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Old 05-07-2016, 02:36 PM   #1
Darth Praxus
Join Date: Jul 2014
Posts: 9
Darth Praxus has said some nice things
Default The Decadent Movement: A Tale of Glottonous Aesthetics (BBW, WG)

BBW, WG—A growing college feedee doesn't need a love interest, but she could use an enabler...

The Decadent Movement: A Tale of Gluttonous Aesthetics
by Darth Praxus

Chapter One

“Wow,” I say, surveying the carnage. “I'm surprised you didn't accidentally eat the boxes.”

A thick burp. “Ahh—hic—go to hell.”

Two medium pepperoni pizza boxes sit empty on the coffee table, littered with floury crumbs and smeared with orange grease. Scattered on the floor are plastic rings and crushed aluminum, the only remnants of the two six packs that we began the evening with. A box of cheesy garlic bread balances precariously on the corner of the table—there's one piece left. I was responsible for half a pizza, half a six pack, and two slices of bread.

The rest all went to Sara.

She's sprawled on the couch, lips smeared with grease, belly rising from her form like an orb of butter. It quivers every time she hiccups, fat rippling. Her skin shows through diamond-shaped gaps between the buttons of her shirt, chocolate-brown and creamy. The buttons strain, desperately trying to restrain the great paunch behind them.

Sara burps again, a noise that sounds like deep-dish pizza tastes, and motions at the table. “Gimme the last piece.”

“You sure? You don't look so good.”

“I look—hic—damn good,” she replies, patting her belly with sausage fingers. “And I'd look even better with this damn shirt letting me breathe. Hic!

I lean forward, grab the piece of bread with two fingers, and pass it to her, feeling the heat radiating from her body as she takes it. One bite, two bites, and it's gone.

We sit a few moments, staring at her gut, waiting.


Her whole body trembles, but the buttons stay put.

“Dammit,” she grumbles, “I'm slipping.”

“Well,” I say, rising from the couch, “there is still some chocolate cake left in the kitchen...”

- - - -

When I first met Sara, freshman year of college, it wasn't like one of those stories online where she was drop-dead gorgeous and thin as a rail. She was a generous size, but not what you'd call obese; genetics had granted her wide hips and thighs and a round face, but her stomach was only slightly convex and she had but one chin. We were in an introductory literary survey course together, and the thing about her that got my attention was that, unlike most of the other English majors who had read Lord of the Rings or a John Green novel and decided they wanted to write for a living, she knew what she was talking about. Her favorite author was Nabokov for his style, she said when the professor asked us, but Wilde for his subject matter. I was intrigued, and when I asked her to lunch very pleased to get an answer in the affirmative.

We found a table in the dining hall and went our separate ways to load up our buffet trays. If I was mildly surprised by the fact that she brought back two cheeseburgers instead of one, I quickly brushed it off, and we soon fell to discussing books.

“I mean, I can admire Nabokov, but he's not someone I can really read for fun,” I told her. “He's too focused on prose compared to other things.”

“But that's why you read him!” she protested, pausing to take a massive bite from her second burger. “His writing is just—hic—the purest kind of sensory overload, all the descriptions and wordplay just, like, piling on each other, y'know?” Another bite. “That's why I love Wilde, too, he's so focused on senesation and experience. They're a model for how to live, right?”

We talked for another hour, and in that time she got up to refill her tray two times. By the time I had to leave for my next class, her eyes were slightly glassy and she spasmodically hiccupped semi-constantly, but she still insisted on keeping up her end of the conversation.

“I mean—hulp—obviously Lolita is his—hic—best, but Ada is just so much book—hic! It's like he poured his whole . . . his whole soul into it . . . “ She froze for a second, held up a finger, and then loosed a rumbling belch. “Excuse me!” she said, giggling, and patted her stomach, which was decidedly more swollen than it had been an hour ago.

- - - -

Chapter Two

It was perfect. There was no way this girl could maintain her current weight eating like that every day. And we both loved books!

And she was lesbian. Ah, well.

I didn't learn this until the first time she invited me to her dorm for a study session, a few weeks after our initial lunch. I brought beer, which turned out to be a mistake; a few hours later we had done no studying and both of us were drunk.

In these few weeks, Sara had put on a noticeable amount of weight. There was a flabby bit of skin hanging from the underside of her jaw, and her stomach was definitely straining against her jeans, as was her ass. Her thighs had gotten delightfully thick, and her face had taken a level in round.

She must have seen me snatching glances at aforementioned stomach every now and then, because after a while she commented on it. “Lydia doesn't like it,” she told me, laying a hand on her middle.

“Hmm?” I asked, quickly looking up to meet her eyes.

“My beer belly,” she said.

“Oh, you don't have a—” I began.

She chugged the remains of her sixth can and belched indignantly. “Oh yes, I do. Well, maybe not a whole one,” she considered, patting the stomach that was big enough now to jiggle slightly at the contact, “but definitely—MUUURRRRPPP—the beginnings of one.” She seemed pretty okay with that statement. More than okay, in fact, though I told myself it was probably just my imagination running away with me.

“So who's Lydia?”

“Girlfriend,” she replied, moving to open another beer. My heart sank ever so slightly—dammit—but oh well. “She thinks I'm getting fat. I just tell her it's ahic—symbiotic relationship.”

“Oh?” I asked, wondering in my own not-particularly-sober brain if she'd gotten to the point where she was drunk enough to stop making sense.

“I,” she said, pointing a finger in the rough direction of her face, “drink too much beer, which makes me happy. And the—RUUURRRP—beer obliges by making my tummy big enough to hold more beer,” she continued, again patting her stomach. “I'm in the process of—hic—of—hic!—being transmuted into a walking beer keg. 's'a beautiful thing, really. Like Ovid.”

Too drunk to remember the Metamorphoses, I nodded anyway. “The food doesn't hurt, either,” I said, only realizing a few seconds after I said it that were I sober that statement would've been completely off limits.

She looked at me, eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

Belatedly panicking, I shook my head, took a swallow of beer too fast, coughed. “Nothing, nothing.”

She smirked, shook her finger. “Oh no, you ain't getting out of things that easily. You said something about the food?”

Shit, shit, shit, ran through my head. There was no way I could just make some excuse, either, because she clearly knew what I was talking about.

Her meals every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, when we ate lunch after class, were obscenely large. The two cheeseburger starter course wasn't a special occurrence, it quickly became clear—they were a normal portion for her. She never ate fewer than two trays per meal, and those trays were usually piled as high as she could possibly make them. Burgers, fries, pizza, desserts of various stripes, soda in copious amounts. Her capacity had increased, too; gradually, she ceased falling into a minor stupor near the tail end of our conversations, although the hiccuping and burping continued unabated. To be honest, I was amazed she had put on as little weight as she had.

Sara laughed. “It's okay, it's not like I'm not aware I make a pig of myself in front of you three times a week. If you hadn't noticed I'd worry about your writerly eye for detail.” Said eye for detail was currently affixed to the button of her shorts, which looked to be about five seconds away from bursting off and was gradually making its way closer and closer to my face. “I'm sure you're horribly worried for my health.”

“No!” I replied, spluttering. “Well, I mean yes, but—”

There was a ping and then a stinging sensation on my chest. I looked down to see a button sitting in my lap, and when I looked back up Sara's belly had relaxed outward by a good inch.

She cheered drunkenly and belched. “Time to treat myhic to a new pair of shorts! Gonna have to wait, though, I wanna pick up the new Atwood hardback at the bookstore this week.”

There was no way, I realized. No way she didn't know what she was doing. “Okay, you can stop fucking with me.”

She attempted a wounded expression, though in her intoxicated state the best she could manage was a sort of half-stunned-looking mug. “Fucking with you?”

“You have a girlfriend, apparently, and I don't appreciate being led on.”

She started giggling at that, hiccups interspersed amidst the laughter. “Why, what—hic—er d'you—hic—mean, Graham?” She slapped her liberated belly and gave a thick burp. “You don't mean to say you find this attractive, do you?”


- - - -

Chapter Three

I was drunk, and I was embarrassed, and I had clearly not been fooling her whatsoever. “Yeah,” I said, doing my best to sound above it all. “Which is why it's shitty of you to lead me on like this.”

Sara collapsed onto the couch next to me, one hand hovering over her belly. “Why do you like it?”

For a second I had to sit and process. “What?”

She burped and slapped her stomach. “Quiet, you,” she said, and then looked at my pants.

Yep, things were busy down there.

A giggle. “Why do you like that?”

I was feeling defensive and decidedly not feeling any sort of banter. “I don't know, it's not like I have some theory of what I'm attracted to. Why do you like girls?”

She looked at me, seriously this time. “Y'know, to be—hic—honest I'm not sure. But I do know—hulp!—why I like this,” she said, hand moving across her stomach in a lazy circle. “It all goes back to literary preferences. Or maybe literary preferences go back to this. Chicken and the—hic!—and the egg.

“I like Nabokov, and Wilde, and Caitlin R. Kiernan, right? I don't care so much about plot or characters. I mean, those are important, but it's the language that does it for me. And the language is all about communicating the full—RURRRP, excuse me—experience to the reader, right?”

I nodded.

“It's my theory,” she continued, cracking another beer open, “that the glutton is the closest equivalent to the prose artist.” She paused to chug half the beer, swallowed a burp, and continued. “She experiences everything the world has to offer in terms of taste, of fullness. And just like reading too much prose gives you a headache, an overabundance of food gives the glutton indigestion.” OYYYYUUURRRRRP. And, just as, in my view, the best books tend to be longer—Ada over Lolita, Les Miserables over Notre Dame de Paris—the best people tend to be fatter.” She leaned further back, sighing. “And that is why I'm eating and drinking my brains out.”

I cast about for something to say, and against my will found myself incredibly curious. “Why only start now? You didn't feel this way in high school?”

“Oh, sure I felt this way in high school! I've wanted to get fat since I was a little kid. But life doesn't tend to go too well for fat girls in high school. And having an unlimited meal plan is a rather perfect opportunity to change my ways.” She shifted forward, looked at me. “And that's where you come in.”

I returned to glaring. “Oh?”

She patted my hand. “First of all, I would've had lunch with you no matter what, right? I like you, you're my friend. So don't worry on that score, right? Wasn't in any way leading you on. But—” she raised a finger, drunkenly waved it around—“I couldn't help noticing that you were extremely happy to see a girl making a pig of herself while she talked to you about books. And that is something that's hard to find.”

Even had I been sober I would have been confused. “But . . . you're gay.”

“Yep. One hundred percent.” Another pat of my hand. “Sorry, really.”

“Then what the hell is going on?”

“I told you,” she said, indicating her slight paunch, “Lydia doesn't like this.” She shifted her weight on the couch. “I need someone to talk to about this, Graham! Doing it all on my own is fine, but it kinda sucks that I can't tell anyone. And Lydia is actively trying to discourage me. I need to balance that out, right? I need an enabler, someone who's gonna be fuckin' applauding me. And that's where you come in.”

I sat there for a few moments, thinking it over. “So you want me to be your feeder . . .and in return I get nothing.”

“Oh, bullshit, you get nothing,” she replied, slurping at her beer. “This is the closest you're likely to get to someone actively trying to fatten themselves up for a while. You get to watch me eat, watch me get fatter, maybe rub my belly when I need it. And c'mon, we're friends. I'd do it for you.”

Several minutes of silence. Then: “You realize I'm going to have blue balls constantly. I demand restitution for that.”

She cheered, and then belched magnificently. “Oh, just jerk off like any normal person.”

- - - -

Chapter Four

Over the next few months, I fulfilled my role dutifully. I encouraged her to eat more every time we had lunch, I came over for “study sessions” that turned into feeding sessions, I commented whenever I noticed that she'd put on weight.

And she did. A lot.

By Christmas break, her beer belly was no longer a mere beginning. It preceded her into rooms, jiggling with every footfall. She was drinking constantly, so that even during the day that jiggle seemed to be liquid-assisted; on nights when she would chug down beer after beer, you could hear the liquid sloshing around every time she took a step. She had indeed become transmuted into a beer keg, although she lurched and belched more often than wooden ones tend to and was decidedly softer than they.

To support the weight of that keg, her thighs thickened into great cylinders of meat, brown sausages that constantly strained against the casings of her jeans. Her arms had undergone a similar process, and her fingers seemed about an inch shorter despite being the same length as the beginning of the year, due to the width they had put on. (This was Sara's one regret—it slowed down typing, and she was working on a novel.)

Her breasts and her ass were mirror images of each other, twin round heavy things that wobbled with each step. Her chin had gone double. There was no question—she had gone from slightly chubby to actively fat.

As her size had increased, so had her capacity—her analogy of the beer (and burgers, and pizza, and ice cream) expanding her stomach to make room for more of itself had proved to be the case. Lunch was the equivalent of three or four meals, and it was simply the highlight of each day; she was snacking constantly, she assured me, from breakfast til bedtime, with a titanic dinner thrown into the mix every day as well. It didn't slow our conversations any, but the combination of gulping of food and taking in a lot of air to talk about literature meant that she would regularly unleash rumbling belches throughout the dialogue. It had gotten to the point where people across the hall would turn and stare, but she didn't deign to notice their gaze.

“Y'know, the Platonic ideal of satisfaction is a burp,” she told me one day, in the midst of her third container of fries.

“How so?” When it came to her theories on gluttony I had learned it was best to play the role of strawman to her Socrates rather than actively attempting to engage.

“Well—” this through a mouthful of deep-fried potato—“it'sh the ultimash eshpresshion of fulnessh.” A comically loud gulp, followed by a greasy burp. “You become nothing more than a mouthpiece for your stomach as it expresses just how stupidly full it is, how it can't take one more bite. And then you burp, and you get to taste the riches of what you've just eaten yet again, and then there's room for even more food, which once eaten causes your stomach to express its fullness yet again.” Which she did, in spectacularly loud fashion. “It's a perfect circle. You don't need language when you've gotten that full. It's just perfect, pure contentment. If I could pick the single most musical sound in the world, it'd be a deep, rich belch going on forever.”

She had gotten increasingly weird as more and more of her, percentage-wise, came to rest in her belly.

After the last day of finals, Sara threw a party. At least a couple dozen people were there, all of them making pigs of themselves to various degrees, but none could compare to the hostess. I lost sight of her for a little while, and a couple hours later when she waddled into view she had gotten absolutely trashed. Her pendulous, round belly quaked as she rolled from side to side, looking absolutely full to bursting with beer. The lower buttons of her shirt hung open, and I hoped for her sake she had loosened them herself rather than allowing her stomach to pop them open.

She was dragging someone by the arm, a thinnish girl with short blue hair and a distinctly irritated look. The two of them caught sight of me, and Sara belched by way of greeting. “Hey—RUURRRRP—Graham! Got someone for you to meet!”

I cautiously ambled over, desperately trying to keep my brain off the orb of fat and liquid that stood in front of me—true to my word, I had suffered from rather horrendous blue balls over the course of the semester, jerking off or no, and right now I was about as hard as granite. “Sara, how much have you had to drink?” I asked, a little worried despite my knowledge of her capacity.

“Oh—hic!—not a lot. Just ten or twelLLLURRRRRPP—twelve beers. Graham, this,” she slurred, gesturing at the blue-haired companion, “is Lydia.”

I reached forward to grip her hand; she looked at me in a way that conveyed a rather incredible amount of information, namely that she had no proof of what I was up to but she damn well suspected. “Hey,” she said, clipped.

“Hey,” I responded in original fashion. “I've heard a lot about you.” Which I hadn't, actually. Conversation around Sara tended to swing one of two ways, fat books or fat bellies. “Sara's lucky.”

“Yes, she is!” Sara slurred, bestowing a sloppy kiss on Lydia's cheek. “Even though I've—hic—gone and got a beer gut, she—hulp—she sticks with me.”

Lydia was looking increasingly irked, and I was getting increasingly embarrassed (and increasingly hard), so with a few babbled words I took my leave. As I turned to go, Sara belched, bellowed, “See you after Christmas, Graham!”, and slapped both hands against her keg.

I didn't look to see if that caused Lydia's expression to change.

- - - -

Chapter Five

Sara messaged me throughout the Christmas break. The highlight was definitely a photo captioned "Fourth dinner"—the photo depicted a belly swollen to Falstaffian proportions, shirt buttons all undone. Two plump hands rested on top of this mound, which made me wonder whom Sara had recruited to take the picture.

The day we got back from break, Sara asked me to drop by her dorm to say hello. Simultaneously anticipating and dreading the sight that was to follow, I lugged my bike out from inside my van and coasted down the newly-shoveled sidewalks to the main girls' dorm. Once inside, I took the stairs two at a time, a phenomenon I experienced relatively rarely—Sara had gotten to the point where the best she could manage on tall staircases was a langorous waddle.

The door was open when I arrived at her room, but the only person inside who I could see wasn't Sara, it was her girlfriend. Lydia glared when she saw me, jerked her head in a curt motion that could've meant "Come in" and could've meant "Go to hell". I chose to assume the former and made my way in.

My apparent nemesis held a book of poems in her hands, the pages ragged with use. "Swenson," I said, as if it weren't obvious by the fact that she was reading the damn book. "You like her?"

Lydia shrugged. "Borrowing her from Sara. She's all right, bit too high-flown for my taste." All this in a tone that made it sound like I had dragged it out of her.

"Lydia likes all her poetry to be depressing," Sara's voice called from the kitchen. I turned around just in time to see her pad into the living area, and my jaw nearly fell open before I clenched it firmly closed.

She must have done nothing but eat the entire break. Her belly, a red sweater clinging tightly to it, was enormous, a great round teardrop that protruded in a perfect half-globe. Her legs looked ready to burst from the sweatpants that they were squeezed into. She hadn't gained an incredible amount of weight, by the looks of things, but she had taken her shape and rounded it out to considerable effect. She hugged me, and her fat enveloped me like a massive pillow of gelatin. She must have been eating before I arrived--I could feel food shift inside her belly, and she burped chocolate into my ear. My fingers sank into the soft flesh of her back, and I squeezed before pulling away.

"How was the break?" she asked, moving past me to drop onto the couch next to Lydia--it creaked alarmingly under her bulk, and her girlfriend threw a glance at the frame that clearly feared for its structural integrity.

I responded with a few pleasantries about the family I'd seen, the gifts I'd received. Asked her how hers had gone.

She laid her hands on her belly, seemingly unconsciously. "I ate and ate and ate," she said, and then began to elaborate on what, precisely, that entailed. She had apparently made it a policy to eat at least four dinners at every family gathering, of which there had been three. Half of the money she'd gotten in gifts had gone toward new books, while the other half all went toward various kinds of chocolate.

"The highlight of the entire thing," she said, "had to be New Year's. Spent the entire night with a plate in my hand, ended up chugging an entire bottle of champagne. And being drunk on champagne is so much better than being drunk on beer. You feel all fizzy and funny and—"

"Are you seriously quoting Stephen fucking Sondheim to describe what swilling an entire bottle of champagne feels like?" Lydia asked.

"Hey, if it's an apt description," Sara said.

"Sondheim deserves greater dignity."

Sara shrugged. "At any rate, it was a thoroughly sinful, thoroughly lazy holiday season. Which reminds me," she said, lugging herself upward from the couch, "I brought leftovers!"

She waddled back to the kitchen. "C'mon," she called, "I know Lydia doesn't want me to eat all of them on my own!"

Lydia stood up, locked her eyes on mine. "Hope you're happy, asshole," she said, and gave me the finger, and stalked after her girlfriend.

I stood still for a while, staring at the door to the kitchen, and wondered what the hell Sara had gotten me into.

- - - -

Chapter Six

The kitchen, to my general relief, was not an orgy of gluttony on display. There were a couple trays of brownies present on the counter, along with several sheets of cookies and a jug of milk, but whatever was going to happen wouldn't be a repeat of the first time I'd met Lydia. “So,” I asked the blue-haired girl as I entered the room, “what's your major again?”

Either she was resigned to loathing me in private or she didn't care that much, because she answered, one hand toying idly with a peanut-butter cookie. “Double, theatre and political science.” A few moments of silence passed, broken only by Sara's munching on what looked to be two layers of brownie squashed together, before Lydia grudgingly decided to be polite and asked, “You?”

“Lit and writing.”

“A fellow bibliophile,” Sara said thickly, licking crumbs from her lips. “Lydia and I found common ground over Shakespeare—about the only common ground we really have, come to think.” She reached for another cookie. “Well, except that we both really fucking hate Andrew Lloyd Weber.”

The degradation of this name roused something like a romantic fire in Lydia's eyes, and I found myself hoping that this might just maybe be a normal conversation. “Why's that?”

Lydia dropped her cookie on the counter and began listing things off on her fingers, ire for me seemingly forgotten in the face of a greater enemy. “No musical subtlety. No thematic unity from show to show, or even within a show. Doesn't write his own lyrics. Chooses lyricists whose lyrics are the laziest writing this side of an E. L. James book. And he wrote Phantom of the fucking Opera, which has to be the worst thing to happen to musical theatre this side of the Vietnam War.”

“Sondheim didn't do his own orchestrations . . .” Sara whispered.

“Oh, go to hell. The man composes all his own music and lyrics, lyrics which might I add are the greatest works of songwriting in American history, and he's a thematic and tonal genius. So let him shop out the orchestrations to Tunick.”

I was inclined to simply watch the two of them go at it, which they did for the next ten minutes. Lydia seemed to have forgotten my presence entirely, which I found far preferable to the alternative. “You can't put Phantom in the same goddamn league as Sweeney Todd! Sweeney Todd transcends the penny dreadful, Phantom would fit right in on the shelf next to some bodice-ripper.”

“I thought Sara said you both hated Andrew Lloyd Weber,” I put in.

“Oh, we do,” Sara replied, giggling. “She just can't take a joke.”

The finger, courtesy of Lydia.

The argument refused to be resolved in any way other than our sitting down and watching the film adaptations of both musicals right then and there, and so we did. Sara brought her leftover goodies to the couch, nestled down in the center with me on one side and her girlfriend on the right, and ate through all four hours of moving pictures.

Midway through Sweeney Todd, she threw one arm around my shoulders and the other around Lydia's. I could feel the warm, heavy weight of it sinking down onto my back, the soft flesh forming a cushion against my neck. I looked over to see if Lydia felt a similar comforting sensation, but just as I did so she rose to her feet, saying she needed to take a piss.

Afterward, I made my excuses and slipped out. “See you at lunch tomorrow,” Sara called from the couch, one arm draped across her newly rounded gut. Lydia had her back to me, and didn't say good-bye.

I was about forty feet down the hall when I heard footsteps coming after me at a decently fast clip. I turned to see blue hair and glaring eyes coming toward me.

“Listen,” she hissed. “I know I may come off like a bitch to you, but I frankly don't give a shit.”

I stared. “Well, glad we got that out of the way, then,” I said, and started to turn away again.

Hey!” There was something frightening in that bark—she'd make a wonderful theatre director someday—and I was compelled to look at her.

“I care about Sara, okay?” she said to me. “A lot. And I want her to be happy. But she's scaring me.” Her lip trembled; I couldn't decide if it was from anger or forthcoming tears or both.

“I'm not entirely sure what you want,” I said, hating myself for the cowardice even as the words left my lips.

Fuck you, man.” She was quiet for a moment. “It can't be healthy. And just because you have some thing for fat chicks—I mean, she's gay, man, what the hell do you think is gonna happen?”

I held up my hands, alarmed by just how much she seemed to have ascertained. “Look, Sara is just a friend. That's all. And she's entirely set on what she's doing, she didn't need me to persuade her. She came to me.” I lowered the hands, gave what I hoped was my most earnest look. “I mean, you guys met in high school, right? She must have mentioned stuff about this back then.”

The trembling lip returned, and I was mortified to see that there were indeed gleaming spots on her eyes. “You're not helping things,” she hissed.

I opened my mouth and tried to find the words to reply, but they were slow in coming. She sniffed, disgusted. “We used to do things together, y'know? Like take walks or play with a frisbee or ride our bikes. Now all she does in between reading and writing is eat.”

Still, the words were slow in coming.

She sighed, wiped her cheek hastily. “Look, clearly she gets off on this shit, okay? And clearly she'll do it with or without you. But just . . . just think about her health. If you're really her friend.” And with that, she turned and walked back to the dorm room.

“Hey, I liked Sweeney Todd better!” I called after her.

I thought I saw the slightest hesitation between steps, but it was probably just a trick of the light.
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Old 05-08-2016, 09:50 AM   #2
Darth Praxus
Join Date: Jul 2014
Posts: 9
Darth Praxus has said some nice things

Chapter Seven

“She'll get over it,” Sara told me, waving her free hand dismissively as she lifted a double-decker slice of pizza to her mouth. “God, this is delicious.”

“I don't think she will!” I replied, exasperated. “She's concerned about your health.”

“I've never been healthier!” she replied, patting her stomach and belching generously. “Do I look unhealthy to you?”

I didn't remotely trust myself to answer that properly. Sure, obesity is supposed to be a massive health risk, but if there's one thing I didn't think of when I thought of Sara it was the word “unhealthy”. Warm and soft and round and inviting, sure.

“Look, Falstaff is one of the greatest symbols of life and vitality in the history of literature,” she told me, stuffing the rest of her pizza into her mouth. “G. K. Chesterton emphasizes how fat Sunday is in The Man Who Was Thursday before he turns him into a symbol for pantheism. Being fat is being vital. And have I not been enjoying myself these last few months?”

There was absolutely no arguing with that. The fatter Sara got the closer she became to the Platonic ideal of pure contentment, indulgence.

That's your dick thinking, I told myself, and the absurdity of my situation—playing feeder to a gay woman who would never return the favor—truly hit me. “Okay, not this shit again,” I said, pushing myself away from the table. “No more free-associative literary metaphors. You know damn well what you're doing to yourself, and I can't. Not when Lydia's flat-out asked me not to.” I rose. “I'm your friend, Sara, but I don't think I can do this anymore.”

She stared at me for a few seconds, then rose ponderously to her own feet. “Come here,” she said, and opened up her arms.

Bemused, I just stood there. “Did you not hear what I just—”

“Come here, you silly man,” she repeated, gesturing with her hands.

I walked over, completely wrong-footed now, and then in full view of whoever was watching she grabbed me and squeezed tight.

Pressing into her wiped everything else away from my immediate consciousness. Her belly enveloped my dick, which was ramrod-straight. Her breasts firmly pressed against my chest. Her plump hands ran along my back, her soft arms brushing against mine. I could feel her belly pulsing, radiating warmth as it pressed firmly against my anatomy. When I involuntarily pushed back Sara burped a low, thick rumble, and I felt her stomach jiggle and vibrate with the sound.

That was it. The part of me that was down there let go.

She stepped back, mischievous grin on her face. “Now can we please get back to important stuff?”

I could only gasp as quietly as possible and hope that no one in the vicinity had noticed. “What—what the hell—

“C'mon, Graham,” Sara said, and rubbed her paunch with one chocolate-brown hand. “You think I'm better this way. I am bigger, I am softer, I am infinitely sexier. I'm a complete improvement. And I just reciprocated all those months of encouragement and blue balls, even though I find you about as sexually appealing as a particularly white gym sock. No offense, obviously.”

God, I wanted to say no. To be the stronger person. But I was still in the midst of postcoital (well, sorta) fuzziness, and god she was hot.

“I'll slow down a little,” she told me, “I promise. And you can tell Lydia that I told you I would. I'd say I'm comfortably fat at the moment, nothing wrong with taking a little time off in between growth spurts.” She winked. “Back to three trays at lunch instead of four, for a little while.”

I struggled for a few more seconds, and then she slapped her belly, and it quaked like a proverbial bowl full of jelly, and I lapsed back into being what I supposed was a shitty person.

The next time I saw Lydia in Sara's company, she gave a curt nod. I nodded back, and I think that was the moment we became okay, relatively speaking. I'd like to think that she came to the realization that Sara wasn't going back, and a temporary respite from pushing her flesh outwards was the best to be hoped for. And hey, when Sara waddled over and pressed her girlfriend to her belly the same way she'd done to me, the look on Lydia's face wasn't exactly uncomfortable.

- - - -

Chapter Eight

One positive upshot of my conversation with Lydia and the ensuing fallout was that Sara did snap out of the fixation she'd had our first semester. She still ate and drank in mammoth amounts, but she did start actually spending time with her girlfriend again. As a consequence, Lydia and I started seeing a lot more of each other. We weren't what I would call friendly, but we could talk without her swearing or glaring every five minutes. And Sara acted as a (very cushioned) buffer between the two of us.

About a month into the semester, I entered their dorm to the sight of Sara lounging on the couch, hand buried to the wrist in a bag of potato chips, and Lydia pacing back and forth, electric blue hair even more flyaway than usual. She held a notebook in her left hand, and was stabbing at it furiously with the ballpoint that was in her right. “Is there a likeness of Andrew Lloyd Weber on there or something?” I asked, plopping down on the couch next to Sara.

Lydia shook her head. “One-acts.”

Ahh, one-acts. They'd been driving her crazy for two weeks now. Each of the students in her current drama class had to direct a one-act play by the semester's end as half of their final grade. Most freshmen would have just gone frantic because they couldn't figure out how to direct the thing. Lydia, on the other hand, was questioning the institution itself.

“It's just bullshit!” she said, beginning a lecture I'd heard twice now; Sara rolled her eyes indulgently and reached for her beer. “Short one-act plays are never any good! They're all too didactic or too broad or too fuckin' cutesy, and I don't wanna waste my time directing that shit. Give me Assassins, that's a one-act play.”

“A ninety-minute one-act play,” Sara pointed out. “Bit beyond the time constraint.”

“Well, if they want good theatre they can take their time constraint and shove it up their ass. God, I wish we could smoke in these dorms,” she muttered, resuming her pacing.

“You know,” Sara said, “there is a solution that I'm rather offended hasn't occurred to you, to be honest.”

“You're not writing the fucking play, Sara,” Lydia said, hurling herself onto the couch and opening a beer.

“Why not? I already have such a great idea . . .”

“Because you're a lit major, and I can't just go to another department and ask for help.”

“What is this, two-party politics?” Sara ask, and stifled a burp. “You hate short one-act plays because they're all about theme. My play is all about aesthetics. Director's heaven!”

“I thought you were writing a novel,” I said.

“Fingers are too fat to type 90,000 words, I gave up. Kidding!” she added hastily as Lydia whipped her head around. “I decided the subject matter was better suited to live performance.”

Silence from Lydia. “. . . what's it about?” I asked.

“Classical myth,” Sara replied. “Which is perfect, right? Ovid, Virgil, all about aesthetics. And you can even say it's got a gender studies angle, I'm recasting the main character as a woman.”

Again there was silence, and again I rolled my eyes and acted as the director's mouthpiece. “. . . who's the main character?”

“Bacchus. I've even got someone in mind for the part.”


She thumped her belly, which summoned up a belch. “Yours truly.”

“You act?”

“Did in high school, a little. Told you we bonded over Shakespeare!” she said, patting Lydia on the shoulder. “She was a stagehand, I was Lady Macbeth. And I was good, wasn't I?” she said, moving her hand down to her girlfriend's thigh.

Lydia stood up and started pacing again. “Nope.”

“C'mon! Bacchus is feminine. I'm feminine,” Sara said in her best over-the-top come-hither voice. “Bacchus is the god of indulgence. I'm indulgent.”

“You've already got one sidekick, I don't need to help.”

“Hey, hey, hey, I've cut back!” She indicated the pile of cans at her feet. “This is only my fourth beer today. Any less and I'll start to waste away.”

“Look, can we just play some Halo or something?” Lydia said, now holding an invisible cigarette between her fingers in what I could only assume was some sort of nervous tic. “I've got plenty of time to find a decent play.”

Sara sighed. “Alas, it would appear my lover doesn't desire my services.” She lifted her beer can to her lips and drained it in three smooth gulps. “If you change your mind—UUUUURRRRRPP—you know where I am.”

- - - -

Chapter Nine

Which brings us to the present.

I plop the platter of chocolate cake onto the couch next to Sara. There's about half of it left, thick and moist and covered with what looks like three different kinds of frosting. “You want a fork?” I ask, but she just sticks her fingers in and pulls a hunk of it out, shoving it into her mouth. Swallows. Repeats.

“It'sh sho—” she pauses here to gulp down the cake, which she then washes down with a swig of beer—“satisfying—URRURRP—to eat this way. The fork's an unnecessary middleman. All it does is—hic!—get in the way of you and the food.”

“In that case, aren't your hands also unnecessary middlemen?” I ask.

She pauses, burps, reflects. “Y'know, you're right,” she says, and raises the plate to her mouth and buries her face in it.

This routine goes on for about two minutes before she has to clear her throat. She motions for a fresh can of beer, which I give her; she pops the tab, brings it to her mouth, and in gigantic chugs begins to down the whole thing. Her throat pulses in and out, making obscenely loud gulping noises: ULPulpULPulpULP.

She tears the can away from her lips, slaps her stomach, and belches magnificently. “I think—hulp!—I think that might have done it—”

Another belch, and with this one her stomach presses outward far enough that the buttons can't take it anymore. They go, one, two, three, baring her beer gut to the open air.

She sighs, hiccups, and tears another hunk of cake off the plate. “Rub my belly, will you?” she asks. “My hands are too messy to do it myself.”

It really is like a beer keg. Every time I so much as shift position I can hear liquid and digested food rolling and sloshing around, and Sara burps in my ear. I have to say I've come to appreciate her thesis of that particular release as the ideal of satisfaction; the burps sound like the chocolate cake tastes, rich and thick and velvety. I deliberately jostle her stomach a few times to bring more out of her, and she giggles. “You like it when I'm swinish, huhURRRRRRRRP?”

Her belly is firm when I press down, but my hands sink deep into the fat that covers it. The skin is soft and brown and smooth, her navel lost amongst the folds of flesh. The whole thing is perfectly round and globular, almost a separate entity attached to her. I find myself wondering what sex between her and Lydia looks like; what it must feel like to be buried in her, to be enveloped by her bulk. I picture the sensation of straddling atop a gigantic orb of gelatin flesh, supported by its firmness but sinking into its softness, and then Sara burps again and giggles. “Beer makes me so ar—hic!—ulate.”

I'm about to ask her if she wants any more of just that very substance when I hear a key turning in her dorm's lock.

“Fuck, it's Lydia!” she says. “Bathroom, quick!”

I sprint for the bathroom and yank the door shut, careful not to slam it, just as Lydia opens the front door. Standing as still as humanly possible, careful not to shift from foot to foot too loudly and strike the tile floor audibly, I listen to the outside, desperately hoping Lydia is in a bad mood and will just go to her bedroom and slam the door.

“How's it—hic—how's it going?” Sara asks.

“Worst possible day imag—you ate all this yourself?”

Shit. It might have actually been a better idea for me to stay in the room to take my proper share of the blame.

“I skipped breakfast, I was—hulp—hungry.”

A very loud sigh, and then pacing noises. Fuck, she's staying in the living room.

“Sorry to hear your day was bad,” comes Sara's voice again. “What exactly went—”

“I'll let you do the fucking play, all right?”

A few seconds of silence, and then a distinctly excited Sara. “I wore you down?”

You didn't wear anything down except our fucking pizza money. Deadline for choosing my play is coming up and I still have nothing. Whatever you write will at least have the merit of not being some condescending morality play about death or alcoholism or whatnot. So give me your fucking Bacchus thing.”

The sound of clapping.

“Now, about your playing him—”

YUUUURRRRRRRRP emits from outside, and then Sara's voice resumes. “Did you hear that? That is the sound of perfect gluttony. I am Bacchus.”

Ten seconds pass. Then twenty. “Fine.”

Another burp, followed by clapping. “You won't regret it!”

“Oh, I most definitely will,” I hear, muttered. “But if you're intent on giving yourself a coronary I may as well turn it into an asset to my GPA.”

“You're so sweet.” There's more silence, interspersed by muffled moans, which I assume means that Sara's chocolaty lips are smearing frosting all over Lydia's.



Faint moans and faint burps.

After five minutes pass, I swear to myself and open the door.

I see a brief flash of the two of them on the couch, Sara sprawled outward, Lydia doing something decidedly interesting to herself on her girlfriend's massive, quaking belly. In the corner of my eye I see her whip her head around, and as I yank open the door and sprint down the hallway I hear Lydia start shouting and Sara start laughing.

- - - -

Chapter Ten

No one brings up my indelicate exit when I arrive at the girls' dorm the next night. We're having a start of pre-production party, Sara told me in her text this morning, and my presence is required.

When Lydia yanks the door open, it's immediately clear that she and Sara have been drinking for a while before my arrival. She's swaying back and forth, her usual sharp gaze floating around, her blue hair matted with sweat. “'Lo,” she says, and turns around and slide-steps her way back to the couch.

Sara has her outer shirt unbuttoned, and wears an obscenely tight pair of sweat pants due, I assume, to the button-popping incident of last night. She raises a chubby hand in greeting and returns to watching whatever movie is playing on the screen—something involving aliens and United States marines, by the look of it. “The man of the hour!” she calls as I enter the living area.

“Do what do I owe the honor?” I ask, nearly tripping over a half-empty case of beer that's lying in the middle of my path. “Jesus, how many cans did you drink?”

“Only five,” she replies. “Lydia may actually surpass me tonight.”

“Godahell,” Lydia slurs from the other side of the couch.

“So,” I ask, taking my customary seat on the other side of the gravity well that is Sara, “what am I here for?”

“Wuzzntmyidea,” again from Lydia. “Not . . . not that any thin' is these days.”

“We need a male lead,” Sara tells me, slurping beer. “For the play.”

“Well, you might want to check the theatre department.”

Sara gives me a look somewhere between contemptuous and amused. “Not an option.”

I scoff. “Well, why the hell not?”

She inclines her head toward the girl on the other side of the couch. “The Great Blue Dragon.”

“Go to fuggin hell.”

Not dignifying this with a response, “Everyone in the department hates her. She's scary. She doesn't like one-act plays.”


Sara cuts her off with a lurching belch that goes on for about five seconds. “Ooh, that was good,” she says happily, patting her tummy.

Lydia rolls her eyes (I'm not entirely sure if this is intentional or merely the result of severe intoxication), lolls her head to face Sara, and out erupts an absolutely massive response. It goes on for seemingly forever, and I can smell the alcohol from here.

Sara stares at her, wide-eyed, and then kisses her on the lips.

“Oh, darling,” she says to Lydia after she breaks away. “Not in front of the straight guy.” As seems to be more and more common these days, I find myself reduced to staring bemusedly.

Sara turns back to me, her eyes still larger than normal. “Anyway, Lydia is a tyrant. So none of the theatre department wants to work with her. We can scrape together bit parts, but for my co-lead we need someone who can deal with her. And, um, don't take this the wrong way, sweetie,” she says, patting Lydia's hand, “but I think Graham here might be it.”

Lydia raises her arm half-heartedly and gives both of us the finger.

“I don't act,” I tell Sara, shaking my head vehemently.

This time she pats my hand. “Graham, it's college. No one acts, they just go up on stage and read their lines and some of them suck worse than others.” She giggles. “Besides, we have such chemistry. Well, more than I'm likely to have with any other example of the male sex.”

Nope. “Nope.”

“Aww, c'mon.” She leans in close and stage-whispers. “After all, you do sort of owe Lydia for turning her girlfriend into about twice the woman she used to be . . .”

“That's not fucking fair!”

“Neither is Lydia not being able to direct a play for want of performers!” She takes my hand in hers, rests it on top of her belly, which is currently swollen like a tick with beer. “I could always compensate you . . .”

“I'm still fuggin' here,” I hear from across the couch.

“Purely a business transaction, dear, I'll gladly sell my body for you.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Okay, goddammit, fine. For Lydia.”

“You're sweet,” Sara purrs. Lydia burps again and groans.

“Hell,” I mutter, “it can't be any weirder than facilitating sexual liaisons for a glutton and a dragon.”

Sara raises a finger to her lips. “I think she's drunk enough that she might've forgotten that, actually,” she whispers. “Which, speaking of . . .” She pours the rest of her beer into her stomach, my hand still resting on it, and I can feel the flow entering it before it vibrates with a languorous belch.

- - - -

Chapter Eleven

As a reward for my selfless act, I get to watch Sara stuff herself yet again.

“How do you have the time to write a goddamn play?” I ask her as we walk through the grocery store, shoving item after item into our cart; she gets a decent stipend from her parents every month, and wanted to make this particular gluttonous display special for me, so we're stocking up.

“Gotta do something while I suffer indigestion,” she replies. “My stomach makes a good desk for my laptop these days, if I lie back far enough.”

I roll my eyes. “You're incredible.”

“I know, right?” she squeals, throwing four pints of ice cream into the cart.

“How much do you weigh these days, anyway?”

“Believe it or not, I don't look at the scale.”


“I don't like to set my goal by some kind of abstract number. I like to set it by concrete things.” She picks up two more pints of ice cream, considers, adds both of them to our stockpile. “How many sets of clothes don't fit me anymore, how much I can eat in one sitting, how much rounder I am in the mirror. You can describe those things, they're literary. Numbers don't mean shit.”

That philosophy evidently applies to her wallet, too, as we end up spending a couple hundred dollars on our munchies run.

We stage the event in my dorm this time—my roommate is gone for some department conference, and we'll be out of Lydia's way. Sara settles onto the battered faux-leather sofa that forms the centerpiece of my living room, pops open a can of beer, and waits for the first course to arrive.

First round is about five different kinds of frozen appetizer; the entire box's worth of each kind. Potato skins, mozeralla sticks, some sort of macaroni and cheese bites, etc. Sara moans when she enthusiastically tears into the cheese sticks. “God, I love grease.”

“It's a good thing there's no chance of Lydia walking in on us,” I say, watching said grease run down her lips onto her chins. “After last time.”

“Aah, 's like I told you, she got too drunk to remember.” A thoughtful expression comes over her face as she chews on about three potato skins at once, cow-like. “To be honest I'll be surprised if she'll remember much of this week. Stress over the play has her drinking like a pig.”

“If it's that bad, shouldn't you stash your beer somewhere else?”

“Oh,” she says, sounding more unconcerned than her words should imply, “I don't know. She's put up with my bad habits, surely I can put up with hers. I just worry about her figure, poor girl.”

She goes back to chowing down on fried food, but that sounded eminently suspicious and I'm not in the mood for that sort of thing. “What's that supposed to mean?”

She pauses, gulps what sounds like a throat-width wad of cheese, burps thickly. “Her entire family is fuckin' gigantic. I mean, I'm a dainty little slip of a thing next to them. Mom, Dad, uncles, aunts. Rather bovine.”

“Well that's a little rich, coming from you,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, why do you think she's so uptight about me becoming my best self? So uptight in general, really. She doesn't want—hic—to fall victim to the sins of her fathers. 'S why she smokes, and why she doesn't drink. Well, didn't drink.” She sighs exaggeratedly. “Such a pity. Won't be long before the effects start showing.”

A light is dawning. “Are you shitting me?”

She bats her eyes. “Pardon?” A burp. “Pardon.”

“Look, I'm down with helping you on your quest to become a perfect sphere, but you can't just fatten Lydia up against her will!”

“Hey, she's the one—hulp—guzzling enough grain alcohol to kill a—hic—horse!” she says, and chugs what's left of her first beer. “She'd be doing it with or without my help. Hmm, sounds familiar . . .”

I laugh in disbelief. “You're incredible.”

“Aren't I though—HUUURRRP,” she says proudly, and accidentally drops a mozzarella stick onto her chest. “Shit,” she says, rooting at her breasts to retrieve the salvage. “Hey, she could use some meat on her bones. Calm her down. It's certainly mellowed me out. Which, speaking of—next course?”

I sigh, roll my eyes, and say goodbye to yet another part of my ethical self, striding back into the kitchen to fetch what's next.

- - - -

Chapter Twelve

After consuming an entire pizza, Sara belches loud and long and gestures. “Come lie on top of me.”


“I'm gonna be too uncomfortable later on. Lie on top of me.”

I walk across the room and lower myself onto her. When my weight falls against her stomach she belches again, and I smell garlic. “God, that's—LUUUURP—good.”

“How's it feel?” I ask, feeling my rather aroused state and hoping she doesn't end this within the next few minutes and demand I fetch the next course. Her belly is firm with food, pushing up against me like a rubber ball covered in a layer of rich, creamy fat.

She speaks in between eruptions from her stomach. “I've got a—URRRP—rock sitting in my stomach, but it's a—OOOOORRRPP—liquid rock. It's squishy and—URP—pliable and warm. And my stomach is—BBBOOOOUUURRRP—almost like a separate thing from me, it's so big and it's so heavy sitting on top of me, my whole center of gravity has changed. URRRP. And every time you jostle against me you're forcing me to BUUUUURRP, and I don't URP have any URP choice in the mURPter, and that's pretty damn hot.” Another deep belch. “The sound of satisfaction.”

I let go in my pants, then, and gasp slightly, and roll off of her. She hiccups and giggles. “Fatty lover.”

- - - -

Three pints of ice cream end up in her stomach after this, one after the other, her face increasingly sticky. Throughout all this she hasn't drunk more than two of the multitude of beers present, which has me wondering. If nothing else it must be intensely thirst-inducing to consume all this grease and sugar with nothing to wash it down.

She tosses the empty carton of chocolate peanut butter to the ground and places both hands on her massive half-moon gut. “Well—hic—I need something to relieve all this pain. So I think I'm—HIC—ready to get good and drunk.”

I eye her swollen tick's stomach dubiously. “You sure?”

“S—HIC—sure I'm sure! Once I get plastered enough the nerve endings in my stomach go numb.” She motions at the two-thirds of a six pack that sits on the coffee table. “Give 'em here.”

I hand them to her. She sets them on the couch beside her, struggles to haul herself semi-upright, and pops the four tabs one after the other. “Cheers,” she says, and lifts the first can to her lips.

In short order, it's gone. She hurls the empty can down, scoops up the second, and begins pulling at it. I watch her throat pulse in, out, in, out, absurdly loud gulping noises emitting from it. Second one down. The third goes the same way.

Sara rips the can away from her mouth and belches with such force that her eyes bug out; it sounds as if all the carbonation from the beers has erupted from her throat. She waits a few seconds, burps again, and then chugs the fourth one down.

I'm already opening another six pack. I should be worried, but she's such an incredible sight I can't think about consequences. I can almost see her stomach swelling outward, expanding, inflating. Another room-shattering belch rises from it, and I hand her another beer.

Three more go down her throat, each one a bit more labored than the last. Midway through the last one, all the buttons on her shirt go, one after the other, exposing her rich brown skin to the air. Without asking, I start rubbing it with both hands, kneading, and burp after burp arises from her throat. She should be in incredible discomfort, but the expression in her eyes is one of drunken bliss.

Again, I ask her, “How's it feel?”

Slurring, hesitating between words: “I'm—RRUURRRRP—all fizzy insUUURRRP. A god came along and transMUUURRP—transmuted me into a giant beer keg.”

I rub harder. “And how's that feel?”

She closes her eyes, lets loose a belch louder than any of the previous ones this evening, and her stomach seems to settle a little. “The stuff inside me is more real than what I am. I'm—HIC—mostly hollow, and the stuff that's filling me up feels so. Damn. URP. Good. I'm compl—HULP—completely liquid inside. Every time I tilt from side to side, or you jiggle me, everything inside mURP churns and rolls and sloshes. And it won't burst me, no, it won't burst me—RUUURRRRRRP, oh my god. I'm just gonna keep getting bigger and fuller and fatter, and I'm gonna be round, so round you could roll me, and I'll feel all that beer sloshing around inside me and I'll just want to BUUURRRRP and HIC over and over again, it feels so good, and oh I'm so fucking fat.”

I could feel all the beer and food churning back and forth within her as she said all this, as if her belly were indeed a separate entity. I just wanted to rub it all over, to feel it under my hands, to keep touching this thing that a god had taken and transformed into the ideal of roundness and fullness and fat.

She gave one last magnificent belch, and then fell back on the couch. I took my hands off her stomach, which was warm and pulsing, and moved to start picking things up.

From the couch, moaned: “I think I'll convert from—HULP—atheism. Become a neopagan. Worship Bacchus.”

“Worship yourself, you mean?”

“Wouldn't you?” she slurred, and burped, and fell asleep.
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Old 05-09-2016, 03:05 PM   #3
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Old 05-12-2016, 09:08 PM   #4
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Chapter Thirteen

An extremely hungover Sara leaves me a copy of the play the next morning when she waddles out the door. After cleaning up the residue of our feeding adventure, I flip through the pages idly.

It turns out I won't have much dialogue to memorize, on the bright side. The play mostly revolves around Bacchus and her revels, which Sara notes are to be staged and choreographed in lavish fashion. My character doesn't come in until about a third of the way into the action; I'm one of several mortals who have found their way to this particular bacchanal, and Sara/Bacchus takes a particular liking to me. Sex and other pleasures ensue.

I can't particularly see what's so compelling about the material as it sits on the page—as Sara said, it's mostly about aesthetics, much of what happens left to the imagination of the director rather than communicated through dialogue or stage directions. That said, her language is very pretty. Her Bacchus, I think to myself, will have to have more than a little Falstaff about it—where the god of Greek and Roman myth is feminine and conventionally attractive, Sara's gender-bent adaptation features a literal female who has indulged far too much in the wine she is god of.

That afternoon, I sit down with Sara and Lydia in the cafeteria to discuss the play. Maybe it's just because Sara pointed it out to me, but Lydia does look more bloated than usual. Nothing particularly perceptible, just sort of a general aura that floats around her. It seems Sara wasn't the only one drinking last night—Lydia holds her head in her hand and swears when the light hits her eyes.

Sara herself has recovered rather splendidly already, enthusiastically munching on the massive lunch tray before her. Lydia keeps snatching bites of things before returning to her default head-in-hands pose.

"So, what'd you think?" Sara asks through a mouthful of something breaded and fried.

I shrug. "Can't really say with so much of it left to the director. A few of the monologues were good, though."

Lydia opens two fingers a crack, immediately slams them shut again against the light. "Finding fake vegetation is gonna be a pain in the ass. At least by the time we need to it'll be spring."


She groans, and stuffs an entire handful of Sara's fries into her mouth, and explains while chewing. "Bacchush ish all about the bountiesh of nature. Guzzling the fruit of the vine, shcrewing in the open fieldsh, et shetera et shetera." She swallows hard and takes a gulp of soda to clear her airway. "So we need a grove. Can't just half-ass it with some fake tree branches stapled onto the scenery either, we're gonna need to find a shit ton of plants."

Sara beams. "She's so professional."

"Shaddup." She frowns. "There's costuming too. Ideally Bacchus would be naked, but prudish department heads being what they are that's out." Her sour expression deepens. "Not to mention our Bacchus is a little large for most period garb."

"A little? You insult me," her girlfriend replies, laying a hand on her stomach.

Lydia rolls her eyes and stuffs another handful of fries into her mouth automatically. "You'll be easier, at least," she tells me. "Roman apparel is a dime a dozen."

"How much of a budget do you get for this thing anyway?" I ask. Buying a grove's worth of plant life doesn't exactly sound cheap.

A sigh, more fries. "That's what I was considering last—hic—night."

"Somewhere before your tenth beer, anyway," Sara teases.

This isn't dignified with a reply. "If I were popular, I could wring more out of the department heads. But apparently—" she shoots Sara an ugly look— "I'm the Great Blue Dragon, so that's out." She shakes her head. "I'm don't get a lot of flex money, or I'd fund the extra out of my own pocket."

"What could you possibly need flex money for?" Sara asks. "You don't do anything but give yourself ulcers over classes."

"I've gotta eat," Lydia shoots back. "And cigarettes are nice too."

Sara raises a plump finger. "Well, that's perfect then! I get more money from home than I really know what to do with, I only buy a couple of books a week. So you use your flex money to cover the play, and I'll use mine to buy food for the both of us."

"Erm," I interject, "wouldn't it be less convoluted to just have you pay for the play's expenses with your—"

I yelp as a shoe connects with my shin under the table. "Nah," my fat friend says, giving me a look, "it makes more sense for the director to be spending the money on what she needs. So whaddya say, dear?"

If this were the Lydia of a few months ago, one who didn't have grand visions of a grove and who also wasn't desperately hungover, this probably would be seen through--if Sara were to just give Lydia her money rather than acting as some kind of middleman, the result would be the same. But this Lydia is both stressed and hungover, and there's also the fact that, I being who I am, my questioning something makes it more attractive to her.

Lydia groans. "Sure, fine, fuckin' great. We'll give you a damn catering credit too."

I grab Sara by a meaty arm as we're getting up, and hiss into her ear, "I know what you're up to."

She just smiles back and rubs her belly. "I'm the god of indulgence. Helping others become their best selves is my modus operandi."

- - - -

Chapter Fourteen

True to her word, Sara buys all the food for the both of them, and none of it is healthy. I know, because I accompany her when she buys it. Her stipend purchases all manner of cookies, cupcakes, and donuts; chips, Cheez-its, and other greasy snack food; ice cream, cheesecake, and so on and so forth. And, using her fake I.D. at the liquor store, a metric ton of beer. She also “forgets” to pick up any cigarettes, so even that potential method of resistance is gone.

“Smoking is unhealthy,” she tells me. “I'm saving her from herself.”

“You know what else is unhealthy?”

“Well, we all need some vices in our life,” she says, and shoves an entire Snickers bar into her mouth.

I'm not sure when I signed on to aid and abet this stealth-fattening. All I know is that ever since I met Sara most of my life seems to consist of being cajoled into doing things I know are completely inexcusable.

“Imagine how much happier she'll be,” she tells me. “About twice the size, so she can't pace back and forth so much. No smoking, so she isn't all jittery. Every time she starts to stress she can just eat or drink to fix it. Hell, I'm saving her from a heart attack.”

- - - -

I don't see the two of them together for a few weeks after that. The play doesn't require me to memorize more than a few lines, and Lydia seems to place more weight on production design than on people, so I'm not needed in that regard. Ordinarily I'd still be popping by her and Sara's dorm pretty frequently, but Sara keeps asking to meet at my dorm instead.

The stress her girlfriend is experiencing must mean she's forgotten Sara's promise to cut back, because Sara swells outward by quite a bit in these three weeks, as if she's making up for lost time. Miraculously, her belly still maintains its massive orb, and hasn't begun to droop; as if to compensate, her double chin is thick and floppy, her breasts bouncing violently with every step. Her gait has started to transform into a sort of roll, thighs shoving each other out of the way and ass rocking back and forth with every step. I'm pretty sure she's started to retain beer, because I can swear there's a liquid sloshing every time she moves.

“Lydia likes my thighs,” she tells me at Dairy Queen, in the midst of devouring the fourth of five Buster Bars. “She can't keep her hands off them any time we have sex these days.” She burps and licks fudge from her lips. “Not that I blame her, they're probably my best feature besides my stomach. Hell, they turn me on a lot of the time.” She tosses the empty stick down on the table and starts opening the next ice cream confection. “Whenever I waddle—god, I love using that word—anywhere, they just rub back and forth against each other, and they just jiggle all the time. The fact that they're thicker than some skinny girls' whole bodies is just so fuckin' sexy.”

On the way out of the place, the button flies off of her jeans and sails out into the parking lot. “Damn, I'll need to get another pair,” she says happily.

“How are your family reacting to this whole thing, anyway?” I ask apropos of nothing. It's never occurred to me before, and I'm not sure why.

“Oh, they always thought I was too thin,” she replies. “My mom was pretty fuckin' thrilled when I got back and my stomach was hanging over my pants.”


She smacks the back of my head. “Of course not. None of them said anything about it, but I could tell they were stunned. And that was before I ate all the relatives out of house and home. Can't imagine what they're gonna think when they see me again for spring break.”

“You don't sound too worried.”

She burps dismissively as she shoves herself into the passenger seat. “They've been taking issue with my life choices since elementary school. I had to smuggle anything by Nabokov into the house, didn't matter that Lolita is actually condemning pedophilia and all that. They're overly concerned, I ignore them, it's just how it works.” She looks at me quizzically. “There a reason you asked?”

“I suppose I was just thinking about the consequences that this,” I indicated her swollen belly, “has on other people. How your choices impact others around you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Nice try.”


She smirks. “Lydia's family, unlike mine, will be fuckin' thrilled to see her in her altered form. Like I said, she's the only skinny one of the lot of them, it's damn unsettling. She looks like a skeleton or some such shit next to her mother, it's ridiculous.”

She grins. “If you really wanted to stop it you would just cut me off. Sorry, buddy, you're complicit.” She leans back and lays both hands on her belly. “Let's go back through the drive-thru, I could use a Blizzard.”

- - - -

Chapter Fifteen

The next time I see Lydia, I realize Sara kept me out of their dorm just to see how shocked I'd be at the change.

When Sara had started putting on weight, she'd already been heftier, so it wasn't necessarily so dramatic. I'd noticed and relished it, sure, but I'm not exactly your average person in terms of how I view weight gain. To most of the other people in her life, Sara's gain was probably relatively imperceptible until she'd gone into overdrive.

Lydia, on the other hand, is so tiny that I'm rather stunned at how immediate the changes are. Part of it is that I haven't seen her in weeks, but even so, she's just ballooned. Her formerly flat stomach hangs out above her jeans, her shirt riding up and showing her belly button—I guess she's been so busy stressing about the new play she's forgotten about new clothes. Her jeans are skin-tight over her thighs, and her face is puffy and far less angular. She's not fat yet, just thin gone to seed, but Sara has been working her magic. “She's in the middle of her second dinner,” she whispers to me in an excited tone, watching her girlfriend devour what looks like an entire family-size pan of macaroni and cheese.

I've been called here because, even though, Lydia hasn't been able to nail down supporting players, rehearsals need to start, so she wants me and Sara together to rehearse the basic elements. “Your props are that bottle of wine,” she says, gesturing at said bottle, “and . . . that's it, really.” She downs some coffee and stifles a belch. “Fuckin' Bacchus, right?”

The dialogue is minimal, and not a lot of action is described, so I'm not entirely sure what it is we're meant to be doing. I wait for Lydia to provide us with some direction, but all she does is stare at her notebook and shovel macaroni into her mouth. I look at Sara, who shrugs, and grabs the bottle of wine, and pulls the cork.

She raises it to her lips and chugs straight from the bottle, one, two, three long swallows. “O my son,” she intones—she at least has memorized her script— “why do you hesitate? Why do you fear to come closer, why do you not join the merriment?

I do my best half-assed attempt to convey hesitation and fear to come closer while sitting on the same couch as her. Which basically just entails me staring, opening my mouth, thinking better of whatever ad lib I was about to do, and closing it again.

Sara takes another long pull from the wine, and belches loud and long. “Come taste the fruit of the vine. It is sweet in taste and in effect. It is the flight of a thousand birds, the dance of a thousand maidens, great deeds bottled and great loves distilled.

She takes my hand in hers and places it on her belly. “Look, am I not magnificent of flesh and magnanimous of spirit? Round and vast and beautiful? It is wine that makes me so. You have nothing to fear from me.” She moves my hand across her stomach, pressing it into the soft mass. “Drink, and you will be like me. You will be filled to bursting and yet want more. You shall feel your flesh around you, your senses experiencing the physical like never before. You shall laugh for no reason, and love eternally.”

See three paragraphs above.

Sara sighs. “Director, you wanna direct?”

Lydia swears. “The director is busy trying to work out the logistics of what this stage is gonna look like, and how we're going to make a Bacchus the size of a house look sensual.”

“I wouldn't think you'd have to work the latter out particularly hard.”

Another profanity. “Sara, be seductive. Graham, be seduced.”

A half an hour later, Sara and I head out. I shake my head. “This is going to be a disaster. I can't fucking act.”

“Oh, don't worry. People are going to be looking at me anyway.” She giggles. “Doesn't she look great?”

“Not really, actually.”

“Well, yeah, she's in that in-between stage where you're too skinny to look presentable, but I'll get her out of that as fast as I can. But that hopefully won't take very long.”

“You know, health aside, isn't this negatively impacting her ability to direct?”

Sara gives me a pitying look. “Graham, honey, you've really gotta stop being so dense.”


“Lydia is a horrible director. She tried it in a local theater the summer before freshman year and it was a disaster.”

“But she knows so much about theatre!”

“She has strong opinions, sure. I have opinions about literature, does that make me T. S. Eliot?”

I stop moving, trying to process this. “I mean, I know she's scary and all—”

“And if she were any good, actors would work past that, but she sucks. She fixates on certain elements of the production and the rest just gets neglected. This is typical for her.”

She starts waddling forward again, thigh rolling against thigh. “I know you're determined to think I'm the bad guy here, but I promise you that fattening her up is not ruining her life. If anything, I'm doing her a favor. This play is going to go so horribly that she'll see sense, drop the theatre major, and focus on political science. Why do you think I wrote such a horrible script?”

WHAT?! You sabotaged her by deliberately giving her a bad play?!”

“Jesus, keep your voice down,” she says, throwing a glance back at her dorm door. “Of course that's what I did. You didn't think I'd be pretentious enough to think that casting myself in the role of Bacchus in a one-act play about gluttony would be well-received, did you? The play is horrible. The writing is bad, it's almost nonexistent because of how little dialogue and stage direction there is, and I know she'll be focusing on the stage dressing or some such thing and forget to actually, y'know, make my writing coherent.” She chuckles. “Give me some credit. Even I would never write something that pompous seriously.”

My mouth hangs open, snaps closed, opens again. Repeat. “This is gaslighting. We are clandestinely sabotaging her entire life.”

Again, the pitying look. “Graham, I'm getting her to jettison a useless major, calming her down, and improving her figure. This isn't sabotage, this is an intervention.”

She turns around and starts waddling back to her dorm. “Welp, I'm gonna go see if my girlfriend needs a third dinner. See? I'm not neglecting her anymore, either.” She giggles again, a thoroughly amused expression on her face. “Oh, Graham, it's like I said. If you were gonna be appalled enough to stop me you already would've.” She pulls up alongside me and puts her lips to my ear. “And besides,” she whispers, “I know you think it's hot.”

I'm fuming. This girl is the most manipulative person I've ever met.

Aaaaaand she's not wrong. God, I'm an awful person.

- - - -

Chapter Sixteen

Another thing Sara wasn't wrong about: Lydia is passing out of the in-between-thin-and-fat phase very quickly.

The next time I'm invited to their dorm, a week after our first “rehearsal”, she's drunk, and her stomach protrudes considerably more than it did last time. She's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, presumably because her jeans no longer fit. The biggest change is her face; already a double chin is starting to creep up, and the whole thing's shape has gone from sharp and angular to rounded. I have to admit, it looks far better on her.

There are potted plants littering the dorm; on the floor, on the coffee table, even one or two on top of the TV. Lydia is trying to water them, but she keeps slipping and spilling water on the carpet, swearing drunkenly. “Set dressing?” I ask Sara, who sits on the couch eating ice cream.

She nods. “The most important part of any play.”

Lydia drops the watering can to the ground and says, “Gimme another beer, would you?”

I reach down and toss her one; she grabs for it, accidentally slaps it away, and it goes out the window with a resounding crash of shattering glass.


Sara is giggling uncontrollably, which in turn leads to uncontrollable hiccups. “Gonna—hulp—have to talk—hic—to the RA about that.”

Lydia sighs, shuffles over to me, and scoops up a replacement beer. At this distance I can see her stomach strain against the t-shirt; it isn't a belly yet, but give Sara another week or two and who knows. I lick my lips and gulp, trying to restrain myself from wondering if maybe this is a good idea after all.

The blue-haired girl takes a few hearty swigs, thumps her chest, belches. “Fuck it.” Another belch. “Guess I'm picking up bad habits.”

“I'd say it's—hic—utilitarian,” Sara replies. “Two of the three of us enjoy that sort of thing, and it clears room for more beer for you.”

“I'm gonna fuggin' need it,” says Lydia, and gulps some more. “Wish you'd remembered cigarettes this week. They take the edge off without side effects.”

“Side effects?” I ask, innocently as I can muster.

She rolls her eyes, sweeps a hand across her body. “Once the play is over with I'm going to be exercising all summer. And someone's going to be joining me, isn't she?”

Sara waves her fat hand dismissively. “Call me crazy, but I feel like it's preferable to be sedentary and happy rather than active and killing yourself.”

“Who says I'm not killing myself?” Lydia looks down at her stomach with distaste. “I mean, look at this.”

Sara hauls herself from the couch, waddles over to us. “Oh, I am,” she replies, and kisses Lydia deeply. I take the opportunity to note how her ass has reached new horizons of fleshiness.

“Anyway,” Lydia says, after she breaks away. “Sara's doing rewrites on the play.”

“Huh? Why?” For the split second this goes unanswered I half-hope she's reconsidering her sabotage and is actually trying to craft a decent text.

“I've been trying for supporting actors for fuckin' weeks now and nothing's come up. So we're narrowing it down to just the two of you.” She tilts her head back and chugs down the rest of her beer. “So on the bright side, we can still just stage rehearsals here until I've got the stage set up.”

“And give us proper stage directions,” I say, making it a statement rather than a question in hopes she catches my drift.

She waves her hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

I look over at Sara, who smirks. Nice try, guy. “How long do we have, anyway?”

Lydia groans. “Three months. Three goddamn months.”

I perk up slightly. “Well, that's plenty of time then, if it's only the two of us in it. Plenty of time to prepare.”

A shake of the head. “It's gonna take Sara a while to rewrite the thing, she says.”

“Probably a month at least,” Sara chimes in, smiling innocently.

“And I still have to get the stage absolutely damn perfect. RUURRRP,” she adds. “God, I'm drunk.” Evidently not enough, because she goes into the kitchen, presumably to fetch another for the fridge.

I look at Sara, raise my eyebrows. “A month, eh?”

She shrugs, returns to eating ice cream. “Hey, it takes work to write something as shitty as that. I've gotta make it just the right balance of pretentious, so it isn't too obvious.”

Lydia exits the kitchen, beer in one hand and a donut in the other. She weaves over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks. Hic. For the concern.” She sways slightly and burps in my face.

“You get sentimental when you're wasted,” Sara says, and grins as she throws an extremely unsubtle look at my pants. Fortunately, Lydia is too drunk to notice.

- - - -

Chapter Seventeen

The weeks pass, and Lydia continues to inflate.

By the time the month required for Sara's revisions has passed, Lydia is about as big as her girlfriend had been the night she asked me to be her enabler. Her sweatpants cling skin-tight to newly rounded thighs and ass, and her stomach has rounded out into a full belly, though it's not nearly as impressive as Sara's monstrous gut. Her double chin is in full flower.

Sara and I have been busy ourselves. Her belly, finally succumbing to the force of gravity, is beginning to droop, a crease forming midway through the navel. When she hugs me, I find myself buried in it completely, and when I reciprocate my arms sink deep into the rolls of fat present on her broad back. She balances her laptop on top of her stomach to work on the play; any lap she had disappeared long ago.

“It's good to know I'm always going to outweigh her,” she comments one night, while Lydia's in the bathroom. “I'm a jealous girl, competition brings out the worst in me.”

“How long do you intend to keep going, anyway?” I ask, idly glancing over at her while I blast aliens on the television screen.

“With me, or with the Great Blue Dragon?”


She considers. “Well, I'll be comfortable stopping at the point where I can still walk. I mean, I'm not one for physical activity at all, but sunlight is nice. As is walking to the bookstore. Or McDonalds . . .” She rubs one hand across her belly. “I was almost sad when this finally stopped rounding out and started drooping. I mean, there's something so seductive about being perfectly, completely spherical . . . but the more of me that's out in front the happier I am, ultimately. Keeps me warm at night. Besides,” and here she pats her thigh, which brushes up against me, “these things just keep getting sexier.”

I can't argue there.

“As for the Great Blue Dragon . . .” She pauses for a few moments, types several lines of the play. “I could be comfortable with her being as big as I was after Christmas. If I'm gonna be the one to surpass perfect roundness someone else should pick up the torch. And I don't want to cripple her or anything. Just make her big enough that she isn't rushing back and forth everywhere so much.” She looks at me and smiles. “It is working, you know. Every single evening is just eating and drinking, she doesn't have time to stress about things except during the day.”

“What's that?” Lydia asks, stepping out of the bathroom. Her thighs rub together now, the fabric of her pants swishing as it catches on itself, and I have to refrain from staring at them. Her belly wobbles as she pads over to the kitchen, presumably to liberate some food or alcohol.

“Oh,” Sara replies nonchalantly, “I was just saying how nice it is that you've been comparatively easygoing lately.”

“Easygoing my ass. There are so many things to do. Especially with Miss Lethargic here taking longer than she should on the revisions.”

“Two more weeks, tops, they'll be done,” Sara shoots back. “Working on them right now.”

“Eh,” says Lydia, returning with a donut in each hand, “the staging is the important part.” Said staging has been transplanted from the dorm room to some other location; I'm unsure if more plants are coming, or for that matter if Lydia has even been successful in keeping them alive.

“Hey, I turn into a giant cockroach or something?”

This comment pulls me out of a reverie; I suppose I've been staring at the Great Blue Dragon. “What?” is the best reply I can come up with.

“Oh, c'mon, dear, you know what he likes,” Sara says, snickering. “Lucky for me you're a committed sort of person.”

“And, y'know, gay,” I say, trying to shut down the conversation before further questions can be asked about why I was staring at the rounded bulge hanging over Lydia's jeans.

“Bi, actually,” Sara replies. “Isn't that right, dear?”

Lydia speaks through a mouthful of donut, grumbles, swallows. “Not that it's any of his business, but yes.”

“She had a boyfriend in high school, before she had me,” Sara informs me. “And by had me I mean . . .”

I hold up my hands. “I'm good, thanks.”

Sara shrugs. “She was bony, too bony. It hurt, every time she bucked I'd catch her ribs in my stomach.” She smiles. “It's been much better lately.”

“I can't know that!” I yell, and swear as my distraction allows me to take a headshot.

Lydia laughs, not a pleasant sound. “Not as if you haven't already seen enough.”

Well, shit. So much for Sara's assurances that she'd forgotten that incident completely.

“At any rate, don't stare,” she continues. “This is a temporary side effect of stress, and will be gone as soon as I finish this fucking class.”

“Aww,” says Sara, pouting. “I like side effects.”

“Tell me that next time you catch the flu,” says Lydia. Her bitterness would be more convincing if she didn't then proceed to start on the second donut.
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Old 05-12-2016, 10:17 PM   #5
Darth Praxus
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Darth Praxus has said some nice things

Chapter Eighteen


Sara has fallen asleep on the couch, her laptop having slid into the floor from the top of her prodigious stomach. Lydia and I are still awake, blasting at each other with machine guns on the TV screen. I'm winning by a fair margin—she's drunk, and her reflexes are shit.

I do suffer ignominious deaths fairly often, though, because I keep stealing glances at her. Her face is so much prettier in its rounded, generous form, the look of perpetual stress buried beneath the flesh. Her stomach looks even bigger when she's slouched on the sofa—and the fact that it's full of beer doesn't hurt. “Fat and happy” wouldn't be the right phrase, but she's definitely fat and indifferent, which is a substantial improvement over her snappishness. At this point, her lethargy is probably a blessing—I can only shudder and imagine her reaction if she actually put a lot of effort into the play only to realize Sara has played her.

She burps, and her belly vibrates, and I look away quickly. She's not Sara—not the glorious epitome of gluttony, the perfectly round monument to indulgence—but I can't stop stealing glances.

“Y'know,” she says, slurring slightly, “you're an asshole, but I prefer you to Sara sometimes.”

I jerk my controller to the left, dodge a burst of flak. “Oh? Why's that?”

“She talks only in complex sentences, and at length. You tend to speak in monosyllables.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, I guess.” A few more shots whiz by. “You're an abrasive jerk but I feel the same sometimes.”

I shoot her in the head, and a spray of blood erupts. She swears, hiccups. “And why is that?”

I shrug. “Sara isn't a real person, I don't think. Getting turned into the god of gluttony drove any recognizable bit of personality out of her.”

There's a burst of fire, and I go down. “Fuckin' A,” Lydia slurs in satisfaction. “And don't I know it. Living with it gets . . . ugh, sometimes.”

I feel a rush of guilt again, but then it's not as if I've had anything to do with Sara's personality-morph into a flamboyant . . . whatever it is she is. That's all been her.

I don't know where my next words come from. Maybe it's that I've had a few beers myself. Maybe it's that I'm sick of Sara and I being part of some particularly off-the-wall secret club. Maybe I've just been staring at the Great Blue Dragon's belly too long.

Whatever the reason, I look at Sara and say, “You've gotta admit, though—she is fucking sexy.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow, her expression hearkening back to the days of old when she outright hated me. “Oh?” She pauses the game, looks me in the eye. “I seem to recall being distraught that she was gonna kill herself looking like this.”

Shame rises, but I push it back down. “Until you started enjoying it.”

The other eyebrow joins its mate, and I belatedly realize I could be treading on thin ice here. “And just what's that fuggin' supposed to mean?”

I raise my own eyebrow back. “C'mon, I know you didn't just drunkenly forget it now. You were enjoying yourself, the night . . .”

“The night you spied on us fucking and then ran away?”

I raise my hands in a defensive posture. “Hey, I didn't spy on you. It was Sara's idea for me to hide in the bathroom.”

“You couldn't have hidden ten minutes longer?”

“It was cold in there.”

There are several moments' silence, and I think maybe we're just gonna forget it and go back to playing, and then Lydia says, “Well. I suppose.”

We turn our heads to look at the snoring, occasionally hiccuping mass that lies between us. I take my hand and place it gently on Sara's belly, feeling it gently rise up and down with breath. “I mean, c'mon. You could just sink into this and vanish.”

Lydia stares at me for a moment, then places her own hand on the warm dome. “So nice and soft and warm.”

“And when she's drunk a lot of beer,” I say, looking her in the eye, “it's probably like a water bed. Firm but bouncy at the same time.” I consider for a moment, and then add, “unless she's on top.”

Lydia actually laughs at this, a sort of strangled snort that's ineffably charming. “If you think I'm stupid enough to risk all of that falling on top of me, I'm insulted.”

I nod. “She is really big.”

The Great Blue Dragon moves her hand a bit closer to mine. “Enormous.”

I inch my hand forward as well; our fingertips touch. “I mean, her thighs are as big as a whole person. I bet having those squeeze you produces some . . . interesting effects.”

“You could say that.”

I tilt my head toward Sara's sleeping face. “And her face . . . it must be nicer to kiss, all soft edges like that.”


There's stillness for a few seconds. We stare at each other, as if we're daring the other to move.

And then Lydia's stomach hitches, and she burps in a short thick URP, and I move forward and kiss her, Sara's massive belly rising and falling underneath me.
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Old 05-12-2016, 10:58 PM   #6
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Darth Praxus has said some nice things

Chapter Nineteen

I can feel her round cheeks brush against me as I press against her lips, and I reach forward and grab her arm and my fingers sink into soft fleshiness. Taken by surprise, she hiccups, and I feel her mouth jerk with the reaction. Then she presses back, hard, and I overbalance and fall backward, and now it's Lydia resting on top of Sara's massive beer keg.

Sara stirs, groans, and Lydia scrambles to roll off of her. I put a finger to my lips, still trying to process if I actually did that, if that did indeed just happen, and more to the point what Lydia's reciprocating means.

“Wha . . . whazzgoin on?” our recent mattress groans. She turns her head to look at Lydia and smirks sleepily. “You're supposed to ask for consent, you know.”

Lydia's chubby face is burning, as I'm sure mine is. I try to turn away fast, but Sara's already looking in my direction. Her eyes widen for a few moments, recognition dawning, and then she bursts into laughter.

If there's something I hadn't expected, it's this.

Her proverbial bowl full of jelly quakes, as does the rest of her, ripples extending throughout her massive body. It starts as giggles, then moves to full-throated guffaws, and if there's any bitterness in the laughter I can't detect it.

Lydia tries to say something. “Sara, what is it—”

The laughter overrides her, getting louder and louder. It continues for at least thirty seconds more, Sara wobbling and wobbling. Finally, she's overcome with hiccups, and the belly laughs quiet down to a manageable chortle.

“You don't—HIC—you don't need to stop!” she says. Tears are streaming down her face.

I pull myself to my feet. “I've gotta go.”

Sara shakes her head. “Just when you guys were starting to enjoy yourselves?”

“I don't know what—” I begin lamely.

“Graham,” she interrupts. “Lydia, dear. I don't give a shit! All the excess sexy is spilling out from me, it's gotta go somewhere.”

Lydia mutters some sort of profanity under her breath and sprint-staggers to the door, wrenching it open and venturing out to parts unknown. Sara sighs, shakes her head. “For such a scary person she really is such a prude.”

I'm shaking slightly, though I'm not thinking clearly enough to know what emotion said shakes are associated with. “What the fuck, Sara?”

“What? I'm as progressive as the next person, if Lydia wants to fuck a guy for a change it's just fine by—”

“You set this up?”

She opens her eyes wide in a comical display of innocence. “What are you talking about?”

I look down at her and find myself enraged by the condescension. “You knew making her fat would make something like this happen.”

“Boy, you sure do love to throw around supervillain accusations, don't you?” she says, and giggles again.

“It's not funny, dammit!”

“It is, though! It's hilarious that you think I'm somehow that omnipotent. I can't make you guys do anything, especially when I'm asleep. You kissed her.” She pauses, frowns. “Or she kissed you. I wasn't necessarily conscious for that part.” Another smile. “I've gotta say, I'm flattered that you used me as a support.”

I give her the finger, the pathetic impotence of the gesture making my cheeks burn again. “If you wanted to break up with her, why couldn't you just do it yourself?”

The innocence seems genuine this time. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”


Sara struggles to push herself off the couch, reconsiders, and collapses backward. “I'm being nice to you here! You deserve someone nice after all the looking and not touching.”

“She's your girlfr—

“Yeah, she is! And she's also someone who you would really like to fuck, and who I'm sure wants to fuck you out of some sort of antipathy-induced sexual tension.”

I shake my head and laugh disbelievingly. “It's the perfect plan. Lydia doesn't want to fatten you up openly, so you need a feeder. Your feeder isn't getting sexually satisfied, and Lydia's anal-retentiveness is getting on your nerves, so you decide to kill two birds with one stone. This is unbelievable.” I turn on my heel and stalk toward the door.

“Hey!” Sara calls out. “It's a good plan!”

I don't look at her as I rip the door open and start powering down the hall, hopefully in a separate direction from the route Lydia took. “If you're a manipulative bitch, maybe.”

I amble around the campus green for the next half hour, breathing heavily and walking with heavy thuds. I don't know what I feel. I'm mad as hell at Sara, that's for damn sure. I'm guilty and . . . not, all at once, about Lydia. I'm disgusted with myself.

I'm done, I decide, stomping back to my dorm at 3:00 in the morning, holding my jacket tight around myself. I'm fucking done.
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Old 05-15-2016, 01:18 PM   #7
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Pinkbelly can now change their title

This is literally my favourite thing going on right now
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Old 05-15-2016, 01:28 PM   #8
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Darth Praxus has said some nice things

Only just realized by the way, apologies for the typo in the thread title. Damned un-editable headers.

Originally Posted by Pinkbelly View Post
This is literally my favorite thing going on right now
Why thank you! Happy to oblige.
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Old 05-17-2016, 09:24 PM   #9
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Darth Praxus has said some nice things

Chapter Twenty

Over the next five weeks, Sara fails to text me, call me, or contact me in any other way. Lydia never did any of those things to begin with, so I have no contact with either of them. I try to avoid places where I know they'll be walking, and in so doing manage to also avoid catching any sort of glimpse of them. I'm still pissed at Sara. Royally. Lydia I just really don't want to run into.

I feel like I should feel at least a little guilty over going AWOL when the play is supposed to be coming up soon, but that's at least one point Sara managed to convince me on—Lydia is a shitty director and the play is going to be an unqualified disaster regardless of whether or not it loses its male lead. And hey, it's not as though she needs me for the part either. She's not nearly as scary now that she's about twice the girl she was before, she can scrounge up someone who's willing to spit out awfully written lines while staring at Sara's bloated form. And even if she can't, I wash my hands of the business.

And at any rate, I have bigger problems to worry about. Finals are coming up, and what with my distraction for most of this semester I can't afford to get anything less than a near-perfect grade on any of them. That means carefully re-reading all of the literature I skimmed in the last several months, as well as desperately cramming on formulas for my cursed Math for the Liberal Arts general. Even if I were still on good terms with Sara, I'd have no time for feeder drama.

Thus, things happen in a relatively consistent pattern. I go to class, I eat lunch alone (which takes about three quarters of an hour less when it's just me consuming a normal-sized meal), I spend most of the rest of the day reading and reading and reading. It's nice, really—for someone who was attracted to Sara in the first place due to her literary opinions, I've done shit-all to form new literary opinions of my own recently.

What's more, I really like the stuff I'm frantically paging through. A bunch of top-tier Shakespeare, some Toni Morrison, even Catch-22, which I'm pleased to note lives up to the hype. For once my existence isn't focused on food and bickering, and it's lovely.

So of course it's too good to last.

- - - -

The penultimate week of the semester, Sara calls.

I pick up my phone out of reflex, not even checking the caller ID due to the Henry V speech I'm currently engrossed by. “Yeah?” I ask, and swear softly as my highlighter slips.

“Well, well, well. Been a—hic!—while since I heard those dulcet tones.”

Oh, Christ. It's her, sounding as faintly amused as ever.

“What the fuck do you want?” I ask, a bit too loudly; the occupants of the table next to me glance over, a bit taken aback.

She sniffs. “Now now, be more gracious! I am hospitalized, after all.”

Incredible irritation notwithstanding, I feel a faint pang of alarm. “What happened?”

“Oh, nothing too serious. HIC! Would you believe that I tried riding a bike again?”

“What bike?”

She bursts into laughter. “That's the question you ask? I'm lying here in the hospital with a broken arm, and the first thing that pops into your head is Where did you get the bike? Maybe it's a good thing we broke up.”

“First of all, not a thing. Second of all, you broke your goddamn arm?!”

“Yes indeed. I borrowed Lydia's bike, but my entire center of gravity has shifted since the last time I rode one, obviously, so I overbalanced and tipped it over and broke my damn wrist.” She burps into the phone. “So here I am, in the hospital.”


“Ah, well. Serves me right for being a—what was the phrase? Manipulative bitch.”

I groan. “Well, you were.”

“Spare me. At any rate, that's not why I'm calling. It's pretty damn great, if I'm being honest, nothing to do but lie here and eat. Which I have been—URP—in abundance.”

I bet.

“No, the reason I'm calling is on behalf of darling Lydia. What with me hospitalized and all, we lost the lead actress of the play. Which means she's gotta do the part herself. Stressful. On top of which, she still has no replacement for you. Not that she's been searching particularly hard. She's been too busy making the goddamn set perfect. All this to say she's titanically stressed right now, and she would never ask you to do this herself, so I'm calling without her knowledge to say it'd be really damn great if you'd show up tomorrow and do your part.”

“I can't do—tomorrow?”

“Hello, asshole, semester ends next week.”

“Well, I can't just—”

“Don't worry, you upright, ethical dork! I won't be there to manipulate you. This is just a genuine favor to a very frazzled girl who wants to get a good grade on her final project.” Her voice goes coy. “And to be fair, you do owe her after kissing her and just walking away. On top of helping me to ruin her figure.”

I growl under my breath. “Firstly, fuck you. Just, y'know, on the record. For posterity. Fuck you.”

“Duly noted.”

“Second, fine, tell her I'll do it. Do you have the new play?”

“Oh, don't worry, I was just bullshitting about revising it, nothing about your part has been changed.”

Of course. “Where do I have to be and when?”

“Show up at the theatre building tomorrow at 2:00. She's on at 3:15, but you'll need to get into your costume and everything.”

I rub my eyes with the fingers of one hand. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Thanks, Graham. Really.”

“Yeah yeah.” Just before she hangs up, I sigh and say, “And feel better soon, you . . . you . . .”

“Manipulative bitch?”

“Just fucking feel better, asshole.”

“Oh, I'll try.”
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Old 05-17-2016, 11:24 PM   #10
Darth Praxus
Join Date: Jul 2014
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Darth Praxus has said some nice things

Chapter Twenty-One

It's not as though I have to go over my lines at all—I have exactly two of them in the crumpled stack of paper I pull from underneath my bed—but I still have no idea what I'm expected to do. I suppose I'll just have to take my cues from Lydia, but is she even a decent actress? Has she even memorized the horrible pretentious shit that Sara banged out?

As I arrive at the theatre the next day, these and other worries are churning through my head. This is on top of the fact that I'll be seeing the Great Blue Dragon for the first time in over a month, and I have absolutely no idea where we stand. To Sara's point, I did indeed kiss her and then leave her without any further notice. The fact that we kissed over the sleeping body of her current girlfriend certainly didn't help matters, and fuck fuck fuck what am I gonna do.

I cast my eyes around the lobby looking for Lydia, but I don't see her anywhere. Perfect, just damn perfect. Sara didn't tell me which room we'd be performing in or how to get ahold of Lydia, so I've no bloody idea what I'm going to—

Oh. Oh.

Lydia is here. She's just unrecognizable.

Her belly juts out in front of her like a great soft mound. It's entirely round, but it looks less firm than Sara's, softer, wobblier. Her face is also completely round, the double chin pronounced. Her breasts have swollen accordingly. Her thighs are columns of fat. I have no estimate as to how much she weighs, but if it weren't for the blue hair I don't know how long it would have taken for me to realize that it's her.

As happened before, the shock of seeing the accumulated weight without being able to become acclimated to it almost floors me. It also gives me a hell of an erection, which I desperately hope Lydia won't notice.

She sees me, and beckons furiously. “C'mon, c'mon!”

I stride over to her, and she immediately starts walking—well, weaving is more like. “Hurry up, we've gotta—HULP—get you in costume.”

This can't be happening. This cannot be. “Lydia, are you fucking drunk?”

“Come on, please!”

- - - -

The room is a black-box type theatre, chairs in a ring around a central floor. Said floor is absolutely covered in vegetation—it's like walking into a greenhouse. Flowers are plastered in every conceivable spot, ferns pop up from underneath chairs, vines twine up the walls. I have to admit, as monomaniacal as Lydia was it has turned out to be a damn fine set.

“Where are the crew?” I ask.

“I'm it,” Lydia replies. “Big surprise.” Well, fuck.

She stumbles in, massive thighs rubbing against each other audibly—her entering first allows me to see that her ass has also immensely improved, two great balls of flesh that jut up and down with each step. “Lydia,” I ask her, “how much have you had to drink?”

“Fuckin' I dunno, six, seven beers. I need to keep my heart rate down if I want to make it through this, all right?” She swears a blue streak under her breath. “Fuckin' useless, idiotic bitch—”

“I mean,” I say half-heartedly, “it's not like she intentionally broke her arm.”

“Wouldn't put it past her. HIC!” She waddles over to a plastic crate, yanks it open, and tosses an armful of fabric at me. “Your robe, o devotee of Bacchus.”

It looks suspiciously like a Jedi costume rather than authentic Roman garb, but I begin peeling off my shirt anyway. “So d'you wanna practice?” I ask her, tossing the t-shirt behind the chairs.

She shakes her head vehemently. “I'm nervous enough as it is, that'll only fuckin' make it worse.”

I pull the robe on over my head, fighting to get it on without tangling something. “Where's your costume?” I ask, my voice muffled by the fabric.

“Getting to that,” she says. When I finally manage to disentangle myself, she's yanking her own shirt off, and I blush considerably. Her stomach is huge and fleshy and jiggles with every motion, and I have to turn away to avoid embarrassing both of us.

A few minutes of grunting and struggling later, I hear “You can turn around now,” and do so. Lydia's costume is basically the equivalent of mine, if many times larger, and a vine is twined through her blue hair. “You look—” I begin.

“Save it, asshole.” She marches over to the far wall, bends over, and pulls out a bottle of wine.

“Are you sure that's the best—”

“Fuck it, I need to take the edge off. Besides, Bacchus.”

She swigs straight from the bottle, throat working up and down as the wine cascades into her belly. After a few seconds, she pulls away, grimaces, and belches. “Fucking cheap shit.”

I clear my throat, squeeze my eyes shut. As long as there won't be any rehearsal, I need to clear the air in order to function properly for as long as this fucking one-act is going to take, and I figure doing it while Lydia is drunk is as good a time as any. “So, um, listen. About last time—”

She shakes her head back and forth so fast I'm afraid she's gonna cause damage to her neck. “Uh-uh. I get to yell at you over that later, I'm too stressed right now.”

Unfortunately, I've been working myself up to this confession and my momentum is too strong. Involuntarily, my tongue continues moving. “—I realize I shouldn't have done that, especially what with Sara and all, and I'm sorry, you were just really hot and we were both drunk and I've been horny for ages because of Sara but that's no excuse—”

“I said shut it!”

“—and I'm also incredibly sorry that I just stood by and let her make you fat because I'm a shitty person and fuck me and ugh. Not that you're ruined or anything, you're very pretty, but—”

She stumbles forward, reels back, and manages a decent slap to my face.


I put a hand to my stinging cheek, nod. “Okay. Okay.”

- - - -

Chapter Twenty-Two

Fifty minutes pass in mostly silence. I fiddle around on my phone and look over my two lines, Lydia waddles back and forth and swears to herself and drinks wine from the bottle. At 2:10, she tilts her head back and chugs whatever is left of it, then carefully deposits it in the costume bin. I decide not to point out that some of it has stained her robe—it's in character, I decide.

Five minutes later, the people I assume are the judges shuffle in. There's a man, balding, his nose the rough size and shape of a Bowie knife and his skin an alarming shade of red. The first of two women is in her mid-fifties, short, and severe, while the second is a relatively young mid-thirties with hair to match the male judge's face. They take their seats, pulling various bits of paper and writing implements from their briefcases, and then the older woman smiles. “You may begin whenever you are ready.”

Lydia gives what I think must be her best attempt at a cordial smile. “Hello,” she says, admirably hiding most of the slur from her voice. “I'm Lydia Wolfe, and the play I'm directing is Bacchanal by Sara Munroe. Performing it with me is Graham Pence.” She bows, and after a second I follow her lead.

The play initially calls for her to be alone, monologuing, but if there's a way for me to conceal myself she hasn't mentioned it and I didn't think to ask. So I duck down behind a makeshift tree trunk and hope for the best. We're off to an auspicious start.

Lydia herself takes a seat on the carpet of planet life, and to my complete horror and also my dismal lack of surprise, she pulls a second wine bottle from underneath a fern. She uncorks it, and takes a long drag, and begins to speak.

O, the pleasures of the vine. Oh, the magnificence of the grape, the bountiful pleasure of its commands . . .

Oh God. Sara may not have revised my parts, but she made her own even worse.

Lydia goes on in this vein for about five minutes straight, pausing to take gigantic swigs from the bottle of wine—I'm not sure if the latter are for their own sake or to cover up the fact that she's forgetting Sara's abysmal lines and improvising new ones. Regardless of the cause, I can't imagine getting drunker and drunker is going to do much for her delivery. And we're not even a third of the way in.

Finally, Lydia takes a particularly large gulp of wine, shakes her head, and says, “But what is this? Who has—HIC—who has come to join our revels?

There's my cue. God help me. God help us all.

I spring up from behind the tree trunk and do my best not to look at the judges' faces. Lydia rocks back and forth, bottle of wine clutched in one hand, and speaks the same lines Sara did months ago. “O my son, why do you hesitate? Why do you fear to come closer, why do you not join the merriment?

Shit shit shit fucking damn shit fuck.

I let her words fade away into the back of my brain, melding together into one pretentious drone, and focus on her body language to drive my cues. I'm not going to even try to emote—all I'd be capable of is cringing—and so I just decide to move where she wants me to move.

Lydia opens up her arms and beckons, and reluctantly, slowly, I walk forward and take a seat on the vegetation next to her. She smiles approvingly, gulps the last of the bottle of wine, and begins her next idiotic monologue.

I stare at her hand on the wine bottle. Her fingers are fat now, stubby and wide and soft. The arm is sheathed in fat, round and inviting. When I look back up to her face, the double chin bounces as she talks.

She turns to look me in the eye, after several more minutes, and puts those fat fingers underneath my chin. They're warm. “Come,” she intones, “share with me in the joy of divine intoxication,” and produces another bottle from beneath another plant. She pulls the cork, puts it to my lips, and shoves it upward, and I hastily begin gulping before it can spray all over my face.

After far too long, she yanks the bottle away, and I gasp, head swimming in a way I don't find at all pleasant right now. Lydia smirks, puts the bottle to her own lips, and lets the wine slide down in long, rhythmic swallows, her throat pulsing as it surges down. She opens her mouth to begin her next line—“Is it not a most—” and then erupts in a rich, mammoth belch. She instinctively places a hand on her great belly, and to my astonishment simply laughs before belching again. It's as if she's channeling the spirit of her girlfriend.

See,” she says, and shifts, and I can hear the liquid in her stomach slosh back and forth, “my joy overflows. I am transmuted into a wine-cask, full, full, fullUUUURRRRRRRRRP.” She thumps her belly with her free hand and looks into my eyes.

I'm incapable of following any visual cues at this point. I'm just staring at her, enraptured.

Without warning, she leans forward, places one plump hand on the back of my head, and kisses me deeply.

Her tongue is inside my mouth, and her fat arm is draped around my shoulders, and then she burps even as we're kissing and I taste wine, and I don't remember too much after that.

- - - -


Of course it was a debacle.

Lydia got a failing grade for a multitude of reasons, chief among them that she was drunk on stage, also chief among them because she had absolutely no proper lighting due to not having hired a lighting guy, also chief among them because the male lead had been a deer in the headlights (who sure enough forgot both of his lines), and also chief among them because the play had been abysmal, a pretentious ramble with no discernible theme or plot, for which she had compensated with mingled belches and kisses. The one place she did get full marks was set design.

We knew none of this the evening following that disastrous afternoon, but were both confident that it had been a trainwreck anyway. And so, we got tremendously drunk behind the theater building—Lydia had a further three bottles of wine she hadn't gotten the chance to use.

“Yeah, that's the end of my double major,” she slurred. “Fuckin' political scientist extraordinaire from here on out.”

“Aww, really?” I said, doing my best to sound genuine.

“Yeah,” she said, and burped. “I've had a revelation this semester.”


“I fucking loathe theatre.”

We looked at each other, and she started laughing, and I started laughing, and that was it for the next few minutes.

Finally, we'd calmed down enough that I could talk again, though Lydia's whole body still quaked, suppressed laughter sending ripples through the fat. “Sondheim still rules, though, right?” I asked.

“Oh, he's a fuckin' god,” she replied, and started drunkenly singing. “I have sailed the world, beheld its wonders, from the Dardanelles to the RRRRURRRRRRRP,” and that set us off again, and then somehow her lips were pressed against mine and her belly was pressed up against me, enveloping me, and then things got interesting for a while.

Afterward: “So does this mean you're breaking up with Sara?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I broke up with her a few weeks ago.”

“No shit?”

“I couldn't deal with it anymore. Needed a break.”

I thought this over for a few minutes. “Well, I suppose her sending me to help was genuine altruism then.”

She scoffed. “Don't flatter her. We're still dancing little puppets. She's just amused by the idea of the two of us getting together.”

I had to concede that as a genuine probability.

“We're still friends, though,” she said. “And I think you two should probably mend fences as well.”

“You are? Really?” I asked. “Even after she did . . . well—”

“Never enter a poker tournament,” she said, and hiccuped, and smirked. “I'm still incredibly pissed at both of you for doing this without my consent.” She slapped her belly. “And I'm never going to be as into it as Sara is. But I've discovered that getting drunk is really fucking lovely.”

I nodded. “And being transmuted into a beer keg has its advantages.”

“Such as?” she asks, eyebrow raised

I laid my hand on her belly, and pressed my lips to hers, and that was that for a while.

- - - -

I came over to their dorm the last day of finals. Sara was back, left arm in a sling, and entirely too pleased at what had transpired after the play. I had decided to keep her sabotage a secret from the Great Blue Dragon, and as far as I know she concurred with this line of thinking.

“Your parents are gonna be so fuckin' happy,” she told Lydia, and stuck an entire donut in her mouth.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “And they'll want to continue your work, too. I'm sure I'll be a fuggin' whale by the time sophomore year rolls around.”

“You shay that ash if it'sh a bad thing,” Sara said, and gave a grotesquely large swallow. “Just do me a favor, stay round as opposed to droopy. Someone around here has to,” and at this she patted her truly gargantuan belly.

“Believe me,” Lydia replied, and clutched her gut, and burped, “I have no intention of getting to be your size.”

“Graham'll be happy either way,” Sara said, and winked. “My being a manipulative bitch worked out for everyone in the end, really.”

Lydia smirked. “He hasn't escaped unscathed either, really.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

Sara giggled. “You have put on a little weight. You're not fat or anything, but . . .”

I reddened. “Ahh, go to hell.” I had noticed that my shirts were getting a little tighter over the past few months, but compared to the titanic transformations that had been occurring right in front of me it had registered as comparatively minor.

“Ah, don't worry, I like a man with a proper gut,” Sara replied. “It's distinguished.”

“You two are most definitely distinguished, then,” I shot back.

“You wound me,” Sara said. Lydia punched me.

Later that night, Lydia held me tight in her arms as we swayed back and forth. My hands sank into the rolls of fat that caked her back, her breasts were a full and firm pressure against my chest. My erection was enveloped by her belly, a jiggling mass of softness that pulsed and sloshed with beer and wine. She had popped her first button earlier, and Sara had applauded.

We broke apart, and Lydia belched richly. “I can't stop doing that,” she groused, and I kissed her harder.

As her fat enveloped me, I glanced over at the couch and saw Sara there, apparently slumbering—I couldn't help but notice, however, that one eye was suspiciously open for such a state of consciousness.

I removed one hand from Lydia's back, just briefly, and gave Sara the finger. She winked in response, and I turned away and placed the hand on Lydia's ass. And things went from there.

- - - -

As I write this, we're well into sophomore year. Lydia was indeed fattened up by her joyful family over the summer break, and came back completely rounded and quaking. Her belly is a gigantic orb that's near-constantly full of beer and wine, her thighs rub together in a waddle that's exaggerated by her near-perpetual tipsiness, her double chin has almost eclipsed her neck, and her ass is a balloon. She's a sloshing, jiggling sphere, is doing wonderfully with her sole major of political science, and is one the whole a remarkably happier person than when I first knew her.

I managed to lose the weight I put on over freshman year relatively easily, but I toy with the idea of putting it back on. I can't help but notice how fun Lydia and Sara seem to find it. The latter especially actively encourages me to do so. I think she has a bit of a problem.

Sara herself is gigantic. She's easily three times the girl she was when I first met her, and she shows no signs of slowing down. Her chin is triple, most of her mass is found in her gargantuan belly, and her thighs are each the diameter of a relatively thick woman. She eats, and eats, and eats, every time I see her, and her fingers are so fat that I can't imagine she finds it easy to turn pages anymore. Her expanding capacity is such that I find it doubtful the school will be able to keep up with her at lunchtime for very much longer.

She has a new girlfriend, now, who started off the year as a fairly svelte thing. As of this writing, she's put on probably fifty pounds.

Perhaps Bacchus exists after all.
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Old 05-22-2016, 12:26 AM   #11
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salmonsalmon100 has said some nice things

Delurking to say...

This is one of the best stories to appear here for a very long time. It's a good well-written yarn and all that, free of purple prose but descriptive in the right places. It evokes a powerful sense of hedonism, but in a believable context. I like the bit where Sara explicitly says she doesn't look at the scale -- so many of these stories become lists of numbers.

Above all, the combination of gluttony and drunkenness is great. I don't know why we don't see more of that.

If I could change something, it would be to make the characters a tiny bit more likeable and less troubled.

Perhaps one day we'll hear about Lydia's drunken journey through college and into the outside world?
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bbw, college, weight gain

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