Spare Change - by Seavixen (~BBW, Magic, Self-realization)

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seavixen

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~BBW, Magic, Self-realization - A crazy crone helps a confused soul find happiness

SPARE CHANGE
by Seavixen

The street outside the bakery – Market, as it had come to be known for the wide variety of establishments and sidewalk peddlers – was particularly crowded. All around, bodies seemed to be bumping against each other as they struggled to weave through the maze created by their fellow shoppers; it was a sight that made Francesca cringe and sent her stomach whirling with dread.

There were few things less hospitable to a fat woman than Market Street when it was so filled with humanity; it was difficult enough to navigate through and around the various merchants with their tables and stands – but near enough to impossible with matters as they were.

She felt suddenly very self conscious, holding on to her sack filled with breads and pastries, while the better people of the city huddled around fruitstands, tables of fresh fish, and massive cartons of vegetables. She felt weak and wretched, imagined that the eyes of everyone nearby were darting towards her – studying her, judging her.

Too shamed to continue standing there, letting them all gawk with disgust, she pushed her way through the crowd, hot tears pouring down her face; now and then, someone attempted to speak to her – but she shouldered past them hurriedly, not wanting to hear their accusations or offerings of pity. Pity was even worse than cruelty.

Shoving her way past a final gathering of shoppers, she veered off the busy sidewalk and into the relative calm of Eldritch Alley, where she frequently cut through on her way home; she preferred the quieter company of scraggly beggars and napping drunks, who stayed – for the most part – well out of her way. If anyone bothered her in the alley, she could always buy their approval and acceptance with what cash was in her wallet. The needy, it seemed, were much less interested in judging.

“Spare change for your dearest dreams, lovey?”

The voice was shrill and as smooth as gravel, but pleasant in comparison to the face of the woman who had spoken. Her features, though clearly of harsh design, seemed to have melted with age; her nose, long and pointed, matched a jutting chin and sharp cheekbones – but the flesh all around them sagged, her eyes nearly lost in the deep crevices of her wrinkles. Her unruly hair was a shock of pure white, thin and tangled, that created a mad halo around her dirty face, and against the darkness of her filthy, ragged clothing. A single, gnarled hand, its knobby fingers ending in long, twisted nails, reached out from the voluminous folds of the mud-caked fabric that swathed her; Francesca eyed the old woman with calculated disinterest, then kneeled to put a few weathered bills in her waiting hand.

“My dearest dreams, hm?” she asked politely, not wanting to offend the woman.

“Oh yes,” she said, her blue eyes brightening as she tucked the money into her rags, “your dearest, wildest dreams. Or, rather, one of them.”

In a flash of movement that stunned Francesca, the old woman grabbed hold of her arm, the yellowed, curling nails digging into her soft flesh. Though she seemed ancient and frail, the woman’s grip was like iron; Francesca could not free herself from it, even using her weight for leverage.

“Do you know what that is, dearie? Do you know your dearest dream?”

“To be thin,” Francesca cried, her voice high and brittle with panic. “To be normal.” She stared wildly at the crone, unaware that she had dropped her groceries and her purse, unable to speak; her muscles had frozen – she was too frightened to move.

“Is that it, then?” the old woman asked grumpily, her mouth pursing in what could have been irritation or disappointment. “Are you sure?”

“I just want to be happy!” Francesca was crying again, frantically this time; her ability to move was slowly returning, and she was trying to tug her arm away. “Please let me go. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

The old woman raised her eyebrows, her blue eyes gleaming unnaturally from within the wrinkled shadows of her eye sockets; those eyes seemed wide and bright now – and, somehow, eerily alive.

“But this isn’t about what I want, child,” she replied, grinning darkly. Francesca thought dimly that she could count the number of teeth the woman had left on one hand. “So which is it? Happiness, or thinness?”

Francesca shook her head, blinking away the tears that clouded her vision; the small of her back had gone numb from standing too long, and her legs were on the verge of buckling. The stench of the alley – a mixture of refuse, rot, dampness, and filthy bodies – seemed suddenly stronger, and her stomach wanted to be free of its contents.

“What’s the difference? Why are you doing this to me? Let me go, please.” She was begging shamelessly in between sobs. “Please?”

“The difference is everything,” the crone said mysteriously. “I am a witch woman, and I have offered you your dream come true – you have only but to know what your dream is.”

“I want to go home,” Francesca said softly, falling to her knees. The broken pavement was cold and rough against her skin; little pebbles, broken glass, and bits of garbage dug into the flesh that was crushed against the ground by her weight, and she winced as the witch woman pulled at her arm, throwing Francesca off balance so that her face jerked to a halt mere inches from the tip of the old woman’s severely shaped nose.

“Your eyes speak your confusion,” the crone announced confidently. “I will do what I must, then. You have already paid.”

Her grip remaining tight, the old woman reached into her rags with her free hand and produced a small pouch; before Francesca had time even to wonder about the pouch or its ingredients, the witch had tossed a goodly portion of its contents – some sort of ground, fragrant herb blend – into Francesca’s face. It took her several moments of coughing and sneezing to realize that she had inhaled most of it.

“What was that?” she sputtered, grimacing at the bitter taste left in her mouth.

“It is done,” the witch woman replied evasively, her eyes studying Francesca with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “You weigh three hundred and forty-one pounds. If it is thinness that is your dearest wish, return to me within a month weighing no more than three-forty even – then you will have your wish. You will no longer care about food, and your body chemistry will become such that you must be slender.”

Too stunned to care any more about resisting, Francesca slumped against the crone’s arm. It couldn’t be believed, of course – but if it were true! Oh, if it were true – she’d only have to lose one pound!

“However,” the old woman continued, a mischievous smile playing across her wrinkled, puckered lips, “if you do not return to me within a month, or if you return weighing the same or more, you will be granted a never-ending appetite – a bottomless stomach. You will live a life of utter indulgence.”

Horrified, Francesca stared up at the crone’s withered face, her mouth bone dry and her body shaking. It couldn’t be true. There were no such things as witches, or magic, or any of this nonsense. And yet… what would she do if there were?

“You can’t do that,” she said softly, her voice weak. “I paid for my dream, not a nightmare.” She felt ridiculous speaking the words, but the terrible fear that welled up within her was too much to bear.

“You asked for thinness, or happiness, child. You will decide your fate when you return to me.”

Francesca realized with a start that the crone had released her; her arm rested uselessly at her side, forgotten, much like her groceries and purse. She was numb with the conflicting feelings of excitement, fear, and cynicism. Wordlessly, she rose to her feet and collected her things.

“None of this is real,” she said after a moment, looking the witch woman straight in the eyes. “You’re a crazy old woman. I hope the money does you some good.”

The crone merely cackled shrilly and grinned her mostly-toothless grin. Disgusted with both the beggar and herself, Francesca turned away and headed home.

The pie was mocking her. All of the things she’d gotten from the bakery were – the muffins, the breads, the crescent and cinnamon rolls, the cherry turnovers and the croissants – and Francesca knew that she was on the verge of cracking. She had scarcely been out of the house for three days, for fear that she might run into the witch woman – just in case, she told herself, pigs started flying and the impossible became possible.

She had weighed herself as soon as she got home that first day, naked as a jay bird so as not to hinder the accuracy. The scale – a nearly limitless one, bought for a small fortune from a specialty store – had stated in large, glowing letters that she weighed three hundred and forty-one pounds precisely. The next day, it had been the same. This morning, however, it had said three-forty-two. She could not risk meeting the witch woman now – just in case.

And on top of that, there was the delicious chocolate crème pie, just sitting there in the fridge, singing to her. She had given in to temptation the day before, as if to laugh in the witch’s face – and she had paid the price for her indulgence. She couldn’t do it again – not when she only needed to lose two pounds.

But then, Francesca realized, if the spell really worked, she would no longer care about food. What would happen to the pie, and the others? Would she just throw them away, or would she eat them and not enjoy them at all? Either seemed terrible, and pointless. She could enjoy them now, at least, and probably suffer only a small set back. She had almost a month. Another pound or two wouldn’t make much difference; she could gain or lose ten and never know it.

With fresh resolve, Francesca retrieved the pie from the fridge, along with a fork, and began rescuing it from a depressing fate. She didn’t bother to slice it or shovel it onto a plate; she intended on eating it all.

The texture, creamy, cool, and smooth, delighted her tongue; she rolled it in her mouth and moaned with pleasure. It would be worth the extra work. It tasted more divine than it ever had, now that she did not feel guilty. Somewhere along the way, she had come to believe the old woman after all; she would be thin soon enough. This indulgence didn’t matter.

The pie disappeared with alarming speed. She felt slightly full when it was done, but her hunger went beyond the whims of her stomach. She gathered up the cinnamon rolls and croissants, as well as a box of doughnuts and the cherry turnovers, and carried them into her room, along with several cans of soda and a glass of water.

There she shed her clothes and lounged on her bed, alternating between the various foods and drinks. She found that she could eat more if she nibbled a bit of croissant and had a sip of water when she had gotten her fill of sweets; the neutral and salty flavours renewed her desire for a doughnut, or a cinnamon roll, and before long she had made a considerable dent in her feast.

Rubbing her sore, bulging tummy, which was now filled well past its capacity, she pushed the food to the side and curled up for a nap; when she woke an hour later, she was ready to continue. Now and then, she stopped to take a nap, or to place a pillow under her tummy as a cradle, or to get some other item from the kitchen – but, for the most part, she ate for the entirety of the day.

She indulged with a passion that she had never before dared to experience, reassuring herself that it was merely a final hurrah before her life changed forever – before she was thin, and normal, and happily adjusted. Before her sinful attachment to food was destroyed.

Smiling happily, she finished the last of the cherry turnovers and surveyed her stash. The doughnuts had disappeared pretty rapidly, as had the croissants; she had also gone through the crescent rolls and half a loaf of bread, which she had made sandwiches of. There were two cinnamon rolls and four muffins left untouched. An empty box of crackers had fallen on the floor, and numerous empty soda cans were stacked on her night stand. Her stomach felt as if it was about to explode, but she still wanted to eat something.

She satisfied herself with a single chocolate mint, then snuggled into the warm covers of her bed and went to sleep for the night.

---

When Francesca woke up the next morning, she felt sick. Gloomily, she stumbled into the bathroom and ran a hot bath; still in a sleepy daze, she gathered her usual bath-time items – scented candles, a book, a glass of water, and a half gallon of ice cream with a spoon. There was something about having a bath that invariably made her want ice cream – and getting out of the bath to fetch it was too much hassle. Even though she felt sick this morning, she knew she was likely to stay in the bath until she felt better, and she would certainly want some ice cream by then.

She hissed as her chilly feet came in contact with the hot water, then grunted softly as she lowered herself into the bath with some difficulty. The tub was of average size, and therefore was much too narrow for her considerable heft; she had to squeeze her body into it, and then scoop her tummy fat – which extended outward at her sides – up to allow the water trapped behind her to flow back into the front of the tub; otherwise, it would overflow when she leaned back even a little. The entire procedure was automatic to her now.

Francesca sighed, relaxing as best she could in the small tub. In addition to the narrow width, the depth was also insufficient – her stomach puffed out to a height that surpassed the edges of the tub when she leaned back. It was handy enough, in that she could use her belly as a table that was safe from the water, but she would still have liked to take a proper bath.

She lounged there for some time, relaxing in the steaming water, before reaching for the ice cream. Though she didn’t expect to have an appetite, she found herself surprised by the burst of divine flavour that filled her senses with her first bite. She devoured it hungrily then, somehow managing to savour every bite even as she shoveled it fiercely into her mouth, driven by an almost lustful need.

In fact, Francesca realized with a dim feeling of confusion, it really was lustful. Her entire body was as alive with this ache as it had ever been with the need for a lover’s touch. She did not realize she was trembling until she dropped a small amount on one of her breasts; ravenously, she licked it off and proceeded to finish the carton.

She wasn’t sure, then, if she was disappointed that the treat was gone, or strangely proud of the accomplishment. Whatever the case, her passions were still aroused. Unfazed by the daunting task of getting out of the bathtub, she struggled to her feet, pulled the plug on the drain, toweled off quickly, and hurried into the kitchen to make herself a stack of sandwiches. She still had a pantry full of delicious foods to save from a terrible fate, and she was beginning to realize how little time she truly had to do it.

In her single-mindedness, she completely forgot to weigh herself. She remembered, briefly, before she drifted off to sleep that night – but mostly she just lay there smiling, kneading her full, aching belly, thinking about the decadent pleasures of the day.

---

Francesca awoke on the tenth day to an apartment completely bereft of food. Her entire pantry – which rivaled her bedroom in size – had been picked clean of its contents; her refrigerator was empty but for a lone can of soda, and her cupboards were bare but for dishes and cookware. She had gone to sleep the previous night still feeling hungry, her tummy still far too soft and squishy with emptiness, and she felt deflated after having had so many wonderful days of constant elation.

Reality was setting in. She had to start losing weight. She hadn’t even weighed herself in an entire week; she had been too caught up in the eroticism of unrestrained indulgence to even think about the spell.

When she went to the scale, she was horrified to find that she had gained almost thirty pounds; the task seemed suddenly insurmountable. She was doomed.

Shaking, she sat down on the edge of the tub and started to cry. What would she do if the witch woman really had cast a spell, and she was going to lose her chance to be thin? There was nothing else to do. She had to buckle down. She had to lose weight.

Ignoring the persistent hunger that plagued her, Francesca forced herself to stand up and stop crying. She would not allow herself to eat. She would exist on water for as long as she could, and then she would go out and buy carrots to nibble. She would exercise until she couldn’t stand anymore, rest for awhile, and then exercise again. It would be simple. She would just force herself.

That first day was the most miserable of her life. The next day was even worse, because she was tired, sore, and hungry from the previous; by the sixth, parts of her body had gone completely numb, and she was in too much of a daze to care.

The number on the scale was dropping. That was all that mattered. It was dropping, and she would be thin.

As she lay in bed that night, she cried softly to herself. Not because of the pain, or because of the hunger, but because of the misery. She could no longer ignore the gnawing thought that kept popping up in the back of her head.

For her, there really was a difference between thinness and happiness.

---

It was the thirtieth day when Francesca at last stood once more before the witch in Eldritch Alley. The old woman’s blue eyes glittered as their gazes met, and she smiled. Those worn features seemed somehow warm, now; the smile was kindly, not sinister.

“Ah,” she croaked, cackling softly to herself. “Three-ninety-four. I’m impressed, child, truly I am.”

Francesca responded to the smile with a genuine one of her own. Her face had rounded out considerably, and the pale flesh of her belly poked out proudly from the bottom of her too-small blouse.

“I don’t think I need your spell, witch woman,” she said, placing a wad of bills in the old woman’s hand.

“Of course you do,” she replied, pressing the money back into Francesca’s hand. “There is still the matter of a bottomless stomach.” She grinned slyly.

“But I enjoy being full,” she argued mildly, “and I would like you to have this for giving me happiness.”

The old woman nodded and accepted the money graciously, tucking it into her rags, then grasped Francesca’s hand in that quick, rough way of hers.

“If you enjoy being full, dearie, then you will have to try much harder.”

Francesca frowned, feeling a sudden, gnawing hunger in the pit of her stomach. Her body was ignited with a raging fury of need; her face flushed with the force of her ravenous lust.

“Thank you,” she breathed hastily, meaning it.

The witch only smiled as Francesca hurried down the alley toward Market Street, desperately in need of a large supply of baked goods – but completely devoid of guilt or shame.

Still smiling, the old woman reached out a hand toward a passerby.

“Spare change for your dearest dreams, dearie?” she croaked merrily, her eyes twinkling with mischief as the shy, heavyset woman approached her cautiously. “Do you know your dearest dream?”
 

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seavixen said:
[I didn't really plan on posting this here, but hey - what the hell? :) This is a thoroughly unrealistic.. but fun.. story.]
Well, where better to post it? Who said that we're committed just to realism or against fun? :)
 

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