BBW Consumption and Catharsis (~BBW, ~~WG, Fairy Tale)

Discussion in 'Recent Additions' started by Abalyn, Dec 8, 2019.

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  1. Dec 8, 2019 #1

    Abalyn

    Abalyn

    Abalyn

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    BBW, fairy tale, WG – To find solace from nightmares years past, a young woman returns to the forest. Awaiting her is a very special house made of very special materials.

    Consumption and Catharsis
    by Abalyn

    I.

    When Gretel returned, ten years later, the house was exactly as she’d left it. Somehow the witch must have cast a spell that prevented its falling to the elements—its sugar windowpanes had not melted in the rain, leaves and moss had not coated its gumdrop shingles, the gingerbread walls had not worn away. The only traces left to show that anyone had been there at all were the few tooth marks on the corner near the front door, where all that time ago she and her brother had taken a few tentative nibbles before the house’s owner had discovered them.

    Hansel lived a few miles away now, in a nearby village, married and with a child on the way. He was rail-thin again, wiry, as his sister was—he’d worked hard to remove all traces of their captivity after they escaped. As far as Gretel could tell, her brother was happy.

    For years, she’d tried to tell herself she was too. That their misadventure had been frightening, but as it faded into memory was no more than a bad dream. But all too often she’d find herself staring into space in the middle of the day, feeling the heat of oven flames against her face, the cold leathery touch of a withered hand clutching at her wrist and pulling her toward it. In the decade since she’d kicked the witch into her own fire, she’d not known a single day when she’d truly been able to remove herself from the visions.

    Hansel, she supposed, had had an easier go of it. Of course, he’d had to live with the awful foreknowledge that once he was plump enough he would be cooked and devoured, but it had never been anything more than that to him—abstraction, a concept rather than a reality. He’d never felt his skin begin to burn as it drew close to the furnace, had not filled his nostrils with the horrible sweet smell of cooking flesh after shoving someone inside.

    As she stared at the house, Gretel couldn’t help but feel a little silly at the terror that had gripped her all these years. It was so tiny now. Still a house made of candy, mind, but when she was little that front door had seemed to tower over her head like the gate to a palace. Now, it was . . . just a front door, though one that seemed to be made of solid chocolate rather than her own home’s wooden entry.

    Slowly, she pushed the door open, absently wiping her fingers against her skirts afterward to ensure no softened chocolate dirtied them. Her shoes clacked faintly against the floorboards—slabs of peppermint, shining as though newly cleaned. The gingerbread walls were laced with fine spirals of color—spun sugar spidering along the baked surface, shining faintly with the same iridescence as the windowpanes. The furniture was exactly as Gretel remembered—cookies formed the shapes of chairs and tables, with generous dollops of icing layered on top for padding. Embedded in the floor at the far side of the room was a spigot, one that Gretel knew connected to a well dug on the premises. Were she to use it, the liquid that would come pouring out would be not water but milk, ice cold and frothy.

    Only two things within the house were not edible. The bars across one corner, which had held Hansel captive; and the oven, standing in the center of the house’s back wall. Both were iron, and unlike the rest of the dwelling both showed their age. Rust was speckled across their surfaces, corroding, eating away.

    In a way, the rust and Gretel shared the same purpose.

    Slowly, calmly, without taking her eyes from the pitted oven, Gretel let her supplies slide from her back to the peppermint floor. She hadn’t brought much: a bedroll, an axe, some extra clothes, and a tin cup. Bending down, she reached for the latter, felt its cool surface beneath her fingers, then strode across the room and placed a hand against the spigot. For a moment, it would not yield to her touch; then she pressed harder against it, and with a faint groan it opened up.

    From deep in the earth, the milk bubbled up, as if it had been waiting all these years to come forth. With a great glopping spurt, it flowed into the cup, and Gretel quickly had to cut the stream off before it overflowed. Exhaling quietly, she looked at the cup clutched within her thin, graceful fingers and noticed that it trembled slightly, risking a spill; her hand was shaking.

    With a deep inhalation, she steadied herself, calmed her nerves. The tremor weakened till it was barely perceptible.

    Before it could begin again, Gretel brought the cup to her lips and drank.

    The milk was so cold it was a shock, her teeth crying out as though they’d been hit by a ball of ice. But it was good, oh so good, rich and creamy and fortifying, and Gretel drained the cup in one long swallow. She could feel the dregs of the liquid coating her throat, lingering there. The rest settled in her stomach, a dim, somehow comforting presence.

    Slowly, willing herself not to whip around, she turned and looked at the oven.

    Nothing had moved. No door had fallen open. No sound emerged.

    Returning to the pile of items she’d let fall to the floor, Gretel picked up the axe. Its weight was vaguely ridiculous in her grip, her slender wrists and wispy fingers comically small compared to the stout oaken shaft the iron was mounted to. But its weight lifted easily enough in her grip. She raised it, and admired the sunlight glinting off the metal, tinted pink by the sugar panes through which it streamed.

    Relishing the weight in her grip, Gretel hefted the axe in both hands, then turned and brought it down against the front door.

    There was no satisfying crack, the chocolate far too soft and pliable for that, but the blow splintered the door nonetheless. Chunks of chocolate big as Gretel’s hand went flying, scattering across the gleaming peppermint floor. One came to rest at her feet, a particularly sizable rock of candy. It looked to be the size of both her fists.

    Gently, Gretel lowered the axe back to the floor, then placed one hand on either side of the shard of door. Despite its size, it weighed next to nothing in her grasp as she raised it up. She turned it from side to side, watching the sugar-pink sunlight play across its surface.

    Then she raised it to her mouth and tore off as big a chunk as she could manage.

    The texture was somehow chalky and soft at once, yielding to her teeth without resistance but with enough solidity that it was still a firm presence within her mouth. The flavor, too, was a paradox, almost cloyingly sweet notes on top but with a sharp bitterness of cocoa underneath. Gretel rolled it around her mouth, letting it melt into stickiness, and then swallowed.

    And there it was. Her first bite. A beginning.

    The ending, she knew, looking at the peppermint beneath her feet and the gingerbread on all sides and the cinnamon rafters up above, would be a long time in coming.

    Best to get on with it, then, she thought, and took another bite. And another. And another.

    * * *

    Several hours later, Gretel lay moaning on her bedroll, one hand pressed fast against her stomach. The chocolate, so airy to hold, lay in her belly dense and heavy. Her fingers were sticky with the stuff, her lips as well, and her stomach roiled with the cups of milk she’d drunk down to try to quell the thirst the door had brought.

    And the door still stood, nearly as solid as it had been when she’d arrived. The divot she’d carved out with the axe stood out against the rest, a hollow carved into the chocolate, but it could be driven into the door a hundred times over and still the candy would not be gone. Thinking of how much she had left to do—and that was only the door, the house was enormous by comparison—Gretel felt her distended stomach lurch, and a muddy belch slipped past her lips.

    This was a stupid idea. A child’s dream, one that she could work at for months and not achieve. And at the end, what would she have to show for it? She’d already beaten the witch—burned her into nothing, watched her smoke rise upward from the gingerbread chimney. What purpose did this serve?

    Grunting, Gretel raised her head to stare at the oven, the descending sun lighting it dimly through the sugar windows. For a moment, she swore she could see something hovering at its edges—curls of smoke, calling out for something to burn.

    With sudden defiance, she tried to loose another belch, but her stomach hitched, and instead a strained hiccup emerged. She tried to hold the next one down, but her body would not be ignored, and another spasming hiccup slid sharply from her.

    Collapsing back onto the bedroll, Gretel snorted an almost-laugh, and hiccupped again, and let her fingers trace their way across her tightly packed belly.

    Eventually, she fell asleep.
     
  2. Dec 8, 2019 #2

    loopytheone

    loopytheone

    loopytheone

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    Interesting idea, I'm curious as to where it will lead.
     
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  3. Dec 9, 2019 #3

    Abalyn

    Abalyn

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    II.

    The next day it was maple sugar for breakfast—the doorknob, as it turned out, was solid tree sap, collapsing into grit against Gretel’s teeth with a satisfying shattering feeling—followed by more milk, then a dinnerplate-sized chunk of chocolate door, and then a sliver of peppermint floorboard to cleanse her palette. Gretel downed another cup of milk, and felt her stomach bubble uncomfortably—she knew she would have to lean into the discomfort in the days ahead, stretch herself until her capacity expanded, but there was no point in eating herself immobile first thing in the morning. Instead, wincing slightly at her jostling belly, she slid the mostly intact chocolate door open and went for a walk through the nearby forest. The birds seemed curiously unafraid of her, warbling without care as she made her rather noisy path through the woods—every few steps she lurched with a hiccup.

    Lunch was a hearty portion of gingerbread wall, with icing serving as butter and cinnamon from the rafters crumbled up to use as spice; instead of meat, Gretel used a slab of chocolate. Nearly every bite of the improvised sandwich had to be followed with a full cup of milk to keep her mouth from sealing itself shut; she could feel her stomach slosh with it, and burped through another bite of layered candy. Following the midday meal, she took another walk, this one significantly shorter; after only a few paces she had to come back inside and lie down, cheeks puffing outward with suppressed belches.

    As the meal digested, she allowed herself nibbles here and there from the walls, such that when the time came for dinner she was no longer pained but neither hungry. Nonetheless, she stepped outside and pried the lowermost gumdrops from the roof, eating them until she looked down and saw her stomach swelling outward in a curve. Her head buzzed with sweetness, and her gut churned with its heavy burden.

    A final glass of milk, and it was time for bed once more. Her eyelids nearly as heavy as her stomach, Gretel could feel herself drifting off almost immediately; she was dimly aware of placing both hands on her midriff, and sighing, before sinking into blackness.

    * * *

    After the first week, the same portions that had sickened Gretel now simply made her feel pleasantly full. And while the task ahead of her still seemed vast, she was making noticeable progress. Great swathes of the door had been eaten away; sunlight poured through the holes where she had eaten clean through, spaces big enough for her to stick her head into had she a mind. A whole floorboard had also vanished, leaving only densely packed earth beneath it.

    When she was not eating, she was in the woods, venturing in gradually broader circles into the trees, across the creek, and back to the house. The creatures there had grown more accustomed to her presence—now not only birds but squirrels and the occasional rabbit could be seen darting amongst the foliage, or cautiously watching her from afar.

    As she paused to rest by the creek, Gretel reached down and slowly ran a hand along her midriff. It met with less resistance than it would have a week ago; she fancied she could feel the slightest amount of softness there where none had been before. Even if it wasn’t a figment of her imagination, it was, she knew, a minor change at most; her clothes did not feel any tighter, nor did her reflection in the water look any different (though could that almost imperceptible softening at her jawline be the result of something other than the water’s ripples?). But nonetheless, she found herself smiling at the touch. Like the holes in the door, it was a small but tangible sign of forward momentum.

    Glimpsing the house as she finished her loop, Gretel felt some of its old sense of overwhelming size return. When she’d entered it a week ago, it had been no more than a dwelling; now it was something else entirely, a task to be conquered, and she fancied she could feel herself shrinking back to the size of a child in comparison. There was so much, so so much still to do, and from a distance there was no visible indication of her work at all.

    As she drew nearer, however, the sunlight caught a set of tiny bitemarks on the gingerbread, and Gretel smiled. All great things have small beginnings, she told herself. And if the task were to take her a year, then so be it.

    * * *

    That night, she dreamed of the witch, and the oven.

    Ancient, gnarled hands poked at the faint softness of her stomach, ran along her jawline just a degree less prominent. A choked, rasping voice rustled in a giggle, then whispered in her ear with tickling breath, All along you thought I wanted your brother? No, it was you, and you’re so kind to do the fattening for me. All I’ll have to do is come when you’ve finished and stoke the fire. As the words left her mouth, there was a sudden roar of flame, and Gretel could feel heat surge across her skin. She screamed, and the witch shrieked with laughter.

    When she woke up, the oven sat silently at the back of the house, watching her.

    Clenching her jaw hard enough to hurt, Gretel rose and turned on her heel. Squinting through the early morning darkness, she strode to the diminished door, exhaled slowly, and closed her eyes. She could hear birdsong streaming through the holes, piping into the house. Telling her she was not alone. A morning breeze caressed her face, its gentle touch as far from the witch’s as could be.

    Opening her eyes, Gretel placed her fingers on the edge of the largest hole and snapped off a piece of chocolate. Turning back round, she popped it into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed, all the while staring at the oven. When it was gone, she broke off another chunk, then another, then another. Each she consumed with relish, coating her tongue with melted cocoa.

    When she’d finished, she strode across the house to the spigot, opened it, filled her cup with milk. Drained the whole thing in one long swallow. Repeated the action, one time for each portion of chocolate she’d consumed. Letting the last drops of the last cup drip down her throat, she leaned her head back and let out a low, creamful belch that savored of milk and cocoa.

    She crossed the peppermint floor, eased herself back down onto her sleeping mat, and fixed the full force of her glare on the iron contraption that lay against the back wall. This is for me, she thought, as though something within the oven could hear her. For me, and for no one else.
     
  4. Dec 11, 2019 #4

    Abalyn

    Abalyn

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    III.

    When the first month had passed, Gretel staged a celebration.

    The walls of the house, by this time, were pockmarked, full of scrape marks where its new resident had dug into the gingerbread and extracted pieces. The icing cushions on the furniture were gone completely. The rafts looked as though they had been pecked at by a strange kind of indoor bird—fortunately, the same residual magic that kept the house protected from the elements seemed to keep it structurally sound despite this. More packed earth showed where peppermint floorboards had been broken up and eaten.

    And the door—the massive chocolate door—was nearly gone. Only the bottommost portion remained, hanging from a hinge of hardened molasses.

    In the woods, Gretel chopped at a tree with her axe, gathering branches for firewood. Holding the tool was easier than it had been—her fingers had thickened, the slender wisps they’d been coated by a new layer of plumpness.

    The same layer, she thought to herself as she chopped, that had overcome the rest of her. When she looked down at the pile of branches at her feet, she could feel a faint creasing at the base of her jaw, her chin going firmly double before she looked back up and returned it to an undefined puffiness. Her thighs brushed together as she shifted from one foot to the other, and her upper arms wobbled with every stroke of the axe. Her breasts had swollen outward, and she knew that, were she to look at her reflection in the creek, the angles of her face would be blurred by fat rising up to blunt the edges and smooth the lines.

    The most notable change was in her belly—it was continuously distended now, a curve rising from her midsection, pushing gradually outward like a snowfall that accumulated too slowly to see in motion. When it was not packed with sugar, Gretel’s touch would squash its softness inward.

    It was the most inconvenient part of her to be made new by this endeavor—her poor skirt was protesting more and more about wrapping about her waist—and yet for a reason she couldn’t define, it was also the most dear to her. Perhaps, she thought, setting the axe down against the tree and gently patting at her stomach, it was because it was an outward sign of what she’d accomplished so far, the same as the blemishes in the gingerbread walls, as the sunlight streaming across her face every morning where there was no door to block it.

    That evening, as the sky bruised itself pink and orange, she set the fire in a pit she’d dug outside the house. As the flames grew high, she strode to the front doorway, reached down, and broke the crystallized molasses hinge from the frame with a crack. Pulling it from the chocolate, she crunched it down whole, and turned her attention to the door itself.

    She’d not brought the right supplies for this, but fate had a way of providing; a few days ago, on one of her walks, she’d passed through the house’s back yard and discovered one last bit of iron tossed amid some bushes: a cauldron, good-sized, one the witch must have used on suppers prior to her and Hansel. At first she’d shivered and refused to go near the thing, but then she’d thought of the door, and a plan had grown in her mind. Eventually, she’d reached down and pulled it from its hiding place. After all, what was she here for, if not to turn the witch’s devices to her own ends?

    The cauldron sat atop the crackling flames now, supported by sticks Gretel had found on her midday walk. The opening was wide, but not enough for her to dump the last of the door in all at once; the remaining piece was the length of her forearm, and its width matched that. Grunting, she snapped the slab in two, and then dropped the pieces into the cauldron.

    And then it was just a matter of waiting, nibbling on gumdrop shingles, coming back every so often to poke a branch into the cauldron and stir. The smell of melting cocoa filled the evening air, making Gretel sigh as it wafted toward her nostrils. She moved the stick around and around the cauldron, feeling its path become more ponderous as the chocolate began to pull at it like mud.

    When its consistency through and through was in the space between solid and liquid, Gretel wrapped one of the spare skirts she’d brought around her hands and carefully removed the cauldron from atop the fire. Returning to the house, she drove the axe into the north wall again and again, until several hunks of gingerbread the right thickness had been torn away. Gathering them in plump fingers, she returned to the fireside, depositing them neatly on the grass.

    With a sigh, she lowered herself to the ground alongside the cauldron and selected a length of gingerbread. Carefully, so as not to scald herself, she lowered it into the pot, then cautiously lifted it out again, dripping in molten chocolate.

    From the first bite, she was lost. The semiliquid door flowed into every nook and cranny of her mouth, thickening her tongue and sticking between inner lip and gum. The taste was all-pervasive, insistent, rolling down her throat with a hot trail of sweetness and coming to rest in her stomach in a bloom of warmth. Quickly as she dared, she took another bite, then another, until the entire piece of gingerbread rested within her.

    Heavenly as the liquid chocolate was, it was not without its drawbacks—Gretel was suddenly, overpoweringly thirsty, and hastened into the house to grab her cup and fill it with milk. She took her time swallowing, letting the milk steal some of the stickiness from her mouth, opening her throat back up from the muddy sweetness that still coated it. The drink’s chill soothed the heat within her belly, restoring it to a normal temperature. Smacking her lips, Gretel licked the last drops from her mouth and returned to the fire.

    Another chunk of gingerbread was encased in chocolate and devoured, then another. For a reason she could not explain, Gretel found that rather than becoming harder to swallow as it went, the chocolate slid more and more easily into her insides; it was as though she were getting accustomed to the challenge, finding her stride, practice making every morsel perfect. As she ate, and ate, and ate, her trips to the spigot with her tin cup became less frequent; the stickiness had become strangely pleasant, her mouth basking in the chocolate’s insistent presence.

    When the cauldron was half gone, Gretel felt her guts lurch in a spasm of sweet pain, and she loosed a belch that felt smooth as velvet and tasted of cocoa as it lingered. She thumped at her stomach as if to chastise it, then realized belatedly that her fingers, and now her clothes, were covered in melted chocolate. She giggled, and hiccupped, and belched again, the sharp ache at her midriff growing slightly less acute.

    Looking down at the ground, she saw to her sudden dismay that she had consumed each of the gingerbread hunks she’d brought. She would need to fetch more, but the thought of standing and swinging an axe made her stomach’s contents flip uncomfortably. If only there were an easier way of getting the job done—

    She looked down at the cauldron, and felt her chocolate-slathered lips peel themselves into a grin.

    Cautiously, she reached down to place her hands on both sides of the pot and discovered to her relief that the metal, while still warm, was not hot enough to burn. With a heave, she lifted the cauldron from the ground, hearing its contents glop and churn with the motion. Leaning forward, she put her lips to the iron rim, inhaling the scent.

    It was cloying. It was disgusting. And she had never smelled anything as good in her whole life.

    Tilting her head back, she let hot, bubbling molten sweetness surge into her mouth in a sheet of warmth. It wasn’t like gulping water or milk; she let her throat work up and down slowly, massaging the contents of the cauldron as they oozed forward like a mudslide. Everything from her stomach upward through her throat and back to her mouth and nostrils was a stream of sugary, viscous heat, her stomach swelling, inflating, filling to the brim with the cauldron’s bounty.

    As the flow trickled to a halt, Gretel let her tongue lick the last drops from the cauldron’s edge. Without conscious effort, her hands released the iron pot and let it thud to the ground; a moment later, Gretel followed it, leaning back and moaning as her belly churned with an aching, piercing fullness.

    She rubbed her hands along its arc, feeling the warmth radiating from beneath the skin, fingers pressing into the pliable softness of her upper layer of fat before meeting firm, tight stomach below. The pressure unlatched something within her, and her lips involuntarily parted to release a luxuriant burp clotted with chocolate. As soon as it finished, another poured forth, thick and muddy and so rich that it almost felt solid. Gretel let them come, rumbling and low and delicious, each one relieving the pressure within her by a tiny degree.

    Eventually, the fullness had shrunk from feeling as though she might burst to an afterglow of perfect satisfaction. Gretel rubbed at the swelling at her center, absently licked hardening chocolate from her lips, and hiccupped, feeling the motion roll the contents of her stomach in a slow wave.

    That night she fell asleep under the stars.
     
  5. Dec 12, 2019 #5

    Abalyn

    Abalyn

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    IV.

    Gretel remembered Hansel during those months of captivity—the desperation as he extended a bone for the witch to feel when she told him to let her see how fat he’d gotten, hoping that her near-blindness wasn’t just some cruel trick, some ruse to give him hope before she snatched it away and gobbled it up. And she remembered how sick he’d looked, in those moments when the witch was asleep and she was able to sneak close to him and whisper plans for escape. He’d been eating better than he ever had at home, but the weight hadn’t suited him; it had been thrust upon him against his will, the eating not for its own sake but urging him toward an unspeakable future.

    After she’d thrown the witch in the oven, after the two of them had made their escape, he’d refused to eat for days. Eventually, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he’d relented, but for months after that he’d eat far too little for an adolescent boy, would work from sunup to sundown so hard Gretel was convinced he’d drop, until he’d fashioned himself back into the boy he’d been before the house. Thin as a reed, all elbows and angles, lined with wiry muscle.

    She’d pressed him to talk about it—lord knew she’d wanted someone to commiserate with, to share her own ghosts from that time—but he’d always refuse to say anything. The only time he’d done it had been years later, unprompted. The two of them had been walking to the village to buy their father a new hat for his birthday, and Hansel had just blurted out to her, as if commenting on the weather, It’s funny. Before we came to that house, I was dying to eat whatever I wanted. I was starving. And now the thought of eating more than a few bites of anything makes me ill.

    The words had taken her so aback that she’d said nothing. They’d simply walked on in silence.

    She dreamed of him, a few weeks after the night of molten chocolate—him as he was now, a grown man, taller than her by a good foot, face lined with stubble, a younger reflection of their father. He looked down at her, and shook his head, and sighed. We worked so hard to get away from her, he said. To put those days behind us. And now look at you.

    Look at herself she did indeed, for in the dream it was as if she stood before a massive sheet of glass, and could see herself clearly. Her face, framed by burnt-orange hair, had rounded out now, her double chin permanent regardless of whether she was looking down or staring straight on, her cheekbones vanished beneath plump flesh. Her upper arms flared outward into jiggling bulk, while her breasts had swollen heavy and solid. As she shifted from foot to foot, she watched the way her thighs rubbed and jostled at each other, and knew that were she to turn she would see her rear rise and fall in a rolling wobble.

    Most prominent of all was her belly, the new centerpiece of her body—sleek and fat and quaking when she moved, the stomach of someone who had eaten and drunk well beyond her fill. To say it swelled outward was wrong, because even when empty (which was less and less frequent now, to be fair) it protruded outward with the same satiated pride, the product of hours and hours of persevering consumption.

    I know, she said to her dream-brother. Aren’t I beautiful?

    * * *

    The victory over the door coupled with her stomach’s ever-expanding capacity had spurred her to increased measures in her work on the house. Her progress was attested to by the suddenly bare east side of the roof, all its gumdrops sucked away; by the floor, whose boards had been pried upward and devoured to the point that a solid fifth of the house’s base was now dark earth rather than peppermint; by the walls, which were shot through by sunlight as more and more holes were gnawed in the gingerbread.

    Dwindling slowly but surely it might have been, and yet, Gretel thought as she admired her handiwork from outside, the house was not vanishing. It lived on in every piece of her—her fattened fingers, her widened silhouette, the girth that had finally split the seams of her skirt and necessitated a shift into the first of the bigger replacements she’d brought.

    If she caught sight of herself unawares—spotted her reflection in one of the sugarpane windows, say, or looked at her face in the creek without meaning to—the image did not register as herself for a long moment. She would look at this sugar-swollen, dimpled woman before her, and wonder at her beauty, and puzzle at her presence. And then she would remember—That’s me, that’s Gretel. There’s just more of me.

    Peering through one of the bigger holes in the gingerbread, she caught a glimpse of the oven. As she still did every so often, she did her best to bore a thought into it so that it would hear. More of me. More of me, and less of her, bit by bit.

    Eventually, everything about this house, from the rafters down to the foundation, will be in me. Will be me.

    And you’ll be nothing at all.
     
  6. Dec 18, 2019 #6

    salmonsalmon100

    salmonsalmon100

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    Well, I thought that was really good.
     
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  7. Dec 19, 2019 #7

    Abalyn

    Abalyn

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    Why thank you! Looking forward to concluding it, right now holidays/Star Wars have me too buzzed to think about putting anything coherent down for the space of several hundred words :p
     
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  8. Dec 31, 2019 #8

    Abalyn

    Abalyn

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    V.

    Time passed in a patchwork of details.

    The way the gingerbread’s flavor seemed to change with the seasons—spicy with summery zest when Gretel had first arrived, it deepened into a more savory mélange as the autumn leaves fell, before the winter snows lent it a peppery warmth.

    The way in which Gretel’s hiccups and belches became a language of their own, a second speech of fullness—low and long and lazy when she was tired, sharp and chipper when she was feeling energetic, rich and textured and flavorful when she was particularly engorged.

    The way her garments patiently, resignedly gave themselves up to destruction, individual threads straining before splitting in two, buttons holding tight as they could before bursting against an onslaught of flesh.

    The way the sugarpane windows, when she finally, gently eased them from their housings and consumed them, melted on her tongue like so much snow.

    The way the peppermint floorboards began to creak under her weight as more and more of the house entered her (eventually, if she wasn’t too careful, her footsteps would shatter the candy into splinters).

    The way her brisk walks through the forest gradually transformed into leisurely waddles, her thighs jostling against each other with the slightest movement.

    The way her belly slowly, inexorably became the most of her, the core of her bulk, the centerpiece of her self. It was the day she was no longer able to see her toes that she realized the majority of her body was stored in her front, a monument to all the work she had done.

    And still, there was so much left to do.

    Best of all was something she only noticed after it had been happening for weeks. Blinking as the morning sunlight crossed her rounded face, Gretel yawned, stretched, and then went very still as she realized.

    There had been no nightmares waiting for her in her sleep. No dreams of any kind. Just perfect, silent black.

    * * *

    When a year had passed, and the snow had melted, and the forest teemed with the celebration of new life, Gretel surveyed the dwelling she had lived in all this time—had used as shelter even as she lovingly dismantled it piece by piece—and realized there was only enough left for one more meal.

    The iron stove stood alone in the midst of the clearing; the bars that had formed Hansel’s cage, with no ceiling or floor left to anchor them, lay in a scattered pile. The spigot protruded from the last of the floorboards; behind it stood the remnants of the house’s back wall, a pile of gingerbread only a foot high and perhaps a yard wide.

    Everything else—the gumdrop roof, the sugar windows, the cinnamon rafters—had vanished. Every last crumb had been thoroughly disposed of, not a speck of sugar left behind. Were it not for the cast-off metal furnishings, once this last bit of gingerbread was gone, the house may as well have never been in the clearing at all.

    But, Gretel thought, taking in the fruit of her labors, that didn’t mean the house was gone. She carried every bit of it inside her. And even as she’d transformed it, so too had it transformed her.

    She looked down at her fingers, made stubby not by growing shorter but by thickening into sausages of flesh. The back of her hand was dimpled, her wrist a casing of fat, joined to an arm that was as big around as her waist had been, what seemed like such a short while ago.

    Reaching down, she ran the hand along the folds of her naked belly—she’d outgrown the biggest of the garments she’d brought long ago. It extended from her like a fountain of dough, rippling and reshaping itself in its mostly empty state—tonight, she knew, after she’d finished her devouring, it would be smooth and taut, a layer of softness atop a firm core of food. Flopping down upon it were her breasts; when she looked down to better view them, she felt them brush against her third chin, which wobbled as she gave a tiny giggle.

    Looking at the stove, she couldn’t help but smirk. As a child, staring into its gaping, fiery maw, it had seemed so huge—a portal to hell, a flaming gulf, the end of the world. Even the witch, when Gretel had thrown her into the furnace, had seemed to crumple into nothing as its flames touched her, no more than a paper doll. But now it had shrunk—it was so small, barely big enough to fit a little girl or a wizened old woman. And it would never, ever be able to hold Gretel as she was now—a good four times the woman she had been when she started eating.

    She had fantasized about what she would do with the lump of iron, when she had finished with the house. Pry it from the ground and throw it in the river, take it to a blacksmith and melt it down. But looking at it now, the end of her task in sight, she thought it best she leave it right here. Let birds nest in it, let the rain and snow eat it with rust, let it dwindle down to nothing.

    Meanwhile, she’d only grow, and grow, and grow.

    She wondered what Hansel would say when he saw her—whether, like her dream-brother, he’d look at her with shock and disapproval, or whether he’d understand when she explained to him. But those thoughts could wait. At the moment, she had a house to finish eating.

    And then, once her becoming was over, she would live.

    * * *

    Thanks for reading, everyone!
     
    Marlow, Tad and Ulvrik like this.
  9. Jan 2, 2020 #9

    Tad

    Tad

    Tad

    mostly harmless

    Joined:
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    The great white north, eh?
    I've loved this story! Very different, but so very good!
     
    Abalyn likes this.

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