The Fat Van by Kilo Cal (SSBBW, Fantasy, ~XWG)

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Kilo Cal

Feb 20, 2009
SSBBW, Fantasy, ~XWG - a man, a van, a plan

The Fat Van
by Kilo Cal

Miszies lika try fatvan?”

Vanessa and her friends were startled by a pleasant voice coming from the heretofore silent guard at the Sea Strand Museum. Noticing him — really looking for the first time — Vanessa decided that he was what her grandmother, back when the fatvan was built, would have called a “hunk.”

“Ooh, keep me away from it!” her friend Anjolie squealed, feigning fright and jumping back into the accommodating arms of her boyfriend, Ghangit.

“Iz almost perfec’ ‘zample of las’ fac’ry run of 2029 — finyl 101 vans made by VehiMec juszt for our islands, two years afta model year.” The “hunk” was operating in docent mode now, not quite sure whether he’d been rebuffed by the mainland women after asking his standard question —“lika try fatvan?” — to any pretty girl who happened by.

“One finyl van save by VehiMec for selfs. In Omaha Museum now. All-‘em other 100 fr’m 2029 mod’fied here on islands by fatvan lejund King Kohl (some call ‘Kink’ Kohl).” The hunk was now in full docent mode. “All-‘em fatvans has King Kohl trademark signature bead-welded on fender. All designed by King Kohl personal, but all 100 suttle diff’runt!

“This here one made f’r Count HuJaime VI — used to fatten Count’s fifth-wife-to-be. But very unfort’nate — poor gurl in fatvan onny two yearz. Then happen UniWorld ProtectPact and Ban of Obesity. Zad story — fifth-wife-to-be onny 27 bouks (‘bout 212 kilos) when ban come in. Marriage happen, but HuJaime VI never make fifth wife pregnant — too thin!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The fatvan was indeed a magnificent specimen of 65-year-old specialized automotive art. It was high-roofed and painted boldly with the shiny bright colors preferred in the islands back in 2029.

Anjolie’s boyfriend Ghandit was being predictably masculine, descending into the museum’s under-van pit to inspect the seldom-used hydraulic motors and the space-saving temporary fuel tanks. Those tanks would have contained “CoCoHol,” a mixed alcohol fuel derived entirely from the islands’ biomass, and thus exempt — back in 2029 just as now — from UniWorld NewFewl taxes.

The hydraulics would operate, Ghandit knew, on “IsleOil,” a bioproduct that could never be exported from the islands lest demand decimate the island agriculture. The use of IsleOil implied, in turn, the need for o-rings, hoses, and other rubber products manufactured only from island-grown, genetically modified IsLateX trees.

The accommodations for a driver were almost non-existent. That individual would stand in a deep footwell with no pedals, hugging a tiny steering wheel and almost kissing the windshield. There was no dashboard —indicator information was projected onto a semi-opaque portion of the windshield.

Shifting and braking were combined (“Brake- Reverse-Neutral-Drive-Brake”) in what was the last driver-operated shift ever made by VehiMec. It was activated by a tiny custom lever only four inches long. “Park,” the fatvan’s normal mode, was accomplished by a lever-pull between the driver’s feet, a lever that also engaged the four-wheel “ShurStop” posi-brake.

Vanessa was fascinated by the real purpose of the fatvan: the public display of a young woman being brought into astounding obesity as a requirement for marriage. In the case of this particular fatvan, according to the Guard/Hunk/Docent, the young woman had been slated to become fifth wife of one of the islands’ hereditary “Coconut Counts.”

Vanessa noted with interest the “Upp’N’ovR” rear door of the fatvan, a design eliminated with VehiMec’s 2026 model year and the feature that, more than any other, had necessitated the special factory run of 2029.

As if the last 15 centimeters of the van had been chopped off, the “Upp’N’ovR” took up the full area of the back of the van except for indents to accommodate the pods for brake and signal lights. The Upp’N’ovR could be raised parallel to the ground, and it could then slide back and forth over the fatvan’s roof. With no windows, it served in its raised and sliding position as a sun visor. And the King Kohl modification included “flatbrite” photovoltaic paint over the whole surface, such that on a sunny day, the fatvan had no need of CoCoHol fuel.

“Sun above, Shade below, Power in between” King Kohl had said of his invention.

The shade was needed, Vanessa remembered. Young women being prepared for marriage in a fatvan were nude — on display in their full glory. Two young men, their function typically translated as “acolyte” were employed by their Coconut Count to oil and massage the flesh on display and to feed the young woman more than she wanted to consume and more often than she wanted to eat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“OK. I’ll try it!” Vanessa exclaimed to the Guard/Hunk/Docent.

Anjolie was startled. “How could you possibly want to try something that makes you fat?”

“The van didn’t make you fat, Anj. The acolytes and the Coconut Counts did! Just sitting here today in this vintage vehicle isn’t going to do anything to me!

“Miszy ztep up here, take zeat!” The Guard/Hunk/Docent said, ignoring Anjolie and refusing to intervene in the argument.

Up close, Vanessa saw that the Guard/Hunk/Docent had a name badge.

“Arnhek?” she said tentatively.

“Iz family name from my fatherfather, he said. And you, miszy…?

“Sorry, I’m Vanessa.” The Guard/Hunk/Docent — Arnhek — was becoming more and more interesting, more “hunky” the closer she got. She flashed her flirtiest smile on him.

She examined the fatvan’s slider, King Kohl’s original invention. At night, it was withdrawn into the van; then at daybreak, it slid out to rest at an angle on the ground. It had a seat for the young woman, but it was very much more than a seat.

“…Strap footz — feets — in here…” Arnhek intoned quietly. “Not walk, ever! Accolytes gets what you want. Scratch itches, rub oil to keep sunburn away, dress hair… Acolytes do all!

“Also strap hands. Not feed self, acolytes do alla feed. Mak’ sure wife-to-be eat more than she wanna feed self.” As Arnhek secured the ankle and wrist straps, he continued his docent speech.

“Zlider zeat is design from 2023 — lotsa tiny bumpuz up and down — air!” Arnhek said. Vanessa racked her brain and then remembered a technology she’d once read about —pulsating waves in what was essentially an air mattress were used to minimize skin contact in bedridden patients and thus prevent bed sores. She supposed it would work just fine for someone sitting all day and getting fat on the seat of a fatvan.

Arnhek did something at the periphery of Vanessa’s vision, and lights suddenly blazed above. As the raised Upp’N’ovR began to make electricity; Vanessa heard the slightest hum behind her. Now Vanessa began to see how comfortable the seat was as it pulsed back and forth, up and down, in minuscule waves. But the seat seemed, well, extensive. As though it could accommodate two or three Vanessas side-by-side. At the front, it had an extension obviously made to support the fleshy apron of a huge, pendulous stomach. Vanessa had trouble imagining that any girl’s stomach apron could ever get big enough to roll out quite that far.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“V’nesza lika fatvan?” Arnhek’s voice was quieter and more seductive, his tone more languorous. His question really wasn’t a question at all — it was more like a tempting assertion.

“V’nesza ‘majin she many years ago?” He almost whispered it. ‘Majin she ‘mport’nt wife-to-be for Count HuJaime? ‘Majin she wants — ‘majin she needs — t’ be fatter an’ fatter’ an’ fatter? ‘Majin fatvan is be made f’r V’nesza become more fat as she want? As she NEED? Arnhek’s accented voice was low, hypnotic, insistent — commanding more than suggesting.

Vanessa indeed imagined — no, she became —a long-ago Vanessa sitting on the slider of a fatvan parked on the sea strand. She looked out over her vast burgeoning belly and her hugely mounding breasts. She viewed them with dismay, knowing desperately that her belly burgeoned insufficiently and her breasts mounded not enough.

“More,” she begged. “Faster,” she pleaded to her acolytes between mouthfuls. They fed her as fast as she could swallow. Each in turn, they hefted and massaged and oiled her heavy breasts. One by one, they kneaded each flabby bulge of her abdomen. In succession, they pushed experienced, massaging, manipulating hands into the deep folds of her back and thighs. But all of her flesh — heavy, massive, flabby as it was, was not yet enough.

Three months hence, they had told her, something called the “ProtectPact” would take effect throughout the islands, and with it, the dreaded UniWorld Obesity Ban.

“No time.” Vanessa had been told. No time to perfect her pulchritude.

“More,” she nevertheless begged. “Faster,” she pleaded with anguished intensity.

Vanessa slowly came out of her reverie. Still mumbling “…no time… not enough...,” she peered out from the slider to where her friends had been. But all she saw was an eerie, preternatural dimness.

Arnhek suddenly appeared in front of her, his face in a ghostly light. The hum behind her intensified as the slider began drawing her slowly back into the fatvan’s interior.

“I am honored, Ms. Vanessa,” Arnhek said, now speaking without any trace of accent, “to present this fatvan to you, to make it yours and yours alone. In the highlands of these islands, I am still respected as Count HuJaime VIII, the grandson of the Count HuJaime VI.

“Down here, I occasionally take my place in the museum as the humble bumpkin Arnhek. I do that whenever I have completed the restoration of another one of the fatvans in the extensive collection I inherited from my HuJaime forebears. “I become Arnhek whenever I need to find a young woman who will make one of my fatvan restorations complete. A woman who will sit in the fatvan looking out over the ocean (albeit now from the highlands rather than the sea strand) all the while gaining prodigious weight and bulk. In short, Ms. Vanessa, a woman who will emulate — nay, become — one of the maidens of yore for whom the fatvan was invented!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The slider had now withdrawn completely into the fatvan, and the “Upp’N’ovR” had descended again to become the fatvan’s back door. Mechnical hums and noises and creaks intensified around Vanessa as the fatvan lurched into motion with its seldom-used hydraulic motors. The back of Vanessa’s seat reclined into one of its “sleep” modes while an odd scent permeated the fatvan’s interior.

The scent made Vanessa both sleepy and hungry. As the fatvan left the museum and began its ascent into the highlands, she drifted in and out of consciousness.

“More,” she murmured restlessly.

“Faster,” she demanded in fitful dreaming.

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