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Voices - by Dr-Black-Jack (~BBW, ~XWG, Occult, Horror)

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dr-black-jack

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~BBW, ~XWG, Occult, Horror - Voices prompt a woman to eat past her usual limits

paranoia_ascend_into_darkness_by_dr_black_jack-d4ec1pq.gif


http://dr-black-jack.deviantart.com/gallery/33487025 <-- alternate version found here

(Author's note - Also available in a totally different format on my DA page. Drop by some time and compare the versions to see which one you like best! If the response is good, I might make more of them like that. Oh and happy Halloween everyone!)


Paranoia's Stories
By: Dr-Black-Jack


Ah, I see you're still awake.

Hello once again, my new friends

Now, I'm sure that a lot of you out there have heard the term "the way to a woman's heart is through her stomach." It's an old adage to the advice mothers used to give girls who were in search of a husband, though to be twisted for more appropriate times.

I'm here to inform you that line of thinking is incorrect.

The stomach can be stretched and filled to a variety of different capacities, and can influence us in ways we would least suspect. A full belly can lead to contentment whilst an empty one leaves us feeling just as tired and hollow at our core.

People who are big eaters are often referred to as "jolly" or at least look that way to the average passerby. Flushed, full cheeks, a big, wobbling belly and the moans of being so stuffed can all be used to mask the more subtle changes which go on at the heart.

Food which is described as addictive, food which urges you to keep eating it beyond fulfilling simple hunger, such food warps and shapes itself to become the keys to the door of gluttony itself. It becomes that little voice that tells you that one more won't hurt and that you can always diet tomorrow. It is that little voice which you should be afraid of.

Sometimes the hunger gently knocks on the heart through the stomach.

Sometimes it just tears the walls down.

You think it's amazing that I know all this?

Well, you could say I get that compliment a lot...

And as always, before we begin, I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me by my real name. For the sake of this story, let’s just call me ‘Paranoia’.




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

Tale – 002 "Voices"

Maybe if she kept eating the voices would stop. Maybe if she continued to gulp and guzzle all in her wake, forcing her belly to swell bigger and rounder with every bite, they would finally leave her be. Even now, Paranoia could feel herself being buried alive under the rolls and folds of blubber around her. The wires of her bra cut deeper into her chest as both breasts and belly continued to bloat and expand with renegade fat. Maybe the next mouthful would see her crushingly tight skirt finally burst at the seams to make room for her enormous hips.

Maybe.

If only she had listened in the first place, she would not have been in this mess. At least, that's what the voices told her. The throbbing behind her head from where she was struck would not have been necessary if only she had listened. Neither would the scuffle from the doorway leading to the kitchen have been required as she was forcibly dragged away. If only she had listened to the voices sooner, she would not have found herself trapped as the door locked behind her with a soft click.

If only she had listened.

Tears would be shed as the growling emptiness called for her to prepare a meal. They would be the first of many to come. The voices seized her violently when she refused, throttling her like a rag doll. Her long, blonde hair was caught in an invisible storm as she found herself whipped into a frenzy. The normally deep purple pools of her eyes stung an angry red as she raised a shaky hand for a kitchen knife, bawling uncontrollably as she brought it down again and again across the wooden chopping board . She would cry even harder as the voices whispered how fat the meal she was preparing would make her, revealing their plan to make every ounce and pound multiply beyond her wildest dreams from the very first bite. Tears would be shed for the perfect figure she had worked so hard to maintain, standing 5'5'' with a narrow waist that blossomed into a pair of wide hips and were counterbalanced only by her modest cleavage. There were moist patches on her white buttoned blouse and chequered short skirt that clung to her near-fatless frame. The pops and crackles of an oil-slicked pan coming to a sizzle masked her sobs.

Tears would be shed

Paranoia knew she would lose it all as soon as she took that first bite, but it looked and smelt oh so tempting. The meals she prepared with bitter sorrow only beckoned to her more as she lay plate after plate on her dining room table. Supper, dinner and midnight snack all rolled into one, were possessed by the voices, jeering her on as she paraded around to set a feast made for many. They called her weak. They called her slow. They called her a failure and so much worse. All she had to do was have the figure to match. Someone such as her was not worthy of possessing a slim and sexy figure. She was a greedy, disgusting pig on the inside and she deserved to look like one too. One hundred and fifty.

She would lose it all.

And so it began. Raising the first forkful to her mouth, she chewed through her snuffling. It was such a pathetic display. More and more of it was eaten and the voices made good on their promise. She begins to bloat, a sensation of fullness filling up her belly. The world spun around her as the cackling of a myriad flooded her senses, sending Paranoia into a state of quiet detachment as she witnessed herself being ruined at her own hand. And so began the first step down an slippery slope, a slight layer of jiggling pudge layering out of her midriff to stretch her belt tight. One hundred and sixty.

And so it began.

Bulges formed around her. Not only at her waist, but around her hips, her back and even along her upper arms. The straps of her top were rapidly filling out as a band of doughy blubber crept up and around her waistline. She started to cry again between mouthfuls as she felt her once flat stomach rise to meet an open palm, fingers trembling as they made contact with her steadily softening belly. Years of exercise and restraint were burnt away as her skin continued to stretch. Every new fold she felt, every new roll that jiggled, brought with it another wail of agony as she was stuffed with hot, wobbling fat. The voices took great delight in reminding her that all that extra skin would never be the same again and the only path left for her now was to continue to grow. One hundred and eighty.

Bulges formed and a belly was born.

There was nothing she could do for herself. The weight continued to pile on and she continued to cry and cry. Her endless bawling was starting to annoy the voices which threatened to fatten her up even faster until she stopped. With the last hints of her former figure swiftly disappearing under gradually accumulating inches, Paranoia could only cry out as loud as she could in an attempt to deny the voices their dark victory. Two hundred and ten.

But in truth, there was nothing she could do for herself.

She would be silenced. Food and its wonderful flavours would be denied to her as the voices commanded her to drink. Not even allowed the liberty of pouring herself a cup, but commanded to down bottle after bottle one after the other, with the neck of the bottle positioned well past her taste buds. With every empty sip she could feel part of herself expanding. The drink poured down her throat and was absorbed into her boundless girth spreading into her chest and filling it up from the inside with a demonic heat that soon became every part of her breasts. Paranoia could only muffle a scream as she felt them swell to twice their original size, then three times and then four, gradually pushing her blouse to its limits as button after button popped under the weight of her new boobs. Each was the size of a rapidly widening cantaloupe with pale pink areolas, also growing rapidly to stretch and keep up, nipples puffing up and plumping to the size of car radio dials. Two hundred and fifty.

She gulped and swallowed in silence.

They had heard everything. Just as Paranoia could hear their raking, screeching voices pound away in her head, so too could they hear the unrelenting thoughts of rebellion within hers. They would break her completely, tearing away all hope from her and delight in her suffering. The heat quickly spread to her ass as she began to rise up on her seat. Her thighs bloated and touched together and her hips soon made contact with the wooden arms on the side of her chair. Paranoia grimaced as the angled lengths of varnished oak dug into her growing love handles and entrapped the tight bulges of flab that oozed through their centre. Another moan of pain escaped her as she felt the wooden arms splinter, breaking against her unrelenting flesh like waves on rocks, the very motion causing her fat to quickly surge out to either side of her to dwarf the rapidly diminishing dinning chair. The voices delighted in her pleas, apologies and awaited the heart-breaking resignation to her fate. Two hundred and eighty.

They had heard everything and there was no escape.

But the show would go on. Paranoia was starting to get quite big, but she was still not fat enough for them yet. The feeding resumed at double the pace as her dark hunger was stimulated further. Suddenly one forkful was not enough, one spoonful but a drop into the bottomless pit that had become her stomach. Hunger gnawed at her, not stopping for even a second as she lifted bite after succulent bite to her plumping lips. She could feel her humanity slipping as she abandons conventional eating tools in favour of raising entire platters to her gaping maw and in an attempt to devour even faster. The result was an explosion of new fat, a dam breaking to reveal a new wave of blubber to coat every inch of her body. Fatter arms, fatter legs, fatter belly, breasts and thighs. A double chin formed to frame her cherubic features, an adipose angel entrapped by the unseen entities. Two hundred and ninety five.

The show must go on.

Cruel are the voices that deny her release. A sheet just beyond the dark kitchen corner unfurled to reveal a full length mirror, a means to shatter any attempts to deny reality. It would chronicle her change. Where clothing would have split long ago, every strap and stitch remains bonded. It was a garment held together by unholy strength. The result is of the same, crushing tightness around her, every inch of unrelenting fabric contouring her and shaping her gain. Her breasts were full and heavy milk sacks, her belly poured over to form an overinflated spare tire and her thighs were so wide and softened with extra fat that they jiggled on their own. She had become a grim parody of her former self, a fun house distortion that had been twisted under the voices schemes. Approaching more than double her original size, she can only gasp a breathy cry as she watched her stomach bulge and receded in an endless cycle as each platters' contents underwent a twisted dance so demonically divine. Pale, ever growing milky flesh, pounded away behind a dam which threatened to burst but never did. Three hundred and ten.

Cruel are the voices.

The edges approach as both chair and mirror struggle to contain her. Each bite makes her mouth water for more and she resented herself for it. Chunkier and flabbier, thicker and wider, rounder and softer, everything about her swelled by leaps and bounds in all directions. The voices wished to torment her further, letting loose a couple of buttons with a sharp ping. This caused her meaty breasts and belly to surge forward like hungry beasts, lunging for the food which had made them what they are. Paranoia tried to put down the fork to cup her flesh in order to hold it back and show some restraint. The voices punished her swiftly, slapping her hard and knocking her off her feet in response. Three hundred and twenty five

Don't touch.

Her unrelenting blubber cushioned her fall as best it could, but the cold and stony tiles beneath her still stung her pale, flawless skin. Adding insult to injury, the voices command her to get up under her own power, but not before heaping another unseen load of blubber onto her. Paranoia rose unsteadily, jiggling as she placed one chubby calf in front of the other. She almost crumples back down again as she realized that her bulky belly now completely yields to gravity and was in direct competition with her inner thighs for the rapidly diminishing space at her crotch. She had become so big so quickly, so huge so suddenly and oh so very fat. Her skirt tore noisily beneath a pudgy palm as she jerked to a stand, but even that was not enough to free the tightening around her waist. Three hundred and thirty.

Blubber unrelenting.

She seated herself and resumed her meal, all the while continuing to snivel and cry profusely. The voices like the squealing and straining of her cries, the melodic lyrics to accompany a symphony of creaks and groans from the straining chair beneath her. It disheartened her to acknowledge that she had completely outgrown the wide frame of the mirror in such a short amount of time, her wide breasts no longer able to stay perfectly perky as they tumble over the slope of her obese stomach. Paranoia gasped as she pinched her newly swollen thighs, feeling parts of her die on the inside as she experiences them thicken and inflate to accommodate the steadily building heat of more fat applying itself to her over ripe butt. Her panties were now clearly visible to all but her as they are swallowed by the cavernous maw of her crack, mimicking the plates of food being gobbled down. Up top, her cheeks had become puffy, rounding her face out even further. Her second chin acted like a mantle to display her expressions of suffering and distress upon the sloping incline of her tits. All out of options, she can only plead softly for them to have mercy and to stop. Her desperation feeds them. They force Paranoia to recite her new creed. Her eyes sting, her brain feels like it's on fire and the next time she opens her mouth, she finds herself pleading to be fattened and to eat. They force her to say she likes it so many times until she believes it. She can hardly believe her ears as she reaches true obesity. Three hundred and sixty.

She seats herself and gorges on her meal with gusto.

Limits are reached as the pounds pile on faster than ever. Her elbows dug against her belly, the fat spreading from directly to her arms, endowing her with jiggling bingo-wings that would put lunch ladies around the world to shame. They were dimpled right down to the elbow and hung like towels of blubber. Paranoia could still feel her belly growing, her navel lost beneath perilous rolls that squeeze directly into the table's hard, timber lip to thwart any further gorging. She cried out again, this time not in pain from being over stuffed, but in the equal anguish of not being able to reach her meal. The voices berated her for her idiocy, her mind had obviously slowed to molasses beneath the weight of terror and the primal urge to feed. They command her to lift her blubbery gut with both hands and heave it onto the table top, an act she did willingly and with the shadow of a smile across sauce stained lips. Undulating belly fat hit the tabletop with a bang, sending every button on her blouse flying, save for the one baring the titanic mass of her zeppelin-like breasts behind its stitches. Her gut was now large enough to feed upon, and now worked with her instead of against her, as she dined atop its bulk with each pound she gained bringing the food closer to her mouth. Hurry now and grow bigger belly, she's so very hungry. Four hundred and five.

Limits are reached, and surpassed.

She's become a really big girl now. That svelte little waif that had been dragged to the kitchen kicking and screaming has been buried alive underneath mounds of fresh, juicy fat. Her monstrous butt flared out and her hips creak as inches squeeze their way over the tattered rags of her outfit. Tears appear left and right and her panties are treated to their very last view of the world whilst her ass and hips swell and soften at an erratic pace. Breasts, belly and butt, all three have their chance to take their turns at dominating her figure, pulling her this way and that as each one surges into the lead. Butterball doesn't even begin to describe her, butter-boulder appearing a more likely term as her hips and rump are splayed out again, the softness of plumper thighs touching to the knee and then some, getting her warm and sweaty around her womanhood. Gravity exerts itself upon her at full force, as she attempts to lean across table and towards the food, the chair's flimsy legs splintering beneath her size. Fat hangs off of her in rolls and racks. Everything about Paranoia sloshes as pudgy fingers grasp in vain for a prize just beyond her reach. Four hundred and forty.

She's a really big girl, and only bound to get bigger.

The voices cheered for her decision to embrace the path to gluttony. They question her former resolve mockingly and cackle at her waddling gait. Paranoia could only burp in reply, suckling greasy, fat fingers and feel herself swell just a little bit more as she embraces the need to feel herself expand. They remind her that she has no hope of returning to her former size, but she didn't care. They tempted her with promises of and deals of easing her mobility, but she doesn't hear them. They showed her visions of happier times, of her healthier, more active self, but she could not wait to brush those aside fast enough with a flabby palm. They brought forth images of a dark future, of a life spent on the couch, her flaxen skin running even paler than the moon, illuminated only by a tan from a TV and a computer screen as she spends the rest of her days immobilized and trapped beneath countless pounds of soft flesh, racked with stretch marks and overflowing with cellulite. She nods her approval as she approaches the gigantic cake at the far end of the table, an ivory tower of promised obesity and the contract to fulfil her dark pact of a life spent forever eating. She wiped a cumbersome finger across the icing in the shape of an 'X' and suckled it off her lips. Four hundred and ninety-nine.

The voices cheered even louder.

Temptation ensnared every fibre of her being, her soul in exchange for being fattened beyond her wildest dreams. That oversized body can't wait any longer as the final reserves of her humanity scream their last before being purged, a single tear rolling down her cold, dead eyes as she grabbed handful after handful of sponge and icing to dump into her waiting mouth. The effect is more than dramatic as her body explodes with even more fat, her arms so wide and swollen that they crease a vivid pink as she mechanically keeps going back for more. Her belly flops out until it's dangling over her legs, her thighs are caked with fat and her calves quickly become indistinguishable from her ankles. A pair of fat feet burst free from their designer heels long ago which lay tattered several steps behind her, but are soon coated in the fallen crumbs and splatters of wet frosting like a pair of snowy stilettos that were literally good enough to eat. She whimpered at them longingly, wondering for the briefest of moments how she could reach over the horizon of her growing gut to lick them clean before being reminded that there was more right in front of her. Five hundred and seventy.

She has become temptation incarnate.

She is changed and warped as the unspeakable consequences manifest themselves upon her. Her soul writhes as it is stained and tainted, but she can only marvel at her rapidly growing breasts in front of her. They are like second and third bellies hanging off of her chest, each capped by large areola and stiff, rock hard nipples for belly buttons, each bulging sack would make her the envy of every woman on earth. Paranoia could only giggle to herself as she felt her gargantuan belly slap noisily against her sex with every lunge she made for more food, denying all future passage between her thighs to any man, but remind her that she would now be the only one now capable of pleasuring herself from now on. She would embrace loneliness and solitude under the comfort of a snug and ever expanding stomach, now so wide that all doors would have to be pre-buttered in order for her to slide past. Love from others was beyond a monstrously obese girl such as herself, so why not love herself when no one else would. Her hips second that motion as her juicy rear thundered onto the scene, the shelf at her back now so soft and wide that the remains of her skirt floated upon them like petals on a pond. The exotic flower had bloomed and burst long ago without her notice, the zipper teeth and elastic, lost forever underneath her back fat and lower most roll. Six hundred and ten

She had been changed forever.

The cake was all but gone now. It had not lasted five minutes since she had started digging in. The table collapses underneath her with a deafening clap as more than six hundred pounds of morbidly obese female come crashing down, plates and all. The shock finally snapped both blouse and bra in unison, the back tearing right down the middle and the claps breaking off with a noisy metallic ping. She peeled the useless garments off of her stately girth, the final reminders of what she once was lost forever as she began greedily lapping at the empty silver tray that once held the richest, most fattening meal she had ever tasted. Each moist crumb did its part to prolong her slowing gain, like embers of a burnt out fire desperately seeking any bit of kindling to keep her desires ablaze. The voices were not worried. She was definitely hooked now. Their commanding roars dialled down to haunting whispers as she sat amongst the rubble, slowly trailing a naughty finger in search of every last bit of icing that lay a trail across her enormity right down to the darkened eclipse of her crotch. Desperate, mad, and still oh so very hungry, they were content that she would lick herself clean. Six hundred and fifty

The cake may be gone, but the weight lingers on.

All that was left was the cherry. Its blood red surface glistened atop the pit of her belly button. Laying splayed out across the floor like an extremely corpulent starfish, it taunted Paranoia from its hiding place on high. Remnants of her multitude of meals caked her once flowing and radiant blonde hair, her long locks caked in grease and sauce, forming a filthy canopy over her eyes. Reaching one blubbery arm in front of the other, each laden with enough fat right down to the wrists, she grasped onto the mountainous load before her and attempted to scale her northern slope. Fingernails dig into stretch-marked flesh, finding pits and crevices upon which to cling on. Her entire body ached as she fought more than a quarter of a ton of pure, unbridled flesh, powering forward only on a desire leave nothing edible uneaten. Her hips bore the brunt as she lunged with the last of her strength, her gut so vast and soft that she feels herself sinking into it, barely managing to grasp onto the cherry's stem before slipping on its buttery surface. With a sweat soaked brow, she passed out backwards again, the cold marble tiles of her kitchen floor a great relief to the burning, aching muscles so unused to carrying all that extra weight. Exercises and diets would be out of the question now and forever, she thought as she popped the last morsel into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. Six hundred and sixty

She had taken her own cherry, leaving nothing more.

Maybe this would keep the voices away, Paranoia thought to herself as she lay in the empty silence of the room. All she could hear was the rise and fall of her great chest, causing her billowing flesh to wobbles in response. The last few pounds trickled across her tits, her belly, her hips and her thighs, making everything about her just a little softer, a little rounder, a little warmer and a little fatter. Paranoia was like a great whale, beached in her own kitchen, pinned underneath her own belly and unable to reach the burning longing between her thighs. She couldn't move, she would never be thin again, she would only grow fatter and heavier under the whims of a fullness she would never fulfil. She was just about to drift into a blissful slumber, using her own fleshy arms for a pillow, before she heard that disturbing sound off in the distance rising up once more. A cold sweat trickled down her multiple chins and neck.

Maybe it was her stomach. Maybe it was the voices.

Maybe there were never any voices at all.

Six hundred and sixty-six
 

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