilde notices the “Bloom look” made famous by anatomy papers and disqualified sumo champions: not a trace of the usual sagginess, dimples or orange-peel texture about the skin, but entirely smooth and rounded, more resembling a drawing than a human form. These subjects might be accused merely of snaffling one two many pastries at work; but, again, Mathilde is aware of what may happen if they are exposed to too much, for too long.

Of course, it is plain to see from her facial expression that she is very tempted to pump them all full of “Bloom”, in its most concentrated state, 24 hours a day, and see what happens.

But that is a very small part of her.

For now.


Gloria “Ginger” Silverman is growing. She has been doing it to herself for some time now.

Obviously, as you may have surmised, this growth is evident in the “sideways” and “outward” variety. Such is Ginger’s personality that any other sort of growth might be considered intolerable, and such is her enthusiasm for the dizzying buzz afforded by food sprinkled with Compound GML that she practically spins off the walls of Dumont-Fitzgerald’s interior - that is, when she’s not making course corrections, charting their rate of travel, or simply observing the blue droplet that we call a home planet from the gorgeous wide-screen of the observation deck. Loving life doesn’t mean not taking it seriously.

To this end - remembering her military training, and many teenaged hours lying awake in bed watching Chris Hadfield videos on repeat with a dreamy smile plastered over her face - she knows that gaining weight in the vacuum of space, without Mother Earth’s caring yet suffocating grip weighing her down, her muscles are bound to atrophy. Yet there is very little exercise one can do to combat the puffiness gifted by Compound GML. Hence, an elegant solution has occurred to her.

Which is why Mathilde, fresh from inputting data, finds her in the locker room connected to the hold, slowly sticking a needle into her veins, one which is full of a familiar-looking golden-honey-coloured substance.

"Eh?” the scientist asks, as the pilot looks up, half-selfconsciously.

“I had an idea. Sorry I didn’t run it by you first,” Ginger entirely fails to explain. “But I think you and the weasel might do well to follow in my footsteps. Before it’s too late."

“What exactly do you mean, mon Capitan?” replies the other, hovering around her. Mathilde’s jaw is clenched with slight annoyance as she begins to strip away her sterile lab-clothes, folding them carefully and depositing them back in her locker, her eyes fixed on the golden liquid dripping slowly into her fellow crew member’s newly doughy flesh.

Ginger winces as she extracts the needle, patching herself with a plaster bearing the overconfident grin of Jessie the cowgirl, of “Toy Story” fame. Then, she begins to sit up, and flexes her arm, waiting for some sort of change…but with this purer form of the Compound, it doesn’t take long. She shudders, through her whole softened body, at the sound of a *Floomp*, seemingly unaccompanied by any apparent enlarging. She flexes her arm again, more confidently. “Feel it,” she says to Mathilde, dripping self-assurance from every syllable.

Mathilde peers for a second with her usually analytical eye, but smiles for a second, getting it immediately. Her shipmate’s arm looks as soft as ever, but when she touches it…yes, there is a little more hardness beneath. Her fingers are delicate at first, as delicate as she usually is with her scientific instruments; but then she begins to grip and pat the surface of Ginger’s bicep with an interest that even she didn’t know she had until just now. She begins to stroke it before Ginger yanks her arm away again, seemingly unaware of the scientist’s sudden interest.

“You are augmenting your muscle structure with ‘Flex’”, she correctly guesses. “This was not a solution that had occurred to me.”

“Well, it had better occur to you now,” Ginger replies, doing some athletic stretches, “Unless you want to end up as some kind of super-sized floating sphere-thing. We’ve all seen Wall-E, Matty. There’s no way that ends well.”

The scientist nods as Ginger hands her another needle of golden-syrup-like ‘Flex’. The Captain crouches down and pushes herself off from one of the lockers, revelling in the new layer of flexibility added beneath her soft padding.

“Enjoy it,” she says, soaring towards the hatch. “I’m gonna find Lewis and give him his dose. And a tissue. And then get a burger. Maybe not in that order!” she finishes, her call echoing down the corridor attaching two of the ship’s modules.

Mathilde’s dry, dignified smile is left in her wake. Mathilde’s eyes focus themselves on Ginger’s back side for a moment or two before she turns back to the needle and her own body; her thoughts do not linger on the subject for nearly as long as her eyes did...


The burger does not wait for Ginger, nor she for the burger. It is unwrapped, de-microwaved and stuffed in her hungry gob before she has soared towards Lewis’ bunk, a needle in one hand and two vacuum-packed coffees in the other. When she finds him floating over his quarters, arms hanging limply by his sides amongst a flurry of paperwork that seem to follow him like baby ducks crowding around a parent, she can’t help but giggle a little at his dramatic reaction.

“Still moping, Wizard Howl?” she says, delicately placing the latte in his outstretched fingers. He clutches it, and takes out a small machine designed to suck up errant droplets of water for fear of compromising Dumont-Fitzgerald’s instruments. It quickly absorbs one or two tears as they escape from his eyes.

“Mock all you want,” he sighs, “I’m a horrible disgrace to the company and the mission. I daren’t show my face to the director again. Haven’t made an audio-visual report in days. All is lost…I’m a disgrace…”

I see no point in living if I can’t be beautiful,” Ginger continues for him, incorrectly imitating Christian Bale’s “Batman Can Never Stop Clearing His Throat” voice, when she should be using his “Wizard Howl Having A Little Moment About His Hair” voice.

Frowning, Lewis sits up to sip his latte and clear away some of his papers. Ginger takes the opportunity to quickly stick him with the needle, in his left buttock. He cries aloud from pain, but not before all the ‘Flex’ is in him. Putting a finger to her lips, Ginger floats upwards and holds his wrist.

“Don’t jump about too much,” she says, quietly. “Did your Mom ever tell you not to make faces, or you’d be stuck like that when the wind changed?”

He shakes his head. “I…seldom made faces. My Mum didn’t really see the point in reprimanding me that way.”

She shrugs. “Well, that’s what’ll happen. There’s Flex in your muscles now. If you just relax and let it ‘set’, you’ll just get slightly better support as you pack on the pounds.”

He whimpers a little at that, involuntarily perhaps, and sighs, turning away from Ginger to look out of the observation window of his cabin, wistfully gazing at the stars. For a while the two of them sit in air, sipping their coffees and watch the little points of light climb away in the great blackness, not saying a word to one another about how their grand weird situation has gotten a little weirder over the past few days.

“How can you be so…blasé about getting bigger?” he asks, quietly.

Ginger puts her around his shoulders, squeezing him carefully. “Eh, it’s not so bad, sweetie…the confidence buzz you get from a good dose of this stuff more than compensates from the side effects. Especially when the side-effects are so rad.” She pats her enlarged tummy for emphasis, as well as one of her slightly more swollen boobs. Lewis doesn’t rise to it, though his olive skin does blush slightly.

“I’ve never been…confident like that,” he admits. “Not outside of an office or a press conference, anyway. I’ve spent my life so focused on how I look and how that affects what I’ll say and do…I guess this is just going to take a bit of adjustment. A lot of adjustment,” he corrects himself, stroking his slightly more cherubic face and sipping down the second-to-last gulp of his latte.

That reminds Ginger, and she removes the vaccuum-lid to quickly gulp down the last dregs of her mocha as they float out of the cup. She pecks Lewis’ cheek and licks her lips.

“Well, sugar…” she half-whispers, “I was always just taught to go with the flow, roll with the changes.” She giggles at her own pun. “Do you know what I mean? Here, hold my hand...” she takes his slender right fingers in her left hand, and clasps them with her right, trying to sooth him. "It's going to be OK, Lewis. Can't you feel how nice and soft my hands are?"

He shakes his head, smiling. “I know what you mean about that buzz, though,” he says, feeling the new muscle growth in his left arm. His suit’s sleeves are riding up even more than before with the new support, and his chest feels a little wider as well. If this kept up, he might have a nice ‘bodybuilder’ look going on sooner or later. “I actually feel a little better - "


There is suddenly a little less of the room around the vicinity of Ginger.

Her adorable face has taken on a hamster-ish quality, rounding out in chubbiness and turning her frizzy ponytail into a delightful frame. Her breasts and rear have each thickened in their own way, suddenly wobbling in the anti-grav with every movement in spite of her careful precautions with the ‘Flex' needle. She tests them each with a prod from a suddenly more sausage-like finger, even going so far as to tweak the nipple of her left breast in an almost childish way. Her back is a little bigger than her front; there seems to be more of a danger to her outfit if she sits than if she straightens her back.

Yet they are all dwarfed in comparison to her titanic belly. Formerly the stuff of a mere over-inflated spare tire, it has become a veritable orb, emphatically defining her as an ‘apple’ shape that ironically reflects her earlier comment to Mathilde about becoming helpless rotund. Her tree-trunk-width legs kick the air in an excited frenzy as she rides the high of a full-on concentrated doze of ‘Bloom’, sighing with delight and spinning around like a giant jiggling human satellite.

Lewis pauses, gazing quizzically, as he sips the last of his latte. If he had to make a rough estimate, he’d say that on Earth she’d weigh somewhere in the neighbourhood of 20.7-22.2 stone. Not, he feels, the appropriate weight for a healthy and productive young lady, let alone a spaceship captain, and yet…and yet…he cannot stop gazing in fascination at her globular form as it spins around his cabin with sheer joy.

"...How much have you had?" he asks, as if probing for the location of an armed nuclear weapon. He waits and sips the last of his latter while she settles down and catches her breath.

"Oh," Ginger replies, absent-mindedly playing with her new jelly-rolls, "...Almost as much as you have."

"What do you mean by - "


There is suddenly even less of the room around Lewis.

He is speechless for the first five minutes of it, perhaps in sheer wonder, though more likely he is somewhat freaking out. Where Ginger settled into a rounded apple-shape, our poor Lewis is most definitely a bottom-heavy pear. Almost rotating head over heels in confusion, he places trembling hands on his suddenly rounded buttocks and then cradles his newly protruding gut.

He gasps, sticking his hands out in front of him as his gut jiggles in response. Those fingers, once so slender and perfect, are still manicured as well as ever but have been inflated to a thickness that makes his hands seem more like paws than human appendages. His thighs and calves have likewise ballooned out, and his tiny chest has softened into two pillowy mounds, almost like candle-wax melting.

But crowning this newly soft human pyramid is a face that while previously pretty cute has widened into a definitely adorable cherub. A grand double chin and a soft collar of flab have enveloped his neck and jawline, and his cheeks are puffed up like perfectly risen bread, making his trimmed goatee seem somewhat ridiculous.

He runs a hand through his hair, tries to pull at the sleeves of his ever-shrinking uniform, the waistline riding up to expose his hairy rounded belly. "Gin...Ginger, you..."

But Ginger is smiling beatifically, pressing herself closer to him, cradling his belly as her own squashes into her side and giving it a rub for luck. "Gee, sugar...you must be about 350, maybe 370 pounds...that's bigger than me even, especially with all that muscle..."

She rubs her nose against his softened cheeks as he blushes and tries to hide his face, turning away from her again. She whines in mock-disappointment. "Now come on, Lewis...don't you feel better this way? Can't you taste that wave of good-feeling?"

He can, he's still tasting it, on the back of his tongue, and it's almost making him glow with pleasure; but it's a secret pleasure, a feeling that he seems to want to have give in to for decades, and he's never told anyone, and the blush seems to grow from his chubby cheeks all the way down to his newly-developed cankles, and he needs to give into it...but he needs help...

Which is why he murmurs, "...Yes..."

They look at each other. He drinks her in, a newly incarnated fertility goddess stripping down to her bare skin so as to ascend to full power; she looks him over, a shy brown farm-boy who's never had no lovin' and needs a good strong woman to teach him to believe in himself. He's smiling at her, floating so adorably in this cabin, and allowing himself a flirtatious little smile...oh yes, she's going to teach him to do things his bosses would never even daydream about...

Mid-leap, Ginger almost growls it: “C’mere, Puffy Boy!"

End of Phase 2
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Old 05-15-2014, 05:32 PM   #4
Join Date: May 2007
Posts: 30
Dhomberger has said some nice things

Been looking forward to the next installment. I really enjoy the story so far and can't wait to see how it ends. Thanks for posting.
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