Batman76 Posted January 25, 2023 Share Posted January 25, 2023 14 hours ago, Borghen said: @flyer33 You are a very gifted writer and, as I already told you elsewhere, Ivwouldn't mind reading your prose on my Kindle (way better than PC or smartphone). I know it's not that easy to sell your stories when plenty of free ones are available but I'm sure that with some editing, advertising and maybe an alluring cover you could find quite a few paying customers. Just my two cents. @Batman76 It's amazing how your additions blend into the main plot, it seems that you two are working side by side and not (presumably) hundreds of miles apart. I only have a small request: please check your spelling because everytime you write "who's" instead of "whose" I sincerely cringe. I'll try! The Plain’s City fashion show was a buzz of high fashion and low morals, loose tongues and tight bodies. Word had come down from the event board that the models had to be a size 4 to even see the catwalk, with strictly enforced measures and scales on hand. Normally this wouldn't be hard for professionally thin women at the peak of their health, but even the sveltest women in the city were finding it hard to keep the weight off of late with the recent elimination of healthy foods and lifestyles. Strangely, those models signed with Lord Industries seemed immune to the increasingly common Plain’s City poundage, while those with the opposing Hunt Co were rejected for outsizing their limits with regularity as the measuring tape and scale told of past limits pudge. Crash diets, dangerous dehydration methods and extreme exercise programs had been necessary to get almost every Hunt signed model into their swimsuits and lingerie, which still pinched on with worrying snugness. In such a fat phobic environment, Andi Korin was able to navigate without a second glance, the lard pouring out of her jean cutoffs and crop tops good as a billion dollar black budget stealth suit. The current crop of catwalk starlets didn't do much as glance at the former supermodel, lest her obesity catch. Tubby thighs and folded fupa, sprawling hips and bulging buns, jostling jowls and ample arms combined to give the depowered super villain a new ability, invisibility! After helping the down in the dumps Dahlia Drake into her runway outfit/gut-hiding girdle, Andi had soon found herself gorging at a nearby craft services table. “Meu deus,” the Brazilian woman muttered to herself as she loaded up a plate, “I should really cut back, I’ve got to fit into a wedding dress in six months…but chocolate covered strawberries and toasted ravioli in one place?” Andi had been on multiple strict diets ever since losing her ultra tight body in the Model Wars…and every day of that had been a cheat day. As the super villain Fogo Verde, Andi had been able to eat whatever she’d wanted while staying a size 4 without effort but after her girlfriend Helena Hunt, Lady Shade, had stolen her power granting amulet, had had to diet to keep her cover girl body. But the few months of feedism and hypnosis Andi had "endured" at the hands of Lord Corp employed ‘trainers’ and ‘nutritionists’ had thoroughly broken her self control and discipline. When she saw food she ate it, her metabolism was in the gutter and her muscles were mush. Giving no thought to how she was fifty pounds fatter than the last time she'd walked the catwalk, and had been shockingly flabby then, Andi didn't bother filling plates. She began glutting herself right there at the table, thoughts about how much Brazilian butt was hanging out of her shorts going by the wayside as chocolate covered fruit and fried pastry went down the hatch. It wasn’t that the dumpy derriere Andi wanted to get fatter, but if she saw food, she just had to eat it! The feast she feted upon would have been enough to turn most of the barely slim enough models unacceptably healthy, but for Andi was just enough to make her tug at the strained button of her skin tight size 18 cut offs. She'd had to shoe horn the pants up her lumpy thighs, saggy butt and bulging belly that morning and going by the groaning seams, straining button and breaking zipper, would never fit into them again! “Ay caramba, but that’s good,” Andi belched slightly, fanning her much fuller face, “but so salty I need…ohhh, an energy drink!” A pop of a tab and Andi was guzzling the drink down. So focused was she on the refreshing taste, that she didn’t notice a further inch of cellulite coated lard pour out of her straining cut offs, already 40 inch butt making another determined step towards a 4 foot girth! Despite making a public spectacle of herself, the near anonymous Andi was drawing glances almost entirely of animosity, as models who were starving themselves felt both detestation and jealousy at the former catwalk queen…but it was only almost… “Keep that up, Andi, and we’ll have to wheel you down the aisle of Plain’s City Cathedral,” a posh accented voice whispered in Andi’s ear, “...I’ll have to steal Lord Corp’s formula just to make sure you keep getting rounder and chunkier and warmer…” The obese model sputtered, almost ** in surprise! Partly from the strong hand squeezing her meaty rump and partly because her fiance had appeared right at her side from nowhere! Helena was dressed in her super hero armor: tight fitting black kevlar and spandex, festooned with bandoliers of gadgets and grapple guns, with a set of swords on her back and a skull-faced helmet. It was a sight made to terrify any criminal, super or otherwise, and the bronzed Brazilian paled in shock at seeing it again. “Shade Girl,” Andi hissed in shock, an instinctual response from her supervillain days at seeing the dangerous ninja who’d foiled her plans time and time again, only to soften herself at recalling just who was on the other side of the mask, “Helena, what are you doing out here? Dressed like that! In your condition.” “Lady Shade,” Helena insisted sternly, “and protecting the city, it's what I do, Andi. It's what I’ve done for years. Calorie Girl and Might Girl are still green as grass, they can barely pass training, it hasn’t even occurred to them to sweep the building and guests yet. I'm just making sure there's no surprise guests before the big show. I have plenty of power still, so I don’t see why you’re worrying, Andi…” “Hel, you’re not…at your best,” Andi gulped, “Dios Mio, you haven’t worn that armor in a while, does it still…” Even as a super villain, Andi had been kind. Never killing and using her techno mystic amulet to inspire plant growth as much as she incinerated polluting industries or fed the hungry. It was why the theoretically weaker Shade Girl had bested her for good…and why she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the F word around her fiance. “The stealth field works fine, but it's only for emergencies. I’m still quite capable of stepping between shadows and disappearing from view or meditating to only appear to those looking for me. All the models sashaying around, trying not to stare at their ghost of Christmas future can’t even see me,” Helena sniffed, touchy as ever at the reminder that her fearsome strength was declining as her boosted genetics reset, bringing up her expertise in pride, “but I have months of some power left by my calculations….” Helena’s black gauntlet snagged a greasy onion ring, dunking it in ranch and tossing it into her mouth, “I’m still fighting fit.” That was…very untrue. Helena’s costume had to have been upsized at some point, but she was still pouring out of it, the seventy plus pounds she’d gained since starting to lose her powers showing vibrantly. She’d been skinny, almost shapelessly willowy despite her strength, but was now revealed to be thick as a brick, chubby thunder thighs stretched her black leggings half transparent, running in their future. Her armored grieves were loose due to new cankle fat bulking up her lower legs. No room remained for Helena’s ass in the armor, Andi leaning over to look at how bottom heavy her finance pants. Swallowing in her own lust, she took in just how toneless Helena’s ass was, her thong clearly visible as butt fat overflowed the asian woman’s whiskered pants. Despite her armored jacket being formed fitting, Helena didn’t show skin or curve…seventy pounds ago. Now the jacket was hanging open, showing that part of her body was spared by her increasing weight gain, especially not once taut abdominals. Six lattes a day, with extra whipped cream, had put quite the squishy gut on the once rail thin heiress. Her belly sagged over her pants, meaty fupa mushrooming around her utility belt. Several new holsters and sheaths had been put on Helena’s belt to get it around her chubby waistline, squishing the fat in but visibly straining. “Yes, but…you’re, well…you said you’d wanted us to get pregnant, my xuxuzino,” Andi replied, using the Brazilian term for sweet pumpkin, which her lover increasingly reassembled, “I just don’t want you hurt…the drugs are ah, showing…” “I haven’t even found a suitable donor yet, much less been bred” Helena huffed, another appetizer disappearing between her lips, “and while the drugs are…annoying I can zip up if danger calls. My girls need airing out…” Helena had always been flat as a board, as a skinny young vigilante only having A cups. Andi, a natural DD, knew her fiance had been jealous of curvier heroines (back before most had retired through strange, power draining accidents), a jealousy she’d continued showing towards the models who worked for her. Even after getting fat, a fact Helena refused to engage with, she’d been a B cup…before unexpectedly starting fertility drugs. Andi didn’t know where her domineering fiancee’s decision to go down the aisle pregnant had come from, but the drugs she was taking to insure it had turned the fat girl from flat to stacked in barely two weeks. A pink sports bra, Helena’s favorite color, strained around her engorged chest, DDs crammed into a C that had fit a week before. Hormonal surges were directing much of Helena’s high calorie diet upwards, fueling a cup size of growth every three days. Jiggling at the smallest breath and ready to escape as soon as possible, skin shiny with new growth. Helena had at last engaged with this gain, beaming with pride with it and wearing as exposing clothes as possible! “Si, you are practically Might Woman come back,” Andii sighed, knowing how stubborn her lover was, “and I want those seio’s safe and sound, so why don’t you go take your suit off and be safe…” There were a lot of reasons Andi had won Helena’s heart. Even as a super villain she’d avoided civilian casualties, having a kind and caring soul to go with her world class looks. And while her graceful model’s body had softened into middle age excess, her inner kindness had only grown as well. Andi wanted her lover to be safe, off the streets at home… “Andi, please. I’m still going to be the hardest, toughest fighter in this city for a while longer. Six more months to get the rookies in shape and then, we get married. I take the suit off, put the dress on, get a bun in the oven,” Helena insisted, picking up a spicy chicken tender and popping it into Andi’s mouth to silence any objections, “and we retire to somewhere sunny and sandy, to matrimonial bliss. Although, looking at you now…” Helena leaned over, looking at the backside width of her fiancee’s dump derriere. “We might need to widen the private jet's door! You’ve always been big on the backside darling, but you are really blowing up,” Helena mused to herself, “you’re getting softer and squishier by the bounce, fuller and rounder and lazier, bigger and flabbier and sprawling out…you've a new chin coming in and your cellulite has gone wild!” There were several surprising things about fashion tycoon and media mogul Helena Hunt. “Lover, I’m on a diet,” the model tried to mutter, only for the tender to be replaced with a donut. One of them was that the normally uptight and professional woman was a complete and total pervert. She’d had a reputation as a party girl before her father’s death and inheriting the company, but that had been the reputation of a fairly vanilla rich girl slut. In truth, sex absolutely fascinated Helena, all the ways pleasure could be drawn out, inflicted, nurtured, grown and generally enjoyed. Whips and clips, boys and toys, pumps and cuffs, swings and slings, drugs and chains! As always when looking at her fiance, Helena had to fight to restrain herself but with no one else around, all the models avoided the craft services table…why not indulge… “Andi, Andi, Andi, you’ve been on a diet for a year…and getting fatter by the day the whole time,” Helena insisted, shoving another pastry with one hand while setting her thumb into Andi’s navel, pinching the model’s beefy fat roll, “look at you. Every big cover you wanted, headlining my lingerie team, top numbers on social media, any movie that needed a famous pair of boobs and an ass in it…but you were a weak, lazy fatty all along…” Helena’s mask shifted, exposing her pink painted lips. She kissed Andi deeply, slipping in tongue, while her hand slid lower, popping open the redhead’s taut jeans and sliding in. “Even back in the old days, when you were an established villain, burning petro companies and flying off, I was just a little rookie ninja girl. I saw it, the weakness that was inside you,” Helena went on, right hand feeding and left to have caressing, “the desire for your true self, nothing but soft warmth and kind love. All I had to do was nurture it, and you’d gorge and sprawl into this. An ass lumpy as mashed potatoes, a gut hanging over itself, jowls hanging for your tits. Look at you now! The only cover you'd get is on a tabloid talking about your third chin, the only way you'd get onto a cat walk is if you were hired to clean it! You're lumpy and dumpy, by God you look ten years older!…I love it all, you’re mine, no one else’s…” Helena stuffed a cup cake in after the donut, “So eat up lover. My weak and helpless little per! My lazy concubine, my out of shape dependent! Because you’re mine, all mine and only mine…" "H-h-hell…," Andi huffed impossibly turned on, eyes crossing as Lady Shades' nimble fingers found the very sensitive spot. "Oh don't worry. It's just one cheat day, you'll surely get back in shape…eventually," Helena smiled, pulling away, "but for now…finish the rest of this table. Then go pour yourself into a dress and meet me in the private booth. I'd hate to see Leandra Lord alone…" scl04, Kaldr, flyer33 and 2 others 1 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Kaldr Posted February 11, 2023 Share Posted February 11, 2023 Dayum! I haven't been here for a while and now that I'm back there are a lot of updates to this great story! Can't wait for more, I'm about to read all of ti again 😍 flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted July 17, 2023 Author Share Posted July 17, 2023 Chapter 6: The Hefty Hypnotist (part 2) According to a space movie screened at the Plains City Planetarium, the core of the Sun has a temperature of twenty-seven million degrees Fahrenheit and consists of a hot, dense plasma at a pressure of 3.84 trillion pounds per square inch and a tremendous density, of 150 grams per cubic centimetre or about half a ton per gallon. It is the only place in the Solar System where matter is squeezed so tight that it undergoes nuclear fusion, and it has the most crushing pressure anywhere within several light years of Earth. Astrophysics has it mostly right… … But, in fact, not. In the late nineties, when the 3-ish dimensional movie had been a mind-blowing novelty, there was in fact one more place in the Sol system where a ton of matter was squeezed down to a gallon or two of volume. That place was in Las Vegas. And not in some high-tech laboratory – Vegas didn’t have one. No. The location was, in fact, at an all-you-can-eat Asian buffet named the Golden Pig. A bit more specifically, it was one specific location within the restaurant, situated on a steel bench at a booth cluttered with stacked food bowls yet to be cleaned up. And, to be precise, the location was the stomach of Earth’s mightiest super-heroine – who was in the process of winning a competition with her orange-skinned alien friend to determine, once and for all for the history books, which one of them could cram the most food into her gut! The blonde super-bombshell had actually broken a sweat! A few days earlier, Might Woman and her alien friend, the orange-skinned, flame-haired Glutteranian princess Sil Antro (known to galaxy as Sunflare), had joined forces to pulverise an unstoppable cosmic horror that had threatened to devour the Earth and ten dozen more inhabited worlds besides. In gratitude, the Federal Government of the USA had wracked its collective brain to think of a suitable reward for their alien saviours, who came from two distant planets. They had come up with a winning idea of which both super-heroines fully approved: a week-long super luxury holiday in Las Vegas, with all expenses paid by a grateful Uncle Sam! In all likelihood, the Treasury Secretary had expected to sign off on some lavish expenses for the infamously hedonistic super-hotties: gambling; penthouse suites; over-priced luxury services; etc. “Fair enough” he might have thought: saving the nation (and, incidentally, the entire planet Earth) had to be worth adding yet another pile of sheets to the national debt. The Secretary had been pleasantly surprised to be stung for “only” two million dollars – a bargain at twice the price, for saving the world. He had, however, raised an eyebrow that the entire bill was for nothing but countless all-you-can-eat buffets along the entire Vegas-strip! Apparently, the reward the alien superheroines valued more than anything else, was a massive, expenses paid, seven day eating contest! * * * THE 1990’s Beneath a brow glistening with sweat, Might Woman’s sky blue eyes narrowed. The food at the Golden Pig Asian Fusion Buffet was OK, but not so good as most of the other hundred or so buffets she’d hit this week with her best friend in the galaxy. Across the table her golden-orange skinned companion, a 6’7’’ alien princess and all-round powerhouse, had slumped onto her shoulders over a 36-inch bowl of extra hot Thai red curry with triple extra ghost chillies. The alien’s tongue – all two foot of it – rolled out onto a hillock of egg fried rice, with the tip spilling into hot curry sauce. Finally! Sunflare was finally too stuffed to eat! Victory! Urp. Glutteraneans ate with their tongues. No human could hope keep up with the eating speed of an alien girl, whose entire species were basically competitive eaters, who possessed a prehensile tongue that could scoop up a pint of curry sauce and rice in one lash, and whip the whole lot back into her mouth for her to swallow in a single gulp! No need to chew, because one of her stomachs had a muscular crushing action that reduced anything softer than diamonds to mush; though for things up to a hundred times harder than diamonds, she did have to use her teeth. Sunflare’s tongue and four stomachs weren’t her only advantage in an eating contest. Her entire species were descended from apex predators. She was evolved to fight the ferocious (but indescribably delicious) megabeasts of her homeworld, and then gorge herself before a rival tribe arrived to steal her kill, or before the delicious meat rotted under the blast-furnace heat of the fierce Glutteranean suns. As a result, a healthy young-adult Glutteranean female was biologically adapted to be able to eat triple her own bodyweight in one feast. That was in addition to being equipped with a lightning-fast prehensile tongue adapted for rapid eating… When hungry, which was nearly all the time, a Glutteranean girl’s tongue has serrated, razor-sharp edges with a powerful musculature that could slice or chew through armor scales or bone faster than a lumbermill buzzsaw through balsa wood. Needless to say, the modern, ultra-civilised Glutteranean girls descended from deadly ancestors made sure to always gorge themselves stupid prior to offering one of their favourite activities: oral sex. That way, their sated physiology would be silky soft and safe, even for non-Glutteranean partners who lacked the impenetrable cutaneous armor of their species. And that was just as well, for all Glutteranean females were insatiable sex addicts, who experienced the urge to fuck pretty much anything – be it Glutternean, alien, machine, or cosmic entity – on at least an hourly basis. Or five-times hourly during the fertile stage of her tri-solar cycle; which lasted for approximately three Earth years out of every twenty. The galaxy at large had been spared from conquest by the Glutteraneans, by a quirk of physics. Their homeworld had a crushing gravitational field. Therefore, the princess Sil Antro had a resting weight, when she sat on the scales at the Royal Palace on Glutteranea’s equator, of a touch over thirty American tons. This had delayed the Glutteranean space programme until long after the species had become civilised and peaceful, and devoted most of their time and considerable technology to hosting lavish feasts, weddings, and ceremonial orgies. On Earth, the gold-orange skinned uber-babe was, at 6’7’’, merely a slinky 750 kg. “Slinky” because her physiology was necessarily built from ultra-dense matter. She looked almost fashion-model lean – at least, in Plains City, Ohio she looked slinky and lean: anywhere else, Sunflare looked like a super-tall plus model, with ample feminine bulges and a little extra muscle supporting her long and curvaceous limbs. I.e. the Glutteranean princess looked to a human (or other lesser species) like she was maybe 120 kg. Or about 270 lbs in Plains City measurements. In fact, she was closer to 1800 lbs; a fact which had painfully caught out several hundred sexual partners who’d begged her to go on top and bounce on them with “all her weight.” Glutteranean princesses were encouraged to participate in the alien equivalent of a “gap year” – about two hundred Earth years – to travel the galaxy, and fuck themselves stupid with a million sexual partners on a thousand distant planets so as not to annoy their mom, the empress, with their horny antics. Sil Antro had been a mere twenty Earth-years into her galactic tour when she’d found herself crash-landed on Earth and severely hung-over after a party gone wrong; but she tried very hard to be nice to people and almost always remembered not to squish eager human males between her thighs or underneath her boobs. She hardly ever accidentally rolled on top of anyone who lacked at least some approximation of super-strength. And on the other occasions… Well, 21st century Earth medicine was quite good. And she was only the weight of a small car! Except after a big meal… * It was on Earth, at a Plains City Fashion Expo, that Sunflare had first met Might Woman. The alieness – that is, Sunflare, since Might Woman had adopted Earth as her home – had been desperately horny. She’d completely forgotten – due to the effects of too much cosmic booze – where she’d crashed her starship. And for weeks Sil Antro had had to slake her cosmic lusts by seducing and laying with football teams, cheerleading squads, and about half of the relatively small number of athletes at an event called the “Olympic games”. She liked humans – Sil Antro was a Glutteranean female, and she lusted after pretty much anyone and everything in the galaxy – but they were so flimsy! But then she’d met Might Woman! The last surviving Zaftonite the galaxy, and therefore an indestructible war goddess and mythical sex demon all in one irresistible, sexy, blonde and curvaceous package: deadly catnip for any Glutteranean girl! At first, neither Sunflare nor Might Woman had recognised each other. They’d both been at Plains City fashion week. And they were both trailing the mysterious abductor of a group of male underwear models… And for much the same reasons: a little bit of righteous desire to do justice to villains by freeing the super-sexy and well-endowed abducted models; and quite a lot of lustful desire to take the sexy models back to the safety of her hotel room and invite them to fuck her until they collapsed from exhaustion! Of course, sadly, a half-dozen adrenalin-crazed male models wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the libido of a Glutteranean girl – let alone a Zaftonite’s – but they were the only evening snack on offer, and Sunflare had resigned herself to yet another night on Earth with insufficient sex. Comically, Sunflare had assumed that Might Woman was an innocent human lingerie model due to the skimpy white boob-windowed bikini and microskirt she’d been wearing, who just happened to be taking a shortcut home, imprudently along a dark street behind a truckload of armed gangsters. Meanwhile, Might Woman’s first guess was that Sunflare – ostensibly a very tall supermodel slathered in orange body paint and wearing a purple bra and hotpants, with luridly-dyed hair and golden-tinted contact lenses – was at the Plains City Fashion Expo as a professional cosplayer portraying some video game character. A new sci-fi Lara Croft game, maybe. Eidos Interactive couldn’t afford a supermodel like Diana Drake, but the orange cosplay model was a pretty smoking hot alternative. Great tits! Huge! Almost as impressive as Diana’s! Therefore, when automatic carbine rifles began firing in their direction from the bad guys’ truck, both Diana Drake and Princess Sil Antro took desperate action to save the other – equally bullet proof and indestructible – alieness from being hit… Without either of them giving away to the other that she had superhuman strength and could trivially outrun bullets, face-tank a tactical nuke, or project one or another form of deadly radiation without using tools. “No! Stay down!” Diana Drake had screamed at the orange supermodel, while the other alieness tried desperately to hold Diana’s head under the level of a concrete urban flowerbed, and wondered in confusion why she wasn’t able to exert enough tons of force to stop the blonde standing up. “You have to take cover!” Princess Sil Antro had practically sobbed in distress, as she shifted her grip onto the mega-boobed lingerie model’s shoulders, and heaved downwards with all the strength of a royal Glutteranean princess. The sexy blonde model had somehow kept standing up, looking intently in the direction of the departing truck, and absent-mindedly pushing the Glutteranean princess into her shadow. “NOOOOOOOO!” Princess Sil Antro had screamed, as she perceived a copper-alloy bullet – full metal jacket, cheaply made, spinning sluggishly – flying directly towards the human blonde’s heart! All stealth forgotten, the Glutteranean heaved with all her might! She threw everything she’d been given by her high-gravity homeworld, and a billion years evolution of super-strength, into wrestling the blonde sideways, downwards, anywhere else but where she was standing. Nothing. No dice. Zip. Nada. The Glutteranean princess was pulling with two hundred tons of force, if it was an ounce, by the time the blonde even arched a sculpted eyebrow. She didn’t move though, and the bullet made its sluggish way right up to her boob. SPLAT, BOING! Sil Antro had seen bullets go splat before. Even proper uranium cannon shells did that, when they came up against Glutteranean armor skin. She wasn’t expecting to see the same thing when a carbine round – even a teeny little copper one – hit the extremely impressive cleavage of an extremely busty human lingerie model. Human boobs were deliciously soft! Not adamantane hard! And… Even Sil Antro’s boob would have at least rippled a bit from a direct bullet hit! The blonde’s epic, sexy tits must be as solid as the fabric of the universe itself! Sil Antro felt herself begin to drool, as the 90% of her Glutteranean brain that operated entirely off sex hormones realised that she was in the presence of an indestructible and super-busty alieness, who was apparently enormously stronger than Sil Antro herself and therefore almost certainly up for dozens of different kinds of S&M sex games! Yes! Meanwhile, the bullet – reduced to a splash of copper by the blonde’s invincible tit – slid off to the side, and bounced harmlessly to the road. After first taking a very weak ricochet off of Sil Antro’s shoulder. The blonde lingerie model shrugged, and sped up, moving almost too fast for even a Glutteranean to perceive. “Wait just a millisecond…” Said the blonde, with a shrug. In that millisecond, Sil Antro just barely controlled her horny drooling enough to see a pulse of red laser energy flash from the blonde’s eyes, and flicker over the withdrawing truck, burning through carbine magazines and the vehicle’s drive axle with equal triviality. And then the sexy Plains City model contemptuously flicked the last passing bullet into the flower bed. “… Okay. Done now. Sorry, I thought you were a cosplayer from the Expo! I’m Might Woman. And you are?” “I am Sunflare. Princess of Glutteranea!” Replied the orange alien hottie. “Sunflare...” Might woman smiled hungrily. “… A Glutteranean? I suppose that explains why you were chasing the truck… To rescue the male models? You must be desperately horny: a Glutteranean girl on her gap year, on Earth with human males who can probably only fuck you five or ten times each before losing consciousness for several hours?” Princess Sil Antro’s lip quivered, and tears welled unbidden. “It’s worse than that! It is usually only one or two times, because I am desperately undersexed and cannot hold back! At the Olympic of Games, there were eight very cute males in the hundred metres of freestyle final, and they were only able to have forty-four the orgasms with me before they had to be the taken to an hospital! But I was not nearly satisfied; and other males and females of the humans are even squishier! I like sex with humans, but they are not enough! I have only fucked four hundred in the sixty days I have been stranded on Earth! If I do not soon relocate my starship, I believe I will die from an imbalance of sex hormones caused by too little sex!” “Glutteraneans are almost unkillable. Even the girls don’t actually die if they don’t have sex… But, sure, you certainly think you’re going to, if you don’t get fucked five times a day…” “FIVE?” Sunflare wailed. “Having the sex only five times per the day would be worse than—-” “Oh relax.” Diana squeezed the orange supermodel's shoulder, and Princess Sil Antro’s eyes defocussed from a combination of the pain and the sex-hormones which the pain prompted her brain to pump out. “I wasn’t planning on sharing those lingerie models after I rescue them… But, I can be flexible… Tell me, Sunflare. I’m a Zaftonite. Would you like to have the sex with me?” “Urk!” Sunflare gurgled. “Zafto--- Urrrrrrgh---” The way the orange Glutteranean spontaneously creamed her shorts – absolute torrents of horny Glutteranean secretions oozing through her suddenly sodden hotpants as she practically leapt at Diana – said the answer was, predictably to anyone who knew anything about Glutteraneans,“YES!” Diana sighed, and wrestled the alieness upwards, from where the Glutteranean was already sucking Diana’s cleavage. It wasn’t that Diana didn’t want a sex-starved Glutteranean attempting to lick and eat her in the street. But there were standards to maintain. The Glutteranean’s tongue was already reaching out eighteen inches towards her boobs. “Uh, uh.” Might Woman instructed. “First of all, we go to my hotel suite. And before that: six cute, innocent male models to rescue. Remember them?” Glug! Slurp! “Calurbwths!” Apparently, Sunflare was struggling to swallow enough drool to answer. “Say again?” Gulp! “I saying. Can we bring the male models with us?” Diana felt a rush of lust run through her, and smirked. “Of course we can, Sunflare. If you think you can handle three of them, as well as me: a pureblood Zaftonite who is seriously horny tonight?” Sunflare groaned. “I do not, but… I very much want to try! Will it take many seconds to rescue them to your ‘the hotel suite’ ?” Diana Drake cracked her knuckles, and drank in the view of the lustful orange alien, whom she’d very fortunately encountered while on her own Plains City side-quest to get laid. “Nope. It’s half a mile away, and we’re really just limited by how fast we can move the cute models without hurting them. I’d say about one second, if you can carry one of them.” “Uh huh! I can even carry three!” Sunflare exclaimed with a horny gurgle of Glutteranean drool. “Sunflare.” Diana said, reaching for her hotel room key as she eyed the most efficient path to the truck and back to Caesar’s Palace. “I think we’re going to be very good friends!” * The Golden Pig Asian Fusion Buffet in Las Vegas, a few years later… Diana Drake mopped her brow, flicked her golden hair to the side, and covered her mouth to give a delicate burp. Her tummy was very tightly packed, and she wanted to be careful not to burp too hard… Else it could be the incident with the hurricane breath sneezing problem all over again, except with burping, and this time with a Las Vegas block of delightful buffet restaurants at risk of demolition. Across the buffet table, her best friend had a different problem. Princess Sil Antro, finally, was on the verge of passing out from overeating. It had only taken seven days, and about a hundred buffets, and it had been closer than Diana had expected – Diana’s stomach was packed – but she’d finally proved her point that no: Glutteranean girls cannot eat even half as much as Zaftonites! For every one of the gigantic eating-challenge platters or buffet menus the Glutteranean had devoured, Diana had munched her way through two! The alien’s tongue – all two foot of it – rolled out onto a hillock of egg fried rice, with the tip spilling into hot curry sauce. But she made no effort to slurp up more food. Finally! Sunflare was finally too stuffed to eat! Victory! Ordinarily, Glutteranean girls such as Sunflare would joyously eat any food put in front of them. Occasionally (well, quite often, in fact) the princess had been taken to dinner by cute males who had been lead to believe (generally by Diana Drake) that the secret to getting Sunflare into bed was to feed her until she was too stuffed to eat any more. This was a lie. There was no secret to getting Sunflare into bed. She would eagerly fuck literally anything she found cute, until it collapsed or broke, and that included every human who had ever taken her to dinner, or, indeed, even mentioned any kind of food in her company. But the cute human boys hadn’t known that, and so they’d attempted to feed her until full. “Are you full?” Had asked numerous horny dinner dates, desperate that the Glutteranean princess would be insatiably horny. How they ever imagined she wasn’t gagging for sex from dawn to dusk and then dusk until dawn, was a mystery, but Diana Drake’s persuasive talents might have been responsible. “Not full…” Sunflare would answer in sincere confusion. True, she would have happily eaten until she looked nine months pregnant. “Only three of my stomachs have some food in them, but they aren’t full, and my overflow tummy is completely empty!” The alien princess would continue. “But I want to have sex now!” And that would be the end of the issue, for none of her dinner dates would ever be conscious by the time she would be willing to finish fucking and contemplate a main course or dessert. In other words, Glutteranean girls were stretchy, and great at eating volume. A belly that looked nine months pregnant was a light snack for them. And their fourth stomach wouldn’t even start to fill up until her belly dragged along the floor in front of them. At the Golden Pig in Las Vegas, Sunflare had reached her limit! Incongruously, on her long-limbed and plus-sized supermodel frame, her poor belly had bulged and swelled until it occupied all the space under the table, and spilled over Diana Drake’s feet and knees, on the opposite side of the table, at the same time! Meanwhile, Might Woman’s tummy – packed with more than twice as much food by tonnage – formed a tight, compact bulge on her supermodel frame. She looked, at most, perhaps eight months pregnant. And on the frame of a towering fitness model with a huge rack. “Are you full?” Diana teased her orange friend. “Ugghn!” Groaned the Glutteranean princess. “So full! Tummy ache!” “So, you admit you were reckless to challenge me to an eating contest?” Pressed the Zaftonite blonde. “Uhn! Don’t feel so good! Need… To hibernate!” “Lol! You’ll be fine tomorrow. No dessert for you now, though.” Diana smirked. “Okay. URP!” “Anyway!” Diana Drake smirked, patting her own swollen gut. “It’s good we’re done. I have an important lingerie shoot for Vogue tomorrow, and wouldn’t want to look plump!” That said, Diana took an epically deep breath, and sucked in. With her full strength. “Urgh!” Might Woman exclaimed, as she squeezed her abs tight. “So full!” Across the table, as Diana Drake sucked in her gravid gut all the way to an approximation of her supermodel 28-inch wait, Sunflare’s eyes bulged. “No! Stop!” Sunflare cried out. “I don’t think I can suck in anymore anyway.” Diana burped delicately. Her abdomen still looked a little on the thick side, by her own perfect standards. Definitely not a time to ask for a tape measure. “Why?” “Ugh.” Sunflare groaned. “Your tummy’s giving off neutron radiation! I can see it, remember? You’re squishing down your food until it is so squeezed that it undergoes the nuclear fusion. Like in the the Sun!” “Oh.” Diana burped again. “I thought my tummy felt a bit warm…” * * * Meanwhile, back in Stately Tate Mansion in the Twenty-First Century... Almost twenty years bereft of her Zaftonite super powers, daily at the mercy of her own inborn gluttony, and willingly submitting to her feeder husband, Wisconsin’s most successful luxury icecream magnate, had rendered Might Woman unrecognisable to acquaintances of the shredded, ultrafit supermodel . But Diana Drake was in many ways the same woman. She still got horny at the sight of hot girls being overfed and fattened. Standing, attempting to be quiet, and not burp from overeating, on the blessedly non-creaking stone floor of Tate Mansion library, Diana Drake peeked around the edge of a stone archway. In the next room: Rachel Tate, for several years Earth’s sexiest human woman; and a plump therapist named Madeline Hatter, wearing angular glasses and a vicious scowl. And a table, laden with donuts, pastries, and a gigantic glass bowl of strawberries mixed with gallons of clotted cream. Diana’s gluttonous belly gurgled at the sight of donuts and cream. But her brain took in the reality of the situation. Madeline Hatter – clearly an insane hypnotist with psychic powers – was compelling poor Rachel Tate to gorge on fattening food! The ex Miss Universe’s poor stomach was already terribly swollen, within her designer silk day dress. And Hatter was gloating as she overfed Diana's old friend to bursting! “Eat, you rich whore!” Exclaimed Hatter with a cackle. “Eat! And get fat!” And, while Diana Drake’s brain took in the terror of the situation, of a villainous hypnotist abusing her old friend and crush, Diana’s brain did something else too. The sight of one of Earth’s most legendary beauties being force fed set off a very old reflex: the legacy of aeons of Zaftonite genetic engineering, so advanced that not even the Science Guild understood all of it. Something Diana’s physiology hadn’t done for a very long time. Something which Leandra Lord’s evil scheme with Gold Zaftonite had been intended to ensure could never happen again… Within the depths of Diana Drakes once-heroic but long-since powerless brain, a few teeny molecules of the Zaftonite super-hormones, alpha-testosterone and omega-estrogen, oozed into the obese blonde Wisconsin milf’s bloodstream... * * Kaldr, Seenthe, Borghen and 2 others 1 1 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Batman76 Posted July 17, 2023 Share Posted July 17, 2023 Oh dang, seeing Might Woman at her peak is so damn nice. She oozes competency and self confidence. And Sunflare really comes off as alien, pure hedonism in a mere 6'7 package! I can't wait to see her modern day... flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Kaldr Posted July 19, 2023 Share Posted July 19, 2023 The wait was so worthed, seeing some background of Might Woman on her young days it's so cool 😍 flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted July 24, 2023 Author Share Posted July 24, 2023 Chapter 6: The Hefty Hypnotist (part 3) Sweat trickled down Diana Drake’s chubby face. The zepellin-shaped milf gulped for air, jaw gaping in a desperate bid suck down the oxygen her body craved. And she sucked and gasped as quietly as she could, lest she reveal her quivering presence to the terrifying adversary on the other side of the curtained archway to Tate Mansion’s plush reading room. Diana’s pathetic panting wasn’t only from hauling her fat physique the length of stately Tate Mansion. Nor was the sweat-drenched state of her white cashmere top and bulging leggings. Mainly, it was because Diana Drake was pumped with adrenalin and as horny as fuck! The scene in Tate Mansion reading room was too much! “Put another ten tablespoons of clotted cream on your next scone, Mrs Tate. And then EAT IT ALL UP!” The shrill voice of a bespectacled therapist, a plump brunette in her thirties stuffed into a far-too tight size sixteen skirt and blouse, sliced through the air. The angry porker, presumably Miss Madeline Hatter in the very-plump flesh, was yelling and ranting at the satin-clad figure of one of Earth’s most celebrated beauties: billionaire’s wife and queen of Plains City high society, Mrs Rachel Tate. Diana Drake’s brain almost shut down at the sight. Mrs Tate, two-time Miss Universe, lay on a couch beside an exquisite table. And the antique mahogany was practically bowing under the weight of rich desserts: donut stacks; multi-tiered cake trays; bowls of cream, clotted and pouring; fudge; brownies; tarts! Diana salivated from gluttony and lust! She knew that if she hadn’t just come from another room where she’d glutted herself on a like mega-feast, her pathetic willpower would not have sufficed to hold herself back from diving headlong towards the sinfully-rich delicacies! But, more, Diana lusted at the sight of poor Rachel Tate’s swollen gut, distended until it had ripped a seam of her fabulous lilac day dress. “Oh! Please, no, Madeline!” Rachel sobbed, as her trembling hands scooped clotted cream onto a huge fruit scone – clearly not her first, and probably her tenth, judging by the amount of crumbs around the ex Miss Universe. Cream oozed off the scone, and already smeared Rachel’s celebrated face, but she kept scooping. “I feel so sick! And I’m fatter than I’ve ever been in my life! Please, Madeline! Have mercy!” Mrs Tate’s pathetic appeal seemed only to make the hefty hypnotist yell even more angrily than she already was. “FAT! You call this FAT?” Madeline Hatter’s shrill voice shifted to madly high pitch that probably wasn’t good for the glass window panes. “You call this teeny little tummy FAT? How DARE YOU!” Rachel groaned with pain as the fat hypnotist jabbed ex supermodel’s swollen tummy. And Diana groaned too: with lust! Diana Drake had been a hardcore feeder, and feedee, for her whole adult life. Experience had made her an excellent judge of gluttony. Even at ten paces, she was quite impressed by the swell of Rachel Tate’s gut. Her stomach must be churning with a good three-and-a-half gallons of creamy desserts, mushed up with decadent chocolate sauces and half-chewed donuts! Not bad. Very impressive, for a supermodel – clearly Mrs Rachel Tate must have sneaked in a few big food binges over the years, to develop such an eating capacity! Diana’s brain oozed adrenaline at the notion. Madeline Hatter, however, was not impressed. “If I’d been so blessed as to have such a small, teeny little potbelly as yours, Mrs Tate…” Hatter ranted, huffing profusely as if her corpulent physique and too-tight outfit meant that shouting angrily required a big physical effort. “… I should never have been dropped from the cheerleading squad!” “Ugh!” Rachel groaned, as she took a huge mouthful of clotted cream from her oozing fruit scone. “Do you know what they called me? Those skinny little highschool cheerleading team whores? Do you know what those bitches called me?” Hatter screeched. “I don’t know, Madeline!” Rachel sobbed. “Madeline FATTER! Those skinny little whores twisted my famous family name, Hatter, and had the gall to refer to me as MADELINE FATTER! Do you know how MAD that makes me?” Behind the curtain, Diana bit her tongue so as not to snigger out loud. Madeline Fatter was a pretty apt name for the chunky villainess! “Um, very?” Rachel sobbed. “I didn’t ask you!” Hatter shrieked. “Yes! It makes me very angry! Do you know how long I had to slave away, while working demeaningly underpaid junior therapist jobs, to master the hypnotic powers of my bloodline so that I could exact my revenge? By establishing myself as Plains City’s premiere lifestyle coach, tracking down the cheerleading squad, and hypnotising the whole damn lot of them into becoming DISGUSTINGLY FAT! Which, even more disgustingly, I think some of them had the gall to ENJOY!” “Um.” Rachel Tate burped. “Fifteen or twenty years, I guess, given your age.” Hatter’s eyes bulged behind her pointy horn-rim spectacles. “How. Very. Dare. You!” Hatter shrieked. “I’m only twenty-eight!” “Oh.” Rachel Tate’s exquisite smile shone through the smearing of chocolate sauce and donut crumbs. “Well, that’s the danger, when a woman can’t control her cravings for the cookie jar! Overeating can give lead to greasy pores, and then spots, which can have a very aging effect on the skin! That’s why I thought you were nearer forty!” “SILENCE!” Screeched Miss Hatter. The hypnotist panted, as if on the verge of hyperventilating from extreme anger. “AND EAT! Just for that snide little outburst, I command you, Rachel Tate, to EAT UNTIL YOU BURST! EAT! EAT! EAT UNTIL YOU BURST!” Rachel sobbed. And forlornly took a huge cream-laden bite of fruit scone. And then scooped up a couple of chocolate donuts and a slice of fruit tart… * Diana made up her mind. She must act! Rachel’s sarcastic come-back had been a pretty good one, but it had enraged the villainous Plains City hypnotist into unleashing the full deadly puissance of her inborn hypnotic powers. But Diana simply couldn’t let poor Rachel Tate be forced to eat until she burst. Until overfed to gross excess, yes, absolutely, seven days a week. But burst, no! How to stop a deadly hypnotist, then? It would have been trivial, back in the nineties. Diana had encountered a previous generation of the evil Hatter family – all equally loopy as Madeline, of course. Back in the nineties, Might Woman’s Zaftonite brain chemistry had been virtually immune to any hypnotic suggestion that didn’t involve overeating. And her super-powered physiology had been immune to the consequences of being forced to eat an entire truckload of donuts – which one Madison Hatter had ordered Might Woman to do, in order to distract the super-heroine while the villainous mind-controller tried to effect an escape. Madison Hatter might have succeeded in evading capture, had not Sunflare showed up (the Glutteranean had been tracking a ring of donut thieves, for some Sunflare-esque reason), and enthusiastically joined in with Diana’s “small donut snack” which had therefore not lasted long. Madison Hatter, not a fast runner, had barely made it around a corner when she ran into Sunflare’s fist – and discovered, to her chagrin, that the super-power to control people with your voice is of very little utility when your jaw is broken into three or four pieces. Diana sighed. Any super-heroine could rush the ten paces through the curtain in front of her, and lay out Madeline Hatter with one clean punch. Shade could have dealt a clean knockout without appearing to move. Even Andi Korin could have done it, though probably with a mean karate chop rather than a clean punch; and possibly still could. Maybe. But Diana Drake, nope. After twenty years depowered and doing nothing but indulge herself in shameless gluttony, she was much too slow and probably not strong enough! But she still had to try. She was over a third of a ton of Zaftonite. If she could wrestle Hatter to the ground… It’s unlikely the hypnotist could say much with Diana sitting on top of her! The flagstones crunched, as Diana took a huge breath, leaned forward to launch herself into a semblance of a “run”, and… “Oh!” Stone floors didn’t go crunch. Not on a day-to-day basis. Not even under Diana Drake’s colossal bulk. But stone could break, if you pushed it hard enough. It had been so long. Diana didn’t even recognise the tang of hyper-adrenaline! Possibly because there was but a few pathetic molecules of it in her bloodstream. But a few was… not none. “Yes!” Strength flowed into Diana’s thighs! She felt the flagstone floor yield like crème brulee as she heaved herself forwards with everything she had. She shoved the curtain aside, and ignored that the brass curtain pole flew across the reading room after it. The yards between Diana and the cackling Madeline Hatter… Didn’t exactly blur, but Diana felt her legs pump faster than they had in a decade, and she counted down the paces. Gurgle! “Uh oh.” Diana knew she was below minimal strength. Sure, Rachel Tate’s combined force feeding and mortal peril had given the blonde Zaftonite milf an adrenaline rush. And a tiny trace of hyper-adrenaline had come from somewhere. But it wasn’t enough to fuel any of her serious powers. Even if she could remember how they worked. No flight. No super-speed. Just, if Diana was lucky, enough for one rush forwards on foot, and one solid punch. Please? But Diana’s overburdened physiology had other ideas. Punch out a villainess? Nah! Diana’s body had a different idea on the best use for hyper-adrenaline! Namely, dealing with the consequences of her morning’s epic food binge. Maybe melt a few dozen pounds of lazy milfish flab at the same time. “Uh, oh! I need to---” Diana felt her overfull tummy squeeze with crushing force BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRP! “Oh! That feels---” UUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPP! “Good. Oh, shit!” Diana blinked. She hadn’t reached Hatter. It didn’t matter. The hypnotist was in no condition to do anything about it! Diana’s adrenaline-boosted burp had been pretty much a re-enactment of the hurricane-force sneeze incident, which had been back in the 90’s. Back then, Diana had somehow contracted a Zaftonite cold virus. The symptoms had been a mild sniffle, except one time, when she lost control for a moment while trying to order a hotdog at the Plains City marina, and inflicted “The Sneeze” on her surroundings. Two sixty-foot yachts in the direct path had been carried about a quarter of a mile through the air, and were totalled on landing. And there was a small boom in the replacement sail trade. Diana’s cute government contact had covered it up. “Sudden freak gust of wind, caused by global warming,” the newspapers had reported. Diana’s unexpected and out-of-practice burp had done much the same thing as The Sneeze… Except on a miniature scale, and directed not at a marina of high-end sailing craft, but at one very plump and insane hypnotherapist. And accompanied with a fairly overpowering whiff of far, far too much partially-digested dairy. The angry mind-bender had been picked up by the blast wave, and hurled backwards until she struck the mahogany wall panels with a crunch. There, the fat brunette had sunk several inches into the wood, and stuck there, supported by a silhouette of splintered hardwood in the shape of a very fat girl. Madeline Hatter groaned in pain – for which Diana Drake had very little sympathy, and instead silenced by a liberal application of duct tape around the beguiling madwoman’s mouth! * “D- Diana?” Rachel groaned, clutching her poor belly. “Did you come to save me?” Then, perceiving that Diana Drake was literally four-times the weight of the 90’s supermodel Rachel had once flirted with, she gasped. “Oh my God! Did Hatter get to you? How did she make you so fat, Diana?” Diana licked her lips. The sight of of an older, milfier Rachel Tate with a swollen gut was catnip to a Zaftonite, and was making Diana’s brain spin a bit. She felt there was a definite possibility that, after a long belly rub and a shower, Rachel could be coaxed to eat more. Diana had just saved her, after all! Probably easiest to answer Rachel’s question, mostly truthfully, though. “Yep. Came to save you, Rach! But no.” Diana patted her airbag gut – though there was about ten pounds less of it than she’d charged into the room with. “I did this mostly to myself! I married a feeder; made a couple of kids; and ate my own bodyweight in luxury icecream on a weekly basis for twenty years; and that’s just counting snacks in between big meals! Would do it all over again!” Rachel’s eyes widened. “You got this way from too much icecream?” “Yep! I’ve always been a real glutton. But... I lost my metabolism.” “Oh!” Rachel took on a calculating look. “You should meet my daughter. She eats like a power station. And I keep telling her: ‘Tara! You must not rely on that ridiculously unstoppable metabolism of yours, or you may not be offered a lingerie modelling contract at a good agency, since the talent scouts have seen plenty of Plains City girls lose their metabolisms and get fat!’ I should introduce you to her, Diana, as a cautionary example!” “Hmm.” Diana mused. “Interesting you should mention Tara. I was hoping you’d tell me all about her! Maybe… After we get cleaned up… Over dinner? I hear there’s a great place in Little Paris called La Vache Grande! My treat?” Rachel groaned. “Diana, I can’t look at food right now! I feel so sick! Plus, after what that Hatter bitch made me eat, I need to get back on a strict diet, like yesterday!” Diana brushed her expert fingers over Rachel’s overstuffed gut. The ex Miss Universe burped, and sighed from the relief of a tummy rub. “Sure, Rachel. Diet. Yeah, you can start that tomorrow. Maybe. But I’ve just saved you from your mad therapist, so you owe me a dinner.” “Well. Okay.” Rachel sighed. “And,” Diana continued, feeling less immobilisingly overweight than she had in years “I think you need to be less mean to your daughter about snacking. I think Tara is a very hungry girl, and she needs to keep her strength up! And maybe, she should meet my cute son, Devon, who could feed her up properly!” Rachel Tate’s eyes narrowed, but she felt too full to complain. And La Vache Grande was a great eatery. Just, like, super-fattening. ** scl04, Borghen, Kaldr and 1 other 1 1 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Batman76 Posted July 24, 2023 Share Posted July 24, 2023 Oh man, these milfs... I'm interested if we get an arc where Diana slowly loses weight by constantly feeding up Rachel, who can no longer resist...also having diana pressing her son to put a bun in Laura's oven and a ring on her finger, while insisting Dahlia eat enough to fuel her escapades and maybe settle down a little... flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted July 30, 2023 Author Share Posted July 30, 2023 Chapter 7: The Fat Trap (part 1) Sunset, on a warm evening at the conclusion of the annual Fashion Expo, and Plains City Marina was predictably bustling. Superyacht captains in the employ of the global super-rich had vied for the primest locations on Quay-Grande, just as the pleasure boats’ owners had vied to draw the most exclusive guests. And at Plains City Fashion Week, that monumental celebration of colossal wealth, low morals, and high couture, nothing signalled the exclusiveness and prestige of your party like having a top supermodel or three to drape themselves around your salon and snack on your canapés. Dahlia Drake, therefore, was having an awesome night. And why not? Dahlia was the superhumanly-beautiful daughter of the most celebrated supermodel in history! Making her own modelling debut. And what a debut! The flash of the cameras! The lavish applause! Acclaim in the fashion magazines! Personal makeup artists and dressers – and good ones, too, courtesy of Helena Hunt’s fashion house! Dahlia’s Instagram followership had boomed, thanks to a few sneaky snaps she’d snaffled from the cameras of top photographers, and put to her own private use. Of course, the main reason for Dahlia’s success was that she looked fabulous, with over 6’ of perfect curves squeezed into exquisite couture jeans, and her spectacular H-cup rack straining a deceptively expensive T-shirt. (Not to mention straining the deceptively large amount of steel underwire in her Hunt Couture bras, as well. Steel wire, Dahlia had discovered a few times, was no match for a Zaftonite girl taking a deep breath.) There had been hot male underwear models too, of course! A feast for all the senses, as far as the eye could see. And had Dahlia feasted! It was astonishing she’d found the time to sneak into bed with so many hotties! She wouldn’t have had time… Except Dahlia had a speedster friend, who was pretty good at running a quick errand or two whenever Dahlia neglected her chores a little. Speaking of Dahlia’s speedster friend. Ugh. Tara Tate! Tara Tate, unlike Dahlia Drake, was not an alien goddess in human form, and had not inherited the (almost) perfect body and superpowers of a (50%) daughter of the planet Zafton, with its millions of years of supreme biotechnological science. It was therefore incredibly annoying that Vogue Magazine had selected one Ms Tara Tate, in her debutante week as a lingerie model, as the #1 pick in their “Ten To Watch” section about the hottest new models of Fashion Week. Dahlia had been selected as #2, in a truly shocking display of nepotism, corruption, and poor judgement! True, Ms Tara Tate did have a modestly decent pedigree herself – she was the daughter of twice Ms Universe, four-times Olympic medallist, supermodel, and billionaire’s wife Rachel Tate. She’d inherited facial features that, with the help of a professional makeup artist, were just about Okay in Dahlia’s view. But, at something like 6’5’’ without shoes, a few inches above Dahlia’s height, Tara was far too leggy for true supermodel status! Not to mention too thin! Her pair of eager D-cups were the only place that Ms Tate carried a hint of bodyfat. The rest of her was too lean by even the standards of a 21st century runway model. She had a nice ass though. It was perfectly pert, apparently sculpted from (a quite small amount of) spring steel, and reminiscent of supermodel Andi Korin’s at her fittest. And therefore looked reasonably nice in all kinds of lingerie. But, apart from her perfect ass, the straining D-cups, the abdomen proportioned for a wasp, the endless legs, the face of a Miss Universe, her irritating eagerness to please, good hair of glossy black, and a shy smile that had caused one elderly but celebrated French photographer to cry, Ms Tara Tate was basically an also-ran compared with Dahlia Drake! The fact that Tara Tate had been given Vogue’s #1 spot was clearly due to her billionaire family’s influence, and corrupt contacts in High Society and Fashion who either were friends of Rachel Tate, owed her favours, or hoped for invitations to her fashionable soirees! It was almost enough to spoil Dahlia’s evening! But nothing could spoil Dahlia Drake’s evening! For not only was she enjoying the view from the sky deck of a hundred million dollar yacht – the somewhat idiosyncratically named MV Fat Trap – she was being paid to be there! And she’d even been paid to buy the fabulous backless “yacht dress”, with a deep scooped neckline to show off the epic cleavage that was helped along with an exquisite H-cup halter neck bra. The dress was so awesomely pleated and flowing that the curvy ginger girl had been able to give her shapewear a break, and was free to snack without constraint on all the pastries, tartlets, and elaborate sushi treats on offer to the guests aboard the Fat Trap. Tara Tate, meanwhile, was stuck on unpaid hostess duties on her own family’s megayacht. Tara didn’t need to get paid, of course. But Dahlia’s lips curled as she imagined how ineptly Ms Tate was likely dealing with flirtatious compliments from a line of hot male models and rich High Society beaus… Tara had a ridiculous anxiety that “cute boys” would be deterred because she was “too skinny” or “too tall”, when the reality was that she was acceptably hot, and so fabulously rich that there wasn’t an eligible male in Plains City who wouldn’t avidly prise off her pants and pleasure her stupid if only she knew how to lure them in. Dahlia helped herself to a flute of Champagne from a passing tray, and took a deep slurp of the sophisticated bubbly vintage. The evening wind over the marina was still warm, but whipped at Dahlia’s outfit with a strength that suggested the evening would be choppy for anyone staying overnight on a superyacht – which Dahlia certainly intended to do. The MV Fat Trap was an impressive 200 foot pleasure boat. She’d belonged to Leandra Lord back in the 90’s, but had long since changed hands and was now owned by a Plains City princeling named Brad Saber. Who had once been a successful male underwear model, one of the top models in the Lordcorp stable no less. That was until he’d lost his honed physique, first of all going from a muscular hunk to a sexy but too chubby to sell boxer shorts. And then downright fat! The long term consequences, some sniggered, of destroying one’s metabolism with Lordcorp fat-burning pills and muscle-growth supplements. The lazy, indulgent, and expensive alternative to healthy diet and exercise. But still, Mr Bradley Saber was rich. Rich enough to throw ten thousand dollars Dahlia’s way, by way of a party invitation. And he still retained a degree of good looks. True, he had a giant belly that diet pills couldn’t shift, due to his party lifestyle involving little but heaving himself from bar to bar, to restaurant, to pool party, and back again. But expensive spa treatments, and his piles of inherited loot, kept him attractive enough to always have a girlfriend or two on hand. And tonight, Dahlia Drake licked her lips, she was in the mood to add herself to the ignoble list of Saber’s girlfriends… Beyond money, there were two reasons. First, the former male model was reputed to still be massively well endowed – and Dahlia salivated at the prospect of sampling for herself the infamously rock-hard bulge that had sold a million pairs of overpriced boxer shorts! Second, there were rumours that Saber still had dealings with Leandra Lord, and so after Dahlia had suitably fucked the rich ex-model into a coma, she intended to rifle through his luxury owner’s cabin, on the hunt for any pertinent secrets to divulge to Ms Helena Hunt. Normally, Dahlia felt that Ms Tara Tate was more suited to rummaging through people’s junk. But when the mission involved seduction and sex, particularly with a fading male model with a reputation as a legendary fuck, well, Dahlia would just have to take one for the team! Snaffling another flute of champagne, and scoffing her fourth slice of lemon tart, Dahlia Drake sashayed her way down the grand staircase to the Bridge Deck, intent on securing a “tour of the owner’s cabin” – offered by the owner in person, of course! * * “That’s like, so fabul- lush. Fabulous!” Dahlia leaned seductively forward across the private dining table, tactically spilling out of her top in the process. And ignoring the uncomfortably sloshing in her stomach, and the need to go outside for an epic belch. Mr Brad Saber… Could drink like a fucking whale! He was as fat as a whale, of course. Four hundred pounds of belly and chub, for sure. Almost twice the weight he'd been as a bodybuilder and model, for certain. He carried it OK though. He was a hair taller than Dahlia, and apart from a massive belly swelling under an open Hawaiian shirt, he still looked somewhat boyish, clean shaven, well-oiled from the sauna, and definitely fuckable. An epic number of cocktails had been involved in Dahlia coaxing her way into the owner’s bedroom of the MV Fat Trap. As in, about ten different glasses of cream liqueurs, plus bits of lime, herbs, and grain alcohol. And shots. So many shots! Followed by a whole tray of sushi, to share between herself and Brad… Pizzas too, biked to the superyacht from Brad’s favourite place in Plains City (he boasted it was a mafia front). Dahlia wasn’t quite sure a human should be able to stand up after the booze involved in their evening. Fortunately she could: thanks to her Zaftonite genes, she was in perfect control of herself! Still, the vintage brandy and scotch, from the stash in his personal cabin, was causing the room to rock and sway a little… Maybe the wind was getting up outside? Probably it was. “Are you try. Um… Trying to get me tiss…” Dahlia forced a crisp accent. “Are you trying to get me tipsy, Brad?” Dahlia burped, and giggled as her mega-rich host steadied himself with both hands on the circular private dining table and, growing red in the face with exertion, hauled himself to his feet, and loomed over her. A singularly unattractive sneer crossed Saber’s lips. And Dahlia did not like the calculating gleam that came with it… “No, Dahlia...” Brad Saber burped a whisky-flavoured belch that was quite likely flammable. “… I’m not trying to get you **… Gods, you can drink like a storm drain. I’m gonna have a ten-alarm hangover tomorrow… Well. Maybe not… You see, Dahlia. There’s a… Chemical. Hormone.” Dahlia didn’t feel too good. Severely bloated, for one thing – she’d really gorged herself tonight! The food not really noticed, in between the booze, until her cute yacht dress didn’t feel so cute anymore – not floaty enough to conceal her bloated stomach, for one thing. Saber continued with a sneer. “A hormone. Called hyper-adrenalin.” “Hyper-what?” Dahlia tried to think, but the motion of the yacht didn’t help. Had she mentioned hyper-adrenalin. Oops if so! “Hyper-adrenalin, Dahlia. It’s about the only drug I haven’t ever used… To try and regain my… Boyish slim figure and perfect body…” Hehehe! Saber cackled, red-facedly. And patted his tremendously fat beer belly. “… Well, the only drug except diet and exercise, of course. Those are for the little people! And the… poor!” He sneered. “Of course, Lordcorp can’t make hyper-adrenalin. No human can. But you can, Ms Dahlia Drake, or should I say…” Dahlia did not like where this was going. Realising intuitively that it was bad to let a gloater reach the end of his monologue, she jumped to her feet, the spin of the room stopped by a clean burst of energy. But then… Dahlia recoiled, as Saber stood aside, to reveal a full-length gilt mirror. And, in it, Dahlia’s singularly unflattering reflection. “Urgh!” Dahlia croaked. Her reflection was a state. Her dress was distorted, and worse, covered in pizza sauce and… chocolate sauce. Where had that come from? She looked bloated like she was pregnant, and her makeup had been ruined by a night of hard drinking! “… And all I have to do to get some of this miraculous hyper-adrenaline, Ms Drake… Is seduce you into getting roaring **, and so fat and bloated you feel disgusted with yourself!” Dahlia swung a fist. But it didn’t land with any power. In fact, the huge Plains City princeling grabbed her arm in a bear-like grip. “Ouch!” Dahlia cried, as she felt a needle jabbed into the soft skin of her arm… * * Batman76, Kaldr and scl04 1 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Kaldr Posted July 30, 2023 Share Posted July 30, 2023 3 updates in less than a month? Damn, christmas came early this year Borghen and flyer33 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Batman76 Posted July 31, 2023 Share Posted July 31, 2023 Oh dang, Dahlia is in danger! flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Borghen Posted July 31, 2023 Share Posted July 31, 2023 6 hours ago, Batman76 said: Oh dang, Dahlia is in danger! Is it Dahlia or Daliah? It looks like it depends on the writer... I like this new development of the story and I hope that Calorie Girl is able to help her "friend". flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted August 14, 2023 Author Share Posted August 14, 2023 Chapter 7: The Fat Trap (Part 2) Meanwhile, a couple of hundred yards along the grand quay from the MV Fat Trap, the daughter of Plains City's most respected billionaire was attempting to shirk her own hostess duties long enough to order a takeaway snack. The fancy canapés aboard Serenity, the Tate family's main yacht, were not to Tara Tate's liking: they were too small, and mixed odd flavours like spices with candied fruit peel. And Tara was utterly starving. A day packed with photo-shoots for seven different lingerie sets had left time for only two cooked meals, which was at least three too few in her opinion. Still, Tara was confident her hunger pangs would abate if she could manage to order a couple of dozen grilled steak submarine rolls, with copious extra cheese and burger sauce. Unfortunately, it was proving fiendishly hard to order takeout to her parents' megayacht. “No, it doesn't have a zip code! It's a boat.” Tara sighed, as yet another eatery turned down her custom. “But it's really easy to find! Grand quay. MV Serenity written on the side in HUGE letters. It's really big, and there's five decks, with endless stairs...” Her phonecall disconnected. “Aw! Shoot!” Tara ate a handful of vols-au-vent in frustration, and immediately regretted it. Weird French pickle, with what appeared to be cherry pips and puréed sauerkraut. “Yuk! Posh food. Bet Ms Lawson would say it was awesome. Bet the caterer was Mom's choice.” Tara's outfit was her Mom's choice too. After a week wearing lingerie sets in public, the insanely-thin black silk of Tara Tate's couture cocktail dress probably consisted of three or four times as many square inches of fabric as the elaborate sets of bra, briefs, and suspender belts she'd been modelling earlier in the day. But it weighed less! Overall, particularly in light of the padded bra Tara had been strapped into, in order to better display her perky boobs within the Italian-made outfit's plunging neckline, Tara got the impression she was being shown off for auction. Or, perhaps, that she was selling melons. But probably, in fact almost definitely given the mandatory 3-inch Italian heels, the million dollars or so of deep blue sapphires in her necklace and matching platinum earrings, and the instruction to smile at the megayacht guests until her jaw hurt, she was being shown off for auction. Tara suppressed a sob, as she scanned the main deck salon for anything resembling normal food. Not finding any, she turned around and had to fend off one of the numerous eligible bachelors who had mysteriously been invited onto Serenity's end-of-fashion-week soirée. The latest one was a medical doctor, top of his class at Harvard, with a jawline that looked like it belonged on a Starship Troopers recruiting poster. Tara soon decided he was about as enjoyable to be around as the dodgy vols-au-vent. But at least he was less smarmy than the senator's son, and cleaner shaven than the billionaire fin-tech bro. After agreeing to read the lantern-jawed doctor's dissertation, by way of shutting him up, Tara managed to sneak up to the slightly less busy salon on the bridge deck – where there still wasn't any normal food. Nor was there any sign of Tara's mom. Apparently Mrs Rachel Tate had herself sneaked off, leaving Tara as the sole hostess of an entire mega yacht full of very posh, rich, famous, or important people. Truly a recipe for disaster. Or, at least, for one very stressed rich girl – Tara didn't think she'd managed offend anyone yet, but it was only a matter of time. Fortunately – for a certain definition of fortunate – the next would-be suitor to vie for the eligible Ms Tate's attention was interrupted. By a colossal noise from outside. It was a tremendous metallic clang, and a sustained blast like a ship's foghorn. And the sound of a crowd, beginning to flee whatever disaster had befallen the marina district. A crashed ship? Some sort of engine explosion? “What the Dickens was that?” Inquired the voice of some ancient British admiral, who was a bit slower on the uptake, and probably a lot deafer, than the panicking crowd on the quayside. “Yes!” Tara exclaimed. “Um... I mean. Uh. I'd better check what that is. Um. Because... Hostess duties!” Tara slipped through the salon, where her family's guests were hustling to lean outside and see what was amiss, and slid down the stairway rails to her personal VIP cabin. In it, apart from the luxuries any billionaire's only-daughter might fill a large cabin with, there was a small B-collection of stuffed toys... And a travel bad with Tara's latest Calorie Girl Outfit! “YES! SNEAKERS!!!” Tara exulted, kicking off her hated heels, placing a load of sapphires back in their box, and depositing her too-thin cocktail dress on the floor where it belonged. In a flash, Tara Tate emerged from her cabin in a blur of pink: pink running shoes; pink hotpants; glittery pink metal foil on a bust-hugging black tank top; and of course the pink eye-mask that, she was confident, ensured she was totally unrecognisable to any onlooker. Not that any onlooker had the chance to recognise Tara. She sprinted half the length of Quay Grande, just a pink sparkly blur as far as the alarmed crowd was concerned – and to Tara the assorted Plains City revelers, feasters, and fashion models looked almost frozen in place as she zipped past them. Somewhere ahead of her, there was a clamour of tearing metal. And the top-C scream of a highly skilled horror movie actress, or maybe a cheerleader in fear of her life! !ZIP! Onboard MV Fat Trap, there was a echoing clang as a pink blur ricocheted off the steel door to the owner's cabin. “Ouchie. Aw, shoot. Key... Who'd have a key? Oh, I know!” A second later, a bunch of keys on a “World's Best Captain” keyring landed on the luxurious carpet of the hybrid bar-room and bedroom that had been outfitted to the megayacht owner's personal tastes. “Eeek!” Calorie Girl exclaimed! She wasn't certain, but she guessed the musclebound four-hundred pound beast of a man, with the bulging veins and red face, was the owner – and also the source of the clamour. He was mid-roar. But, more to the point, he was standing free from the deck, hovering in mid-air. He had a huge, incongruously vast beer gut that didn't seem to fit with bulging muscles that seemed to be growing, accompanied by popping and crunching sounds, and titanic roars of pain, even as Calorie Girl looked on in bullet-time. The vast muscle-man seemed to have wrenched a big chunk of aluminium hull out of place with his bare hands, and had shredded it... Which explained how come there was a gap in the cabin wall through which Tara Tate had heard the screams of the cowering blonde cheerleader, wearing the slutty green dress... Wait. Screaming cheerleader... “Dahlia? Are you Okay?” Dahlia Drake did not look Okay. She must have been attacked by the monstrously muscular beast before them. The beast, who was even now already eyeing the interloper to his cabin with outrage, and modifying his roar of rage... “... MORE! MOAR! MOOOAAARRRRR!” Calorie Girl did what any sensible speedster in her situation would do. She grabbed her blonde friend and ran. !ZIP! At the far side of the marina district, under the shadow of a small million-dollar pleasure craft, Tara stopped by a railing to check if Dahlia was feeling OK. Tara had had to carry her, and the chunky ginger didn't look good. Bloodshot eyes. Her hands trembled as she grabbed the harbour rail, and hauled her head over to look at the shimmering sea... BLEUUUUUUURG! “Oh!” Calorie Girl gasped in shock and outrage. She pointed an accusing finger at Dahlia's chest. “You've been drinking adult beverages! You aren't allowed. You aren't old enough!” Bleurrrrrgh! “Under Ohio law, a person must be twenty-one years old before they can purchase, possess, or consume alcohol! We're only allowed milkshakes! There's a reason for that, you know!” “Bleurgh!” Dahlia Drake heaved a quite large dollar-value of expensive liquor into the harbour, where it dyed the water lurid colours under the evening light, but would soon be diluted among the Great Lakes, and probably would hardly raise their alcohol percentage at all. “You aren't serious?” The heavier blonde heroine shook her head with disdain, as she hunted around until she found a fire hose, cranked on the water jet, and sprayed it over her face. “I feel much better now. And you literally own a private jet, and megayacht...” Dahlia said after spitting out water. “Serenity's Dad's boat. I do have a small yacht of my own too. But she's in France.” “... That's my fucking point. How can a billionaire's daughter care about the prohibition-era rules on booze in Ohio?” “Because... Plains City is in Ohio! And. Um. It's the rules!” Tara said stubbornly. “Huh!” “And!” Tara continued. “I bet you wouldn't have needed help with that musclebound brute on the Fat Trap, if you hadn't been drinking!” “Um.” Dahlia cleared her throat. “Ha! See! But... Who is he? Is he a super-villain? He was floating in mid-air, and since he turned to snarl at me he must kind-of have super-speed, so I bet he is!” Dahlia answered as she started brushing her wet hair back into position. “He's a rich, fat, famous ex male model named Brad Saber. He got the Fat Trap from Leandra Lord when he retired from underwear modelling due to getting fat... I may have been modelling on his megayacht, where, naturally, one might want to seduce the owner... Purely to learn his Lordcorp secrets, obviously. But then... Um, he may have injected himself with a stolen vial of my blood, and it might, totally unexpectedly, and perhaps due to interaction with all the weird diet drugs he's used over the years, have given him, um... Zaftonite superpowers.” Calorie Girl's eyes widened. “Oh. That's quite a big deal. Ms Hunt's gonna be really, really--” “MIGHT GIRL!” A voice louder than a jet engine boomed across the marina, pushing yachts in its path. “COME BACK HERE! I WANT.... MORE!” “I don't think Ms Hunt's our problem, Tara.” “Calorie Girl!” Tara pouted and pointed to her pink eyemask. “Oh! That reminds me.” ZIP! A pile of clothes appeared at Dahlia's feet. Her Might Girl outfit! And a fluffy towel. And a makeup compact – everything a young Zaftonite girl could possibly need. Dahlia shimmied expertly out of her dress, and started towelling herself dry. “Oh. Thanks.” Tara smiled happily. It wasn't easy to extract thanks from Dahlia Drake! “COME BACK HERE AT ONCE, MIGHT GIRL! OR ELSE I START THROWING BOATS AT THE LITTLE PEOPLE!” “Eek. We stop him?” Calorie Girl inquired. “Uh huh. We stop him. You're on crowd protection duty...” * ZIP! The grand quay of Plains City marina had quite swiftly come to resemble a war zone. Might Girl dodged aside as a broken-off sailing boat mast flew javelin-like through the shadowy evening, and crashed into a faux Victorian street lamp with a resounding crunch and a crackle of electricity. In her peripheral vision vision, Dahlia caught a glimpse of pink lightning, as Tara blurred to a stop and slumped onto the side of a yacht, panting for air like she was hyperventilating. Dahlia bit her lip: Calorie Girl, her only ally in what was turning into a real fight, was nearing exhaustion. She'd done sold work, rescuing every Plains City bystander and a pet dog from every thrown hulk of maritime steel that Dahlia couldn't catch. “Look out! Yacht!” Calorie Girl cried from two piers away, from where she was taking cover. Dahlia had almost seen the yacht in time – hurled sideways towards her, by her raging, musclebound adversary. Despite her best efforts, Dahlia hadn't been able to close last hundred yards of distance between them – his super-strength was at least a match for Dahlia's own, and she could barely deflect his thrown chunks of boat structure, lamp-posts torn from the concrete quay, chain-trailing anchors... And now a whole metal yacht! “Argh!” Dahlia raised her arms defensively – no time to dodge or deflect – the subsonic yacht hurtling towards her was simply too big. She'd have to face-tank it. Maybe tear though the aluminium. Cold adrenalin surged through Might Girl's veins, and her Zaftonite heritage came to her rescue. Fire. Heat. Light. Plasma! A violent burst of blazing solar fury shot out between Dahlia's defensively-raised arms. In a split second, the soft aluminium shell of the thrown yacht rippled and warped under extreme heat... And melted clean through. Nothing crashed into Dahlia's upraised arms. While two halves of the boat crashed to her sides, nothing except boiling aluminium smoke had survived in front of her deadly vision. “Yay!” Calorie Girl said weakly from her latest position, this time cradling a huge sack of rope. “What the fuck was that?” Dahlia asked with a dazed expression. Even Saber, busying himself heaving an even bigger yacht from the water at the far end of the quay, was stunned. “Heat vision. Um, I guess.” Tara panted, as she appeared alongside Dahlia with a pink ZIP. Calorie Girl, who seemed to be struggling under the weight of a whole sailboat worth of sleek Kevlar rope, gave a tired glance at the heavier Might Girl. Their costumes definitely clashed. On the left, facing towards their roaring adversary, as he tore a steel hull to make a new and deadlier projectile, there was the hot pink of Calorie Girl's boutique accessories, offset with pink glitter on a somewhat modest black tank-top. On the right, the sluttier white Lycra leotard of Might Girl, her heavy-duty curves bulging like an overfed Amazon bodybuilder, and straining her outfit's slutty boob window to its limit! “RRAARRRGH!” Saber's shout crashed and echoed from the harbour walls, as he wound up his monstrously bulging muscles to hurl another hulk – a deadly ten-tonne discus of torn steel – to scythe the length of the stone Quay Grande where the mismatched young super-heroines stood defiant!. “Don't worry M.G. I got this.” Calorie Girl said tiredly. The sonic boom that followed shocked even Dahlia. The hot pink lightning blur of her ally shot the whole length of the Quay faster than the Zaftonite blonde thought was even physically possible for her! Metal yachts the length of the marina clanged like struck bells. But Dahlia's real attention was on the pink whirlwind of lightning and rope that suddenly cocooned the raging, fat figure of the villainous Bradley Saber! By the time the pink blur solidified into an exhausted but elated Calorie Girl, pointing a triumphant finger at Saber with a delighted cry, the muscular brute with stolen Zaftonite powers was webbed from head to vast belly to toe with mile of high-performance Kevlar. It should have been enough to stop him! Surely one small vial of unpurified Zaftonite hyper-adrenalin couldn't fuel enough strength to break free! Not after fighting two healthy young super-heroines to a standstill? Unfortunately, Dahlia didn't hear the muffled cackle of Saber's evil laughter until it was too late to save Tara from being grabbed and hurled through the evening sky by a punishing bodyslam, to lie groaning in pain in her own stony impact crater on the Quay beside Dahlia. “Oh no!” Dahlia cried. Saber had been too strong! The Kevlar should have been enough! Surely! He'd been well hog-tied, and couldn't get enough leverage from his monstrously engorged arms, or legs, to break the mile of rope... But Calorie Girl had overlooked the power of his vast Belly! The rope-cocooned figure had simply expanded – swelled up, as his already titanic gut doubled in girth! The surge of sudden surge of monster gut size had burst the Kevlar rope to shreds! And, too exhausted to dodge the unexpected reversal of fate, poor Calorie Girl had been grabbed, and thrown, and now lay in pain by Dahlia's side. “HA!” Boomed Saber, mad with inhuman power. “See the POWER of my BELLY... BUT... Look what your accursed alien adrenalin has done to my figure!” Saber reached down to heft as much of his newly-engorged double belly as his musclebound arms could reach – which was only about half of his titanic bulk. “IT LOOKS LIKE YOU'VE MADE ME A LITTLE PLUMP, HAH, Might Girl... I shall certainly wreak my revenge on you for that... And perhaps then I'll get me a LITTLE TOP-UP TO SLIM BACK DOWN AGAIN!” Uh oh. Dahlia gulped. It didn't look good. Might Girl raised her hands defensively. “Maybe a little top-up will even bag me a few more powers! That HEAT VISION of yours looks like fun!” Saber gloated, as he floated forwards – his vastly swollen belly now filling a full two yards width of the wrecked quay. LET'S TRY IT!” Saber glared at Dahlia with hatred in his eyes... And a river of white-hot plasma exploded forward from them! Dahlia tried to jump aside. But she knew the solar flare of deadly Zaftonite energy would be too fast to evade... … But not, perhaps, to block with her own! Digging deep, Might Girl glared back with all the fury she could summon, at the onrushing fiery doom that lanced forward to engulf the Zaftonite – and her wounded friend – in searing plasmic oblivion! Dahlia felt her eyes blaze, and braced her stance as solidly as she could, as the furious seething plasma of her own heat vision vied to push back the raging solar inferno of Saber's stolen twin power. But slowly, and inch by inch, and although she pushed herself harder than she ever had before, Dahlia felt herself losing. * In the darkening dusk, two figures who hadn't fled the marina stood on the private star deck of the megayacht Serenity watching the scene on the quay with mounting horror. Twin bars of white nuclear fire plunged the marina into blinding light and harsh shadow. But the clashing blaze had a mid-point, and it was pressing inexorably towards the two watchers' own nineteen year old daughters! * * Batman76, Borghen and scl04 1 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Borghen Posted August 15, 2023 Share Posted August 15, 2023 Time for the older Zaftonite to ROLL in. Pun intended. 😁 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted August 16, 2023 Author Share Posted August 16, 2023 Now, the thrilling conclusion of Plains City Fashion Week, and a plot twist I've been looking forward to for some time! Chapter 8: Heat Lightning A little earlier. On the topmost deck of the Tate megayacht, Serenity, which had been cordoned off from the opulent Fashion Week soiree below, Rachel Tate gazed despairingly at the plate of fresh, warm mini donuts with which her friend Diana Drake was tormenting her, and lamented, for the millionth time, the tragic swell that was spoiling her once perfect figure! Ugh! Her lower tummy bulge felt even fatter today! Almost a – the horror – mummy tummy! She should have worn a bodyshaper! Or a full on girdle! Somehow, Diana Drake had talked Rachel into doing her usual pageant beauty regime – glossy, dark hair in a perfect shoulder length mane, arranged to offset sapphires and a highly-demanding azure silk cocktail dress from her favourite Milan designer. But forego the very-necessary firm bodycon lingerie needed to squeeze her tummy into a 28” waist (and 28” was already fat, in Rachel Tate's opinion – her pageant size had been a curvaceous 26”, which was the perfect match for her fit hips and excellent, slightly overfull bust). “Oh, please stop, Diana! You've already ruined my diet for the whole of Fashion Week! And now you're ruining my entire figure!” Rachel pleaded. “I feel so fat! And why I let you persuade me to wear this cocktail dress without a bodyshaper, I swear I don't know! It's nowhere near bodycon enough for my tummy bulge! I can't even stand next to my daughter, to celebrate her surprisingly-adequate lingerie modelling debut at Fashion Week, for fear I won't be able to suck it in!” She continued with a shudder. “Then someone will snap a photo of me with a jello belly, and leak it to the press! Do you have any idea how much the press loves 'Miss Universe Gets Fat' stories? I'll never live this down!” Rachel pouted, at which Diana smirked brightly, and cast a glance over the lower decks. In a quirk of extreme unfairness, in Rachel's opinion, the superfat blonde ex-supermodel was perfectly content with her fat physique... But whereas the indulgent Fashion Week lunches had ruined Rachel's attempt to diet in preparation for tonight's soiree, and probably added yet another 2 or 3 pounds of chub to her lower half, Diana Drake had somehow experienced a bizarre opposite! Diana had practically turned up at each meal looking noticeably less colossal than the previous day. By the end of Fashion Week, Diana's towering bulk was squeezed into a slutty red Lycra bodysuit, which clung to her gigantic ass and thighs, and plunged to show off her immense, creamy, but inexplicably perky K-cup breasts. But the airbag gut of last week had morphed to something approaching a proportionate hourglass waist. The overall effect was that Diana was drawing as much attention from the hottest male models of the Fashion Expo than Rachel had in years, and the blonde had even gotten away with a guest appearance as a super-plus sized supermodel, at a fringe event. “Tara looks like she wants a sandwich!” Diana observed, with amusement. “Tara always wants a sandwich. She's an eating machine, Diana!” “Cool! You could learn from her, Rach!” Diana hovered a chocolate donut in front of Rachel's lips. With a small groan of theatrical despair, the ex Miss Universe took a quick bite; then sexily swallowed the nibble; and Diana took a deep breath at the small flood of endorphins released by overfeeding her supermodel companion. “Oh. I feel fatter by the mouthful!” “Mmm!” Diana purred. “You know, it's not just my tummy now! It was just my tummy when that mad therapist woman was hypnotizing me to overeat. Now, my upper thighs and bottom are getting fuller too!” “They're called saddlebags, Rach! They're awesome!” “They most certainly are not, Diana!” Mrs Tate retorted with resolution. “It's Okay for you. You've been overfeeding me, and I get chubbier! You are just getting thinner; which is utterly unfair!” Rachel sighed, and continued. “... But do you know what the worst thing is? The worst thing, is that ever since I've been struggling home after you've talked me into another huge lunch, and / or a cream-heavy afternoon tea... My husband---” “Your husband's a hottie, Rach. Ex quarterback. Still hot. Would do him!” “I get to do him, Diana. A lot. A. Lot.” Rachel paused to smirk. “But, you know, Hal Tate married a Miss Universe, with a perfect beauty queen body. So, do you what's really annoying when you send me back to him with a swelling tummy?” “Oh, do I need to seduce him into liking chubby girls, to help you out, Rach?” Diana teased. “No, Diana! Unfortunately, you do NOT! He's been absolutely delighted by the, and I quote, 'cute fertile potbelly' on his trophy wife's once pangeant-perfect body. Ugh! No wonder he wanted sex like five times a day when I was pregnant! Not that I minded. I was a fit young woman! But, when I walked in on him Monday after you'd overfed me at La Vache Grande, neglecting to suck in my poor swollen tummy, he practically forced me upstairs and fucked me like a blowup doll! I don't think I've been forced to come so many times since our honeymoon! If then!” Diana giggled. “Forced, Rach? I know you better than that. You don't need forcing, where sex with a handsome ex quarterback with distinguished silvering hair is concerned!” Mrs Rachel Tate flushed indignantly, and fanned her face until her perfectly-smooth complexion returned. “Yes, Diana. Forced! My husband knows my every weakness! He knows that after a little gentle spanking to my perfect – my formerly perfect – bottom, I can't keep my pants on even if I wanted.” “You've ever wanted to?” Diana Drake arched an eyebrow. “No! That's my point. My husband has damn well learned how to make me turn to soft, squishy putty in his hands! He's slyer than he looks! And what he wants, apparently, is me! By which I mean me: but so overfed I can't suck in my poor, stuffed tummy, and laying back to get railed like a high-class **!” Diana's throat gurgled at the concept. “Mmm! Sounds like the perfect husband, Rach!” “Ugh!” Rachel Tate snapped in frustration. “Speaking of high-class hookers... Sometimes, you know, just to keep things interesting, we check into a hotel...” “Go on!” “Okay, my husband checks in. To one of the good hotels, like in Monaco, or Rome, where they have the elite hookers in the bar, vying for super-rich clients. Obviously, I don't go as Mrs Tate: I squeeze into a bodyshaper and a classy but slutty dress, and sit around at the bar to catch Hal's eye, like I'm a pro. Which is easy for me, by the way! Professional beauty queen and supermodel, remember the 90's?” “Oh yeah! We were fucking hot!” “I'm still fucking hot! Just temporarily chubby!” Rachel continued. “So my husband hires me. Ten thousand dollars, cash, by the way. And then I have to do whatever slutty things he wants. It's so humiliating! I love it.” Rachel Tate sighed wistfully. “Mmm.” Diana licked her lips. “And do you know what he made me do, at the Hilton this week? Once I'd shimmied out of my dress, revealing I'd had to buy a bodyshaper in a size up... He spanked me for getting fat... Mmm. But then he made me order room service, and eat four whole, big desserts in front of him. Then... Mmm. He fucked me some more.” “So hot!” “Diana! It's not acceptable that my husband, who very clearly married a Miss Universe, is now trying to make his wife fat! And it's your fault! You are responsible for making him realise my self-control can be cracked!” Diana flicked a few beads of sweat from her brow. “Mmm. So... Your husband wouldn't happen to be available for a threesome, would he, Rach? He sounds so perfect! Don't you think he deserves it? And... I would totally let him feed me as many desserts as he wants! And I can really pack them away, by the way!” Rachel Tate gave a calculating look. “Hmm. I very seldom share, Diana... However... Since I have, this week, been railed, pounded, pumped, and generally oversexed beyond even my own limits, by my husband, until I can barely walk straight in heels... And because I just so happen to know that the supermodel Diana Drake was my husband's second-hardest all-time crush after myself, and since he's clearly going through a fat girl phase that I have no desire to indulge myself... I think I can just about see my way to giving him a hall pass! Hmm...” Rachel smirked. “... In fact, I totally think we should tag team him, and give him the same hard pounding he's been giving me all week! A taste of his own medicine! I'll go first, to show you how he likes to be fucked!” Diana rolled her eyes. Like there was any hot billionaire quarterback she'd ever looked twice at in 1990's Plains City that she didn't already know exactly how to fuck! He'd – possibly – even been single at the time. “Let me...” Rachel flipped open her phone. “... See if my horny husband might just be willing to drag himself out of our little party downstairs, and get epically fucked by the two hottest supermodels of the Nineteen Nineties!” * * “Urgh... Was that?” Diana Drake opened a sleepy eye. Some sort of loud bang had disturbed the much-needed deep sleep she was enjoying – snuggled up on one nicely-muscled side of comatose billionaire still-hottie Hal Tate, with Rachel stirring sluggishly on his other side. The two sexiest supermodels of the nineteen nineties, had just enjoyed proving to Rachel's husband they they were also almost certainly the two sluttiest milfs of the twenty-twenties. Which meant that Hal Tate had been fucked into a slumber so deep that he wouldn't be roused by a full on artillery war going on around him. Which, in fact, the crash that had roused Diana somewhat resembled. Rachel Tate, so proper and poised in public, transpired to morph into an insatiable whore as soon as she prised her husband into a bedroom. And Diana Drake still had the lust and sexual appetite of an unstoppable alien goddess... Even if she had none – or almost none, it now seemed – of the strength and stamina. Which explained how she's fallen into a deep slumber after only a couple of hours of awesome sex. “Oh, hey.” Rachel said with a over-sexed expression she'd never permit herself to use at a beauty pageant. “Well you really fucked my husband like a freight train...” “Mmm.” Diana purred. “I used to punch like one, too... Ah, oops... I mean: what's that noise? Sounds like screaming?” “Oh no!” Rachel's knowing smirk shifted into a sigh. “I knew it was a risk leaving Tara in sole charge of my party! Oh, I have to go see what she's caused.” Pausing only to tie the black silk belt of a sexy short robe, and briefly arrange her hair and, much less briefly, her smeared makeup, Rachel Tate sashayed to the door of the secluded star-deck cabin, to see what the resounding crashes outside were about. A glare of harsh white light arced through the door the second Rachel opened it. “Oh no!” Rachel gasped, in a voice that suddenly lost its sultry smoothness. “Wha?” Diana huffed, and rolled off the bed and to her feet, to rummage for her slutty red 5XL bodysuit. “Tara! Noooo!” A tear rolled down Rachel's cheek as Diana squeezed through the doorway behind. “Oh shit! Shit!” Diana cried, as she took in the wrecked metal and fibreglass hulks in the war-zone that, somehow, the Plains City Marina had become in a short span of time. And not just any warzone. A warzone with Dahlia – Might Girl – and Calorie Girl at its violent heart. The pink-clad speedster lay in pain in her own deep concrete impact crater. Wait... How could Rachel Tate recognise her daughter at that distance? (Maybe: there can't be that many 6'5'' blonde girls in Plains City with a penchant for boutique pink accessories and matching sneakers.) It didn't matter! What mattered was that Diana's own daughter was bravely, but inexorably, losing a furious clash of thermonuclear heat-vision with an identically-powered foe: a musclebound flying hulk that could only be – somehow – a fully-powered adult male Zaftonite super-fatty! “Oh shit!” Dahlia could never fend off a full-adult Zaftonite! Her powers had barely begun to emerge! Did she even know how to fuel them properly? They would take years to develop! And, though the raging Zaftonite brute might be utterly unskilled – where had he come from? Terraforming biomass in a crashed ancient transport pod? Even utterly unskilled, poor Dahlia couldn't hold off the fury of his elemental powers. It brought a cold shiver to Diana's spine to see her daughter was even holding him off for so long. But Dahlia's heat-vision had been pressed back to only a dozen yards from the struggling Zaftonite and her prone ally. “You have to stop him. Kill him. Now.” Rachel said so softly she almost just silently mouthed it. “I what?” Diana stared back incredulously at the ex Miss Universe. Mrs Rachel Tate turned a terrified gaze on Diana. “Stop him, Diana Drake. Or, should I say: Might Woman.” What? “How?” Rachel raised a trembling hand to end the question. “Quickly. I only knew tonight. Too many slip-ups when you talk about how strong you used to be... But I've suspected since forever. Do you happen to remember a masked speedster in the Nineties. Signature red lightning? Awesome costumes based on beauty pageant bikinis and beachwear? Perfect makeup at all times? Wore heels? And Shade never figured out who I was?” No fucking way! “Heat Lightning?” Diana gasped. “You're Heat Lightning?” “Was. I used to be Heat Lightning, Diana. But I renounced my powers... to...” Rachel sobbed, with a frightened look as the arclit conflict on the quay below. “... protect my family... Or so I intended.” “Oh no.” Diana gulped. “Oh no, what?” Diana grabbed a roll of her fat, 60 inch hips for emphasis. “I lost my powers too. Completely. For twenty years anyway... Almost completely, now.” Rachel took on a furious expression, pointed at the inferno on the wreckage-strewn quay below, and snarled. “Exactly how 'almost'?” Diana took another look at her daughter's arcit silhouette. “I guess we'll find out. Um...” Diana weighed up how embarrassing the question was. “... Could you please push out your tummy, Rach?” Perplexity on her face, Rachel Tate nonetheless complied without question. The silk tie of her sexy super-short black robe popped open, the whole robe fell aside around Rachel's middle, and the potbelly below her toned upper body bulged forwards incongruously, hugely, sexily... As Rachel pushed it out to her limit, Diana salivated. And gulped. And could practically taste the hyper-adrenalin. “Oh...” Diana's closed her eyes, as she felt a surge of furious power behind them. “... Yeah...” Stepping up to put Rachel into her radiation-proof shadow, Diana blinked her eyes open, and instantly focussed on her target. And the white nuclear fury of the clash between Dahlia Drake and the raging Saber instantly plunged into blackness, against the more searing laser-tight focus of the heat rays of the fully skilled Zaftonite, Might Woman. * Dahlia Drake felt her legs fold. Reduced to exhaustion, with one knee on the ground, she knew she was beaten, and the oblivion of unconsciousness beckoned eagerly. But if she gave up, Tara would be vapourised too! “No!” Dahlia put all her strength into one last intense blast of nuclear fire... … And the space in front of her cleared with the loudest sonic boom she'd ever felt! “Wha?” Dahlia murmured as balance gave way and she slumped into Tara's crater. “Did I do that?” Saber, and the nuclear rage of his heat vision had suddenly been flicked back, as driftwood swept away by a tsunami. “Wow! Dahlia slurred as she lapsed into a brief daze. “Am I really that strong?” * “Hit him again.” Rachel said with urgency, staring through maritime binoculars at the distant breakwater into which Diana's – Might Woman's – plasmic blast of heat vision had flung him like a speck of flicked grit. “I think he's still moving. A Zaftonite can recover from that.” “Nah uh. Not doing.” Diana panted from the deck, to which she'd immediately slumped. “I got nothing left.” Rachel gave a frustrated growl. “Would it help if I ate donuts?” “I don't think so, but please do.” Diana slurred. “No. I'm not bingeing just to entertain you. Would it let you blast him again?” “Um. No.” “Fine. In that case.” Rachel stepped into her heels. “I'm getting our daughters out of there. You can help. Yours looks heavy.” * Diana groaned with exertion, as she released her fairly heavy – and semi-conscious – daughter onto the giant bed in the owner's cabin at the front of Serenity's now-abandoned main deck, on the other side from where Rachel was cradling her own daughter. “Is Tara Okay?” “Um. I think so. She should have a speed-healing factor, and inertial armor, but that was a bad hit, Diana. And she's so young!” “We were that young, once.” “I remember.” Rachel sighed. Outside, a great groan, or howl of pain, as of a wounded leviathan, echoed across the marina. “He's gonna regenerate.” Rachel said matter-of-factly. “Can you hit him again?” “No way.” Diana panted. “I could hardly lift Dahlia.” “Okay then.” Rachel Tate took a deep breath. “Tara, Honey. I'm just gonna borrow something...” There was a soft crackle, and a faint flicker of pink static electricity, that Diana wouldn't have seen if she hadn't been looking right at Rachel stroking her daughter's hair. “... Half your speed.” “Did you just?” Diana gasped. “How did? I've never seen that! I though you said you renounced your speedster powers?” “I did.” Rachel said, with a deep breath and standing up and almost completely sucking in her tummy with the poise of a champion pageant competitor. “But there are... Tricks.” “Rao!” Diana exclaimed. The supersized blonde followed with rising amazement and gasps – how had she ever missed Rachel Tate being a superheroine? She'd had a huge crush on her competitor for the title of world's most beautiful woman, so it's not like she shouldn't have noticed. Rachel slid open a mirrored closet door. Inside the silver-trimmed mahogany closet, a bikini. A red bikini. With gold lightning emblems on the B-cups. “Don't look so surprised I kept the outfit.” Rachel smirked. “My husband's a chubby chaser. He loves me to cosplay as a fading ex super-heroine, losing her battle against weight gain and fattening up due to her gluttony. Unfortunately it's all-too easy for me to convince. I hate it, but he loves it, and he fucks me stupid afterwards, so... Go figure. But he thinks I got it from a comic convention, rather than Knight Laboratories, so don't tell him it's real.” Diana couldn't have told anyone, at that moment, as her jaw was fixed open with surprise. “And... You help have to help me into it. I think I can get it over my thighs on my own... May need help then.” “Okay.” Diana replied numbly, and salivated as the short robe fell to the floor, leaving the chubby ex Miss Universe completely naked. At least, until she managed to mostly wrestle herself into the Heat Lightning bikini. “A little fucking help, Diana! I don't remember these cups being too small! I need boob tape.” Drool pooled in Diana Drake's mouth. “Ugh. If you keep this up for an hour, Rach, I might be able to zap him again.” A roar from the distant seawall put paid to that idea. “No time, Diana.” “But... Are you sure you can do this, Rach? You don't have to. We could... I'm not sure. But I am sure you have only half your speed---” “Actually no!” Rachel smiled. “Half Tara's speed. Which, turns out to be a lot more than I expected.” “But if the Zaftonite catches you---” “He won't! I've never been caught... Hmm. Diana, do you recall Time Crisis-2, back in 1998-ish? And the footrace to steal the Chrono-Crystal from the Temple of Time?” Rachel asked. “I lost that race! To a speedster... With Red Lightning. You?” “Me. But, Diana, you lost to me in a footrace while I was running in heels, and half the time running backwards so I could keep an eye on the scary Zaftonite.” “Fuck.” Diana swore. “Heh. I was in shape then, and you were always chunky!” “I was muscly!” “And chunky, Diana. Those H-cups must have weighed a ton.” The two superheroines shared a wistful sigh for their goddess-like Nineties physiques. “Okay, so you think you can outrun a Zaftonite... If you're in shape. So... New Mexico strategy?” “Roswell, yep.” “But this means you have to be in shape, Rach. Really?” Diana almost pleaded. “Haven't you skipped a few cardio sessions? Not so many as me, obviously, but still. No super-speed for twenty years?” Rachel pouted “I haven't totally skipped cardio day, unlike some.” She poked Diana's K-cup cleavage. “However... If I need it, I have other tricks...” The hulking blonde Zaftonite gazed with further awe at the content's of Heat Lightning's tiny cross-shoulder accessory bag. Two things. One looked like an epi-pen... “Velocity-6 injector, Rach? No!” Diana exclaimed. “That's the old stuff, it could kill you!” “I'll only use it if I must. I have this too.” Rachel clipped a broach to the bikini tie between her overloaded bra cups. It was fronted in quartz glass, and filled with some intricate clockwork mechanism of springs and gears made of many-coloured metals. “What the fuck is that?” Rachel smirked more than ever. “Tachyon Scoop.” “No way. I know the Nineties were a long time ago, Rach. But we didn't have to use gear made from clockwork!” “Not in our Nineties, Might Woman. But in Alternate-Earth Steampunk Victorian Space Empire Nineties... And if you've never been there and see the airship ports you've never lived...” “I haven't!” “... The Grand Horologist at their Royal Society made it for me, to a design by John Harrison. Old design. But not obsolete!” “By Rao! If it's a real tachyon scoop... The New Mexico strat could actually work, Rach!” Diana enthused loudly. “In which case...” Diana slapped the Nineties speedster on her shoulder encouragingly, with so much force Rachel had to steady herself on the wall. “Suck in the gut, Lightning. You almost certainly get to be on Plains City TV News!” * * With a roar of pain, Brad Saber levitated up from the smashed granite boulders of the marina breakwater, grimaced as his bones crunched back into position. Triple-sized veins bulged and pulsed with power on his gigantically muscled arms, and the five-yard girth of his colossal, fat belly seemed to grow even fatter, as he felt his body regenerate. And, as he healed, he began to float back over the water towards the Zaftonite foe who had blasted him! This Dahlia Drake was stronger than she looked! But... That just meant she was all the better as a source of top-up hyper-adrenalin that he would eventually need. And it meant, this time, he wouldn't toy with her and hold back. Saber reached the end of the stone pier, but didn't bother to float to solid ground. His tree-trunk legs were still crunching back together, anyway. Hmm. Odd. The pink speedster was obviously down. Her sister – judging by the minimal cut of her red bikini and color-coordinated lightning eyemask, her sluttier younger sister – strode haughtily, straight towards him, along the ruined remains of the Grand Quay. In heels! “Hah!” Saber tossed a stray ten-ton boulder in the speedster's direction, not holding back for fun anymore. Unfortunately, the supersonic boulder reached her position long after the crackling halo of red lightning had vanished into thin air. * ZIP! “Hey, Fat Ass!” Rachel called, from her position sitting on the bow rail of a yacht behind the fat, enraged Zaftonite. “Yeah, you! Gut-bucket!” Rachel savoured the taste of the coarse language, which dripped so easily off her tongue. Mrs Rachel Tate, the respectable billionaire's wife, didn't use curse words. And it'd been so long since Rachel had gotten to swear at some shithead from the masked anonymity of a Lighting outfit... She'd forgotten how good it felt. Of course, insulting a fat, raging supervillain was a good way to make him throw shit in her direction. But that was okay, as Rachel simply moved to a different boat before the languidly-moving steel rowboat, that the Zaftonite gut bucket lobbed in her direction, reached anywhere near the bow-rail she'd been sitting on. ZIP! “Or maybe Bellyman! Yeah, I think you're a Bellyman!” Rachel laughed from behind Bellyman. Who snarled, as he wrenched himself around, and punched empty air with all his strength! ZIP! “You could be Gut-Guy. Maybe Moob-Man...” ZIP! That earned blast of plasma vision... Very fast and hard to dodge... Except for a veteran speedster! “Oh, you liked that one?” Rachel smirked from a distant hotdog stand. “Of course, you can't be Big-Belly, because he's been in jail since the year two thousand.” Zip! This time, Rachel stood exactly in the same spot behind Bellyman, who spun around at exactly the same enraged speed, and therefore was predictable. KICK! Rachel Tate landed a super-sonic sideways kick, at full strength, into Bellyman's groin! And, for good measure, lead with the spring-steel stiletto heel of the red designer shoes that came with her Heat Lightning costume. URRRRGH! Based on the mighty groan elicited from her fat foe, Rachel finally learned an answer she'd long wondered about: yes, it was possible for a speedster to slightly-hurt a Zaftonite! ZIP! “I guess I could call you Bunter Bellyman, but actually. Don't I recognise you?” Rachel teased from a little beyond Brad Saber's flailing reach. “Didn't you used to be a hot underwear model? Ew? And I though I let myself go after retiring!” ROARRRRR! ZIP! “What happened, Brad?” Rachel laughed from the door of a shop on the waterfront. “Lid break on the cookie jar and you had to eat them all at once?” “COME BACK HERE, YOU FILTHY WHORE!” Saber roared in mindless fury. How dare the slutty red speedster not stay still! Still. Two could play at speed! His unlimited Zaftonite power was certain to eventually tire and overmatch the speedster with the red lightning, as it had her sister! “Why don't... Hmm. Why don't you try and catch me instead, Brad?” Rachel snarked. “If you're not too much of a fat ass to run, you could use the cardio!” Saber roared. And flew forwards, both fists ahead of him, with the most absolute full and maximum power he could draw upon. But ahead of him, perpetually a few steps ahead of him, the kick of red lightning heels blurred into the distance! * * NEW MEXICO. With a blue flash and a sonic boom, Rachel Tate skidded on sand, kicking a dustcloud ahead of her as she came to a halt in the golden evening sunlight of New Mexico, a couple of time zones to the west of Plains City, and many degrees hotter. “Fuck me! I'm so out of shape! I barely made it back! I guess that's the price you pay for skipping leg day to fuck your husband instead.” The speedster panted, leaning heavily on a boulder and quickly checking the look of the practical ponytail into which she'd tied her glossy dark hair. Between Heat Lightning's heaving breasts, the sky-blue crackling light of tachyons glowed through the quartz glass of her steampunk scoop. “And, I just need to sidestep, right about-” ZIP! “-now!” There was a sonic boom of such epic volume as to cause landslides on the mountains of the horizon. But Rachel neatly dodged, as the vast bulk of Brad Saber – Bellyman – crashed deep into a stony hill, leaving a crater the size of a quarry... And leaving the angry, ex male model – now hyperventilating, and veins almost bursting with extreme exhaustion – to make one final lunge forward before he passed out... “Oh, yeah. I wouldn't try to fly there, if I were you!” Rachel Tate smirked, and flicked a catch on the Tachyon Scoop. And, because of the nature of tachyons, slightly earlier that she opened the quartz glass panel, the contents flew out, drawn by magnetic force towards some dusty, half-buried metal chunk in the red New Mexico soil. A huge blue cubic mist of glowing energy sprang up – right around the lunging Saber. And instantly – in fact, slightly earlier than the same instant – the megafat fake Zaftonite froze in space, his momentum brought to absolute zero. “What?” Roared Saber. “What is this?” Rachel Tate heaved a massive sigh of relief, and panted deeply, boobs nearly bouncing out of her top as she sat on a rock to rest. “I don't normally gloat, Bellyman. But, since you ask so nicely, I shall explain.” * “OK, Bellyman. It's like this. The blue energy field you're stuck in is coming from the metal thingy under the ground. The metal thingy is the indestructible drive-plate of a crashed FTL cargo starship. The cargo caused a lot of problems back in the nineties, and the rest of the ship is smashed... But some of us left the drive plate laying here, partly because it's literally immovable if you aren't a full-strength Might Woman, and partly thinking it might come in useful... Say, for trapping a Zaftonite... If you polarise the plate with tachyons, it emits an inertia-less field for days...” Rachel paused for a few breaths, and continued. “Now I could probably break out of it, but your fat-ass can't! And I know you can't because, while your blubber-gut was chasing along behind me around about mid-Kansas, I zipped ahead and took a little detour from the straight line to New Mexico, and made a quick run to tomorrow... Which isn't easy, by the way!” Rachel stood up, and showed off the abs – her shredded, sweat-slickened sixpack abs, where a stubbornly plump lower belly had been earlier that evening – to make her next point. “Now, time-travel takes a lot of energy. Especially if you're as out of shape as I am. But, as luck would have it, my blob of a mummy tummy, which I piled on due to pregnancy and though years of overindulgence and the decadent lifestyle I enjoy as a pampered trophy wife.” Rachel smirked. “Was carrying around so many calories I could get to tomorrow and back without even using a velocity injector! “... And, tomorrow, Bellyman, I discovered that your powers are fake! They wear off, and you're still trapped here! So suck on that, fat-ass!” Rachel pointed and laughed. “Oh. I might, if you're lucky, send a cute federal agent to come and haul your fat ass out of the dessert and to a special cell... That's assuming I can remember the FBI's phone number, and they still answer it. And if Fox still works there, which I'm not sure. “But anyway. You get to cool your heels here, because...” “... I have a desperate urge to drink my own bodyweight in chocolate milk, and no more than a couple of miles back I think I saw a Dairy Queen!” * Batman76, Borghen, scl04 and 2 others 1 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Borghen Posted August 16, 2023 Share Posted August 16, 2023 On 7/24/2023 at 3:12 AM, Batman76 said: Oh man, these milfs... I'm interested if we get an arc where Diana slowly loses weight by constantly feeding up Rachel, who can no longer resist...also having diana pressing her son to put a bun in Laura's oven and a ring on her finger, while insisting Dahlia eat enough to fuel her escapades and maybe settle down a little... It looks like we did... 9 hours ago, flyer33 said: Chapter 8: Heat Lightning Great plot twist with cinematic description! Is this subplot over or are you planning a fourth installment? flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted August 16, 2023 Author Share Posted August 16, 2023 1 minute ago, Borghen said: Great plot twist with cinematic description! Thank you! 1 minute ago, Borghen said: Is this subplot over or are you planning a fourth installment? This is the end of my Fashion Week arc. I do have a couple of short epilogues, but no major new bits of story on this! Borghen 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Batman76 Posted August 17, 2023 Share Posted August 17, 2023 Oh this was purely milf tastic! flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted March 25 Author Share Posted March 25 Chapter 9: The Dragon’s Scale The state motto of Ohio: “With God, all things are possible.” So far as concerned Plains City, that great cosmopolitan conurbation at the heart of Ohio, it was possible God could even fix the plague of potholes afflicting every road surface, if He really wanted to… But God moves in mysterious ways, and apparently had chosen not to respond to any prayers on the matter since about 1960. Neither, of course, had City Hall. Connoisseurs of Plains City’s dilapidated roads had made tier lists of its most impressive potholes, and published them on Youtube. Their consensus was that the most S-tier car-traps lay in the hilly suburb of Southwich. There, mansions of eclectic fashion lurked behind the trees that filled their massive old gardens. And the cheap, thin asphalt road surface preferred by the municipal authorities was no match for the roots of these century-old American Oaks. Hence there were devastating hazards awaiting the unwary motorist. It was a wet morning in Southwich. Over the pleasant background of genteel birdsong came the rumble of a convertible Porsche Carrera – a brand new model, with personalised plates identifying the owner as “S0PHIA”. Alas for the Carrera’s chances of reaching its first birthday, Sophia was a worse than mediocre motorist. An attentive person might have taken care about slamming her car through a “shallow” puddle in Southwich, lest the water should conceal an axle-bending sinkhole of epic depth. With a slam and the bang of an exploding inner tube, Sophia’s white Porsche bucked and jumped diagonally onto the verge amid a tidal wave of water displaced from the monster pothole into which she had sped. Tyres dug their way through sodden grass, leaving trails arcing left and right, until the thirty-something blonde driver braked to a halt. “Yuk!” The blonde screamed in dismay. Not particularly because of her Porsche. Frankly, her husband had been in a disgracefully cheap mood when he’d bought it a few months earlier. In fact, Sophia Sloane darkly suspected her billionaire husband – the wealthiest of the Plains City Sloanes – had simultaneously picked out a much nicer car for whichever slutty little whore he happened to be banging at the time! For his wife, the mid-range Porsche had been a fucking embarrassment! Hence Sophia was in no way upset that the crunching sound with which it had bounced off the crappy Southwich road had sounded expensive. Sophia was less upset about her car, than about her drink – an XXL hot chocolate with no few marshmallows and extra syrup. It had sloshed free from the cup holder and absolutely drenched the light grey stretch-fabric of her pencil skirt with warm chocolatey gunge. Right over the swell of her belly – which, since she wasn’t on her way to see anyone she knew this morning, was free of a body-shaper and bulging comfortably over her lap. “Aww, dammit! That was like half my drink!” Sophia sniffed. “And just my luck that my slutty little maid…” Sophia Sloane was pretty certain her husband was currently banging the maid responsible for dry-cleaning and taking care of Sophia’s wardrobe. “… is just the sort of whore who’d snitch to my husband just because I’ve had a little hot chocolate to drink in the car while he thinks I’m on a diet. Tee, hee-hee, Mister Sloane! All those sneaky hot chocolates in the car are why your wife can’t even wedge herself into a size twelve skirt no-more!” “No, Miss Pert-Assed Maidservant, Slut!” The blonde ranted to the dashboard of her stricken car. “The reason Mr Sloane’s beautiful blonde trophy-wife has fattened up into a size fourteen hippo, is because Mr Sloane is obsessed with having ‘A son and heir!’ But nonetheless the fathead insisted on pumping five daughters into his wife, one after another! Which is why I am FAT! And if you don’t think that’s a real excuse, Miss Skinny Servant, then you try getting through six pregnancies in quick succession, when you have a personal chef who’s practically paid to keep you overfed for nine months at a time, and then feed you back to peak fertility for the next attempt ASAP! Oh, yes. And into the bargain – no sex, because you ‘look too bloated’ and your husband’s into skinny models! Literally. BAH!” Sophia thumped the steering wheel in annoyance, exited the car, and then enjoyed a momentary tinge of satisfaction that while her Porsche wasn’t going anywhere without a tow-truck, it had brought her to the wrought-iron gate of the very address she’d been heading to. Number 1, Witch Crescent! “Aha! Witch Crescent!” Sophia brushed off as much chocolate as she could, and strode along the arcing, sycamore-lined driveway. The place certainly had a creepy, overgrown vibe! Just what she was looking for! A venue to host a season of spooky parties for her wealthy friends in High Society! Up ahead, the grand old house at Witch Crescent looked just the part! Turrets - multiple! Gargoyles - large! An over-the-top weathervane. An off-vertical wall! Aged timber! Rooms with windows at erratic levels, dribbly candles on the sills! Probably stuffed animals or a skull on the shelves, if you looked closely – but Sophia had the keys, and it would be easier to let herself in rather that squint through the glass. “Splendid!” Sophia panted, into the damp morning air. Even Rachel Tate wouldn’t be able to match this venue! The voluptuous billionaire’s wife was out of breath, and so while she slotted the shiny new key into the one working lock on the foreboding front door, she decided to grab a drink from the kitchen before exploring her property. The driveway had been a good sixty yards, and Sophia Sloane was chunky and unfit! And not just because six pregnancies of baby-weight had engorged her once-lean hips, belly, and caboose! There was also her hot-chocolate habit. And, as well, although she’d made a few attempts to get fit in her post-pregnancy thirties, they had only lasted longer than three visits to gym on those occasions she’d been fucking her personal trainer. Hence Sophia Sloane was a solid three dress sizes too fat draw her husband’s eye back from a succession of mistresses and maidservants… But, on the plus side, she had a solid pre-nup, and free rein to splurge her husband’s entertainment budget of a few million a year on hosting lavish parties! And, though her husband wasn’t one, there were plenty of eligible men in Plains City eager to fuck a wealthy blonde milf who’d enjoyed a perfect body ten years ago, even if she was chunky now! “Phew!” Sophia refreshed herself with a cup of water, and took in the ambience of the stone kitchen. It was almost medieval! Copper pans lined the wall, a black cast iron kettle hung in the cold fireplace, and there were rafters, and an evocative latticed window overlooking the herb garden. “What a fabulous, little place! Bijou, even!” Sophia trilled. Yes, Number 1 Witch Crescent was the perfect place for spooky-themed parties! Her Halloween was sure to win acclaim this year in the society magazines! The house had olde New England charm. But it also boasted a colorful history that would make a great atmosphere for seances – the previous owner’s much-younger wife had been caught up in a lurid story of alleged grave-robbing, after he passed away and his antiques business fell to her. Yes, there was more to Witch Crescent. Probably two-dozen rooms more! But, as fortune would have it, before Sophia spent a happy morning smirking over the “authentic” décor, stuffed ravens, skulls, and under-carpet pentagrams of her new place, she chanced to begin her tour in a back study, where a shelf of bric-a-brac happened to conceal the one item of actual authenticity. “What’s this?” Sophia giggled delightedly at an ebony bookshelf filled with odd carvings – and one glittering necklace or pendant that sparkled and caught her eye. She read the handwritten paper label. “The Dargon’s Scale Pendant. Hmm…” There was more spidery writing on the label. Smaller than the heading. “Let the Dragon’s Scale Weight Your Wishe for One and All!” Obvious nonsense, but a little bit of magical nonsense was exactly the sort of ambience she’d bought the house to achieve! “Hmm. How enchanting! I wish…” Sophie giggled, as she gave the glittery gold lump on the pendant a rub, and grabbed the flabby bulge of her belly with both hands for emphasis. “… I wish for One that I had my perfect youthful figure back, and as for All… Well, I wish all this flab would end up on all those sluts my husband’s been banging behind my back! Haha!” Sophia tittered, and on a whim put the necklace on, letting the golden lump nestle between her creamy and heavy breasts. There was a little flash of lightning, and light rumble of thunder. Sophia peered out into the light rain of gloomy Southwick, and made a note to have her driver beware of rain-filled potholes when she finished touring her new house and messaged to be collected. “Tee hee, Miss Pert-Assed Maidservant. Wouldn’t that just be your just desserts! Haha. Hahaha!” * * Borghen, Matt smith, Batman76 and 4 others 5 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Batman76 Posted March 26 Share Posted March 26 Oh I am so stoked flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Cracked Posted March 27 Share Posted March 27 This is great, glad to see more stuff from you @flyer33! flyer33 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted April 2 Author Share Posted April 2 Chapter 9: The Dragon’s Scale (part 2) The house at Number One Witch Crescent presented such a splendidly authentic ambience of magic, and, well, general witchiness, that Sophia Sloane had positively fizzed with ideas for almost half a week! There were interior decorators to hire. Caterers to book. And, of course, wealthy, well-connected, and celebrity friends to invite so that the society magazines would get wind of the Sloane family’s fabulous new party venue! Party invitations, Sophia Sloane avowed, were best given in person. It was to this end Sophia had laid on a lavish brunch in the orangery of opulent Sloane Mansion. The attendees were the choosiest of all party guests: billionaire’s wives. Eager to get an excellent attendance of them at her debut spooky-soirée, Sophia had hired Plains City’s most expensive pastry chef to ply her brunch guests with such hefty slices of irresistible cake, washed down with copious vintage Champagne. Thus fed and lubricated, the trophy wives would be in far too elated a sugar-high to say no to anything, least of all an invitation to enjoy Sophia’s delightful hospitality at her bijou little new house! It was clear at a glance around the fragrant orangery that Sophia Sloane’s plan was working! Not one of her two-dozen ultra-wealthy peers, chit-chatting happily to each other, lacked a plate smeared in the residue of multiple large slices of gourmet cake! Nor even, Sophia snidely noted, a bosom free from evidence that its proud owner had dropped a crumb or two of “light and airy” cake, or a dollop of high-priced filling, onto her cleavage! Sophia had craftily restricted the healthy canapés in favour of yet more pastries and tarts loaded with sugar, and the oblivious billionaire’s spouses were grazing delightedly and washing it all down with Champers and cream cocktails. It was quite a testament to the “stamina” of Plains City’s ultra-wealthy wife set that, after an hour of Sophia’s hospitality, they could still stand without swaying from excessive blood sugar and booze! Of course, these uber-rich women had a lot of practice with underwear-busting brunches! It was something of a miracle most of them could even squeeze into their exquisite, single-digit dress size outfits – a miracle Sophia Sloane attributed not primarily to the “strict regime” they all claimed, between mouthfuls of cake, they struggled through to atone for their “occasional” indulgent brunches. Sophia attributed their enviable silhouettes more to liposuction and the skills of elite cosmetic surgeons; to diet pills and mornings suffering the after-effects of laxative fruit smoothies; and to the skill of Plains City’s fashion houses with body-con outfits and vice-tight shapewear concealed in high-end lingerie! Case in point was the city’s latest trophy wife: one “Minty” Sweetwater. Sophia generally thought of “Minty” in quote marks, because that had been the girl’s stage name… back when the six-foot knockout had been a pole-dancer! Alas for “Minty”, her sleazy past – and, more importantly, the fact she’d been born poor and only made it in life by working as a stripper – was public knowledge. And her elderly oil-tycoon husband’s fortune (at $2.5 billion, per Forbes, making “Minty” one of Sophia’s poorest brunch guests) was far too small to shield the lowly Missouri girl from the snide remarks of her better-educated peers. Anyway, “Minty” had arrived from nowhere onto Plains City’s elite social scene, at the age of 22, one year and ten days prior to Sophia Sloane’s latest brunch (according to Sophia’s detailed party records). On her debut, the newly-married “Minty” had sported a gaudily-huge diamond on her wedding ring, to match the bombshell-sized breasts on the red-head’s smoking-hot, 6 foot frame. And she’d also sported a smoking-hot body, with a lean, concave midriff on display between her cheap cutoff T-shirt and her cheap but enviably loose-waisted size six jeans. But it hadn’t lasted! Smirks and titters followed the pole dancer from Missouri, who didn’t know which fork to use at a fancy dinner, but who certainly couldn’t resist loading up the wrong fork with shovelfuls of billionaire food she’d missed out on throughout her deprived youth! Minty could be seen shovelling herself full of Plains City’s richest fare at brunches, afternoon teas, and dinners, never stopping eating until she was green in the face! Lucky for her she didn’t have to fit into her stripper-shorts again! By a month into her marriage, Minty had been too fat for revealing crop-tops. At two months, she’d had to upsize the couture tops she’d replaced them with. And at three months she’d left a soirée crying after her widening caboose tore the seat of her favourite jeans! Sophia Sloane had openly tittered! And Minty had kept piling on the weight all year. Never a good conversationalist, at elite social events she soon learned to keep quiet in front of her betters, and instead stuck to something she was good at: eating herself sick! After a year of marriage, poor Minty’s fattened-up caboose and thighs were straining her rhinestone-encrusted size 12 jeans, and only firm shapewear was keeping her muffin top under a degree of control… … And Mrs Sophia Sloane eagerly looked forward to the day when Minty’s swelling badonk outweighed her own! To which end, she laid on extra portions of sugary junk at brunches and soirées, and made sure to always invite Minty! “Tee hee!” Sophia headed over to the buffet table at which she saw Minty was already glutting herself green on Monsieur du Goo’s gourmet cake, and decided to make sure the Missouri poledancer was the next invitee to her upcoming spooky soirée. Sophia chortled under her breath. “Minty’s soon going to make me look slim! Tee hee!" The prospect cheered the milfish Mrs Sloane greatly. And Sophia Sloane had already been in a wonderful mood this brunchtime! Partly because of her plans proceeding apace for Witch Crescent. But, also, and just as pleasing, Sophia Sloane had awoken that morning feeling much less bloated than she had in weeks! Perhaps the new fruit-and-berry smoothies she’d added to her breakfast were easing her constipation problem? Perhaps the good, hard fucking she’d received from her personal trainer had helped matters? Or perhaps she was just full of energy thanks to Witch Crescent? Whatever the reason, Sophia Sloane was in an excellent mood. So excellent, in fact, nothing whatsoever could possibly spoil it… … Which was just as well. For, as Sophia rounded a cluster of Old Money wives who’d already accepted their own party invitations – and who were helping themselves to more of Monsieur du Goo’s carrot cake even though they were all obviously testing the limits of their size 8 and 10 ultra-bodycon lingerie – Sophia saw that Minty Sweetwater’s conversation conversation partner was the overweight poledancer’s polar opposite. Rachel Tate! “Eeek!” Sophia’s eyes bulged as she saw the perfect Mrs Rachel Tate’s absolutely outrageous – as in so outrageous it was certain to draw prime mention in all the best Society magazines – outfit. A frayed white cotton crop top… Tied under ample C-cup boobs, that reached eagerly for the orangery’s glass ceiling, as if they’d gone through life unaffected by gravity. They obviously weren’t getting any support from the barely-existent black bikini bra that had blatantly been Rachel Tate’s choice because its skimpy flimsiness showed through her tight white top! A bare midriff... With smooth abs to make a heptathlete glow green with envy. Daisy Dukes… Sophia groaned; briefly regretted the cubic yards of hot chocolate she’d guzzled during her marriage; and tried in vain to avert her gaze before noticing Rachel’s perfect legs. Gulp. Sophia involuntarily swallowed a huge mouthful of the carrot cake she’d barely begun to even taste. Somehow – and utterly unfairly, in the view of Sophia Sloane – Rachel Tate had made it through 25 or more years of married life with the body of a nineteen year old. The sluttishness with which Rachel was flaunting her body was beyond indecent – and at a brunch hosted by a woman who struggled with her milf-gut, no less! Ooof! It was – almost – enough to make Sophia say something catty! “Rachel!” Sophia trilled. “You look fabulous! Not a day over…” Sophia gulped, and forced herself not to say twenty-five, but something with a bit of High Society bite to it “… forty. You must tell me your secret!” “Oh, I don’t think you’d like to know my secret, Sophia…” Rachel replied. “… I had to shape up for a little cross country contest, and I’ve been doing a bit more running. I do hope you don’t mind my coming to brunch in just my training gear. I lost track of time, so I had to run here directly, and I simply had nothing else to wear!” Bullshit! Sophia grumbled to herself. As if the slut arrives from a run with pageant-perfect hair and makeup to go with her slutty fake running clothes. Etiquette didn’t permit Sophia to remark upon Rachel’s ostentatiously implausible nonsense explanation for her scandalously slutty outfit, however, so she turned next to Minty. Teasing the overweight and under-confident new Mrs Sweetwater was always good sport. “Minty! How lovely to see you!” Minty smiled weakly. “You’ve positively glowing.” Sophia continued, glancing at the amount of cake on Minty’s plate. “And such… a healthy appetite for my delicious cakes! Is it possible that you might, perhaps, have had the felicitous delight of… falling pregnant?” Tee hee! Sophia smirked, at the cleverly snide way of calling the red-head ex-stripper fat. Minty’s head hung, and she glanced over the side of her enormous boobs, at her too-tight jeans and muffin top. “No…” The poledancer sniffed sadly. “… I still haven’t. But I do hope to soon! And…” Misty paused, perhaps knowing she was going to say something silly. “… Rachel. Um, Mrs Tate. Rachel has been giving me some tips. Um, on how to get pregnant. Um.” “Hahaha!” Sophia laughed heartily. Minty might be 23, but the gossip magazines laughed on a regular basis at any picture of her with her absurdly old and frail husband. The redheaad was six foot, broadly-built, and now overweight with added fat as well. Any attempt on her part to consummate her marriage let alone get pregnant would certainly backfire and turn her into a widow! Minty froze, and looked like she wanted to cry. “No, really! I very much hope to get pregnant.” “Oh.” Sophia decided that she had more important things to do at her brunch than chat with the fat and busty ex-poledancer, and the perfect former Miss Universe. Such as handing out party invitations to super-rich wives. “Anyway. Minty and Rachel. You must come to my upcoming soirée at Number One, Witch Crescent… It is Plains City’s most haunted mansion, and formerly belonged to a powerful witch… So, Minty: I’m sure that the magic of the house, as well as my fabulous cakes that you love so much, will help you to get pregnant! And Rachel: it’s fancy dress, so if you want you can come as you are!” Haha! Take that, Rachel Tate! Come-as-you-are indeed. A good one! Sophia smirked. Not even Rachel Tate had a snappy comeback to that one. She’d probably have to accept the invitation just so she could spend the intervening time until the party thinking of one! “What a generous offer, Sophia.” Rachel really did decide to spend the time up to the party coming up with a suitable comeback. “I think I have space in my calendar.” Minty, of course, was too far below Sophia in social status to have an option. “Thank you, Sophia. I hope it will.” Minty said And, with that, Sophia proceeded to the next buffet table. There, another plumped-up ex plus model, married to the owner of Ohio’s biggest burrito restaurant chain, was grazing on cake next to a skinny ex weather-girl married to a financier. The previous, ridiculous conversation faded from Sophia’s mind with one final thought. Bah! How ridiculous! Fertility advice from Rachel Tate. What a joke! The only advice Rachel Tate could possibly offer was that if you got railed like a freight train seven times a day by a demigod like Hal Tate, you would assuredly fall pregnant within about three hours after forgetting to use two forms of contraception at all times! Sophia’s tummy rumbled. She was hungry! It must be because her bloating problem had gone away overnight. Leaving room for more carrot cake! The carrot cake today was sublime. “Perhaps another slice of carrot cake.” Sophia decided, before joining the next guests. After all, she was hungry… And, even better, Sophia’s girdle had been so easy to fasten this morning, that she’d actually hunted out an old one from when she wore a size 12. That one, after a struggle, had actually gone on too! As a result, Sophia’s designer day dress, with a trendy geometric print on white silk, was actually rather flattering – her mommy gut was held in closer than her generous boobs, and although her caboose was still large there was clearly scope for a slice or two more cake! And that was before her guests departed… After that… Sophia would be at liberty to shed her girdle, and lounge around gorging on leftover carrot cake and pastries like a grizzly bear! What a splendid prospect! Monsieur du Goo’s carrot cake was the best thing she’d tasted all year. Best of all, Sophia had encountered it on a day she wasn’t even feeling remotely overfed or bloated! She might even have to have Mr Goo whip up a whole another cake for later! * Minty Sweetwater dug her fork sadly into the last piece of carrot cake on her plate. “Rachel? Is there more carrot cake? I feel a bit sick, but it’s soo good!” Asked the redhead. Minty was wearing kitten heels such that with a teeny slouch she was as conspiratorial eye-level with Rachel Tate. Rachel gulped down her own cake and glanced at the overfed redhead… A sheen of sugary-looking perspiration, and dilated pupils, suggested Minty Sweetwater had eaten enough for one brunch. Very suspicious. What was in that cake? “Hmm. I don’t know, Minty. You’ve gone kind-of a mid shade of green. Don’t you think the nine big slices you already ate are enough?” “Um…” Minty concentrated. “… No? Um, I only feel a bit sick, and I can take off my bodyshaper and unbutton my jeans soon!” Rachel eyed the remaining carrot cake platter. Four slices. All huge. While Minty was answering, Rachel unhinged her jaw and stuffed a whole slice into her mouth. “Only three left, Minty.” Rachel said. “I think I should probably finish them.” “Aw!!! Rachel, please? I’m hungry!” “No.” Two slices left. Minty sniffed sadly. “Please, Mrs Tate! I’m starving.” “No.” Gulp. One slice. “Rachel! Not fair! You’ve already eaten twice as much as me! Please may I have-” Gulp. “Nope. Ugh. That carrot cake is sickly sweet!” Rachel gulped from a water jug while Minty stared sadly at the crumbs… And then looked around the room for more, and started towards the next table. “OUCH!” Minty cried, at the sudden hard grip on her arm. “Let me go! Rachel, I want more cake!” Rachel Tate shook her head and blinked, as if clearing her vision. “No. Minty. I think the carrot cake has – had – some kind of illicit ingredient. Maybe… That’s why the pastry chef is the city’s richest? Perhaps Monsieur du Goo puts an illicit appetite stimulant in his most expensive recipes? To secure the big bucks from cake-loving clients like Sophia? That would be sneaky, but very Plains City!” Minty tried to free her arm from Rachel’s grip, but couldn’t. And she couldn’t keep from being pulled outside to the mansion’s car park either, so she went along with it and pretended she wasn’t being dragged out of the cake-laden conservatory against her will. “But Rachel! You ate my cake! Why? To save me from being sick?” Sob. “That’s so nice of you! No-one else would do that for me! I think Sophia even smirks at me when I get fatter. But aren’t you worried you’ll get fat like me?” Rachel more or less threw the heavier trophy wife into the seat of her sports car. “Nope.” “But why?” “Because, Mints, I have a fast metabolism, which will definitely burn away any appetite stimulant before it does anything to me… You on the other hand we take for blood tests, to find out if I’m right, and assuming I am then what it is. And also…” Rachel floored the accelerator of her sports car, eliciting a shriek from Minty as they cornered with insane speed from opulant Sloane mansion’s driveway onto the wide, private roads of billionaire suburbia. “… My husband prefers me fat… I’ve lost some weight, Minty, and if I don’t fluff back up to chubby milf status soon, I fear he may refuse to let me fuck him more than six times a day… And entropy will claim the universe before I will ever accept less than unlimited fucking from my husband!” * * ulvrik, Kaldr and Batman76 1 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted April 3 Author Share Posted April 3 So, I thought some readers might benefit from learning a bit of deep lore about some of the upcoming superheroine / supervillainess organisations in Calorie Girl's adventures... I recently realised that there's a set of DC comic book characters @Batman76 has not yet written about for Curvage (!!!) - the Green Lanterns. And so, here is some lore about the version Calorie Girl and her allies may come up against: the Fat Lanterns! The Fit Lantern Corps. A cosmic police force, empowered by the Emerald Green Fit Power Rings. These rare artefacts select a champion from among the most disciplined adherents to diet, aerobic exercise, and clean living among the heroines in their sector of the universe, and like almost all the Power Rings they grant physical might and the power to do anything... but in the case of the Emerald Green Rings, this depends on the Fit Lantern possessing sufficient discipline of mind and body. Alas, the entire Fit Lantern Corps was wiped out in the 1990's, during the events of the Fattest Night Crisis, along the with Central Fitness Power Battery, and the very few surviving power rings are almost totally depleted of charge... The Fat Lantern Corps. The "Fatty Impurity" was a corruption within the Fitness Power Battery, included by its creators in order to supply the device with its unlimited, eternal strength. Alas, the corruption ultimately caused the former leader of the Fit Lantern Corps, Voluptua, to transform into a fallen version of herself, and the first of the Fat Lanterns. With powers fuelled by obesity and gluttonous excess - either of the Fat Lantern herself or of those around her - her Alluring Gold Fat Power Ring grants unequaled might to the greedy Fat Lantern Corps. The Bliss Lantern Corps. Known to their foes as the "Hippy Corps", as they are perpetually zoned out by exposure to the orgasmically blissful blue radiance of their Sapphire Bliss Power Rings. The Bliss Lanterns are chosen from the ancient Guardians of the planet Hedonia, who first discovered the Pleasure Spectrum and - since they were themselves physically weak and committed to peace, love, and potent narcotics - harnessed not only their own blue power rings, but also created the Fit Lantern Corps, in order to protect the universe from its most devastating horrors. More obscure Corps, little known to the universe, include: The Gourmet Lantern Corps. Their Amber Power Rings grant powers of irresistible temptations, such as the creation of sumptuous food. A Gourmet Lantern can fatten and increase the powers of a nearby Fat Lantern. The Smug Lantern Corps. Possess Ruby power Rings. A Smug Lantern draws power from her extreme vanity, and can disempower other Lanterns by gloating at their weaknesses. The Horny Lantern Corps. A mysterious corps, whose Purple Amethyst Horny Power Rings provide little power to the Horny Lantern other than mild super-strength and the ability to inflict extreme pleasure on those around them, but have the unique interaction that they can refuel and enhance the depleted energy of a Fit or Fat Lantern's power ring by overloading her with indulgence and pleasure - but with potentially disastrous consequences for a Fit Lantern whose willpower is cracked by such hedonistic excess! Matt smith, Seenthe, Borghen and 2 others 1 1 2 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Batman76 Posted April 4 Share Posted April 4 On 4/1/2024 at 7:28 PM, flyer33 said: Chapter 9: The Dragon’s Scale (part 2) The house at Number One Witch Crescent presented such a splendidly authentic ambience of magic, and, well, general witchiness, that Sophia Sloane had positively fizzed with ideas for almost half a week! There were interior decorators to hire. Caterers to book. And, of course, wealthy, well-connected, and celebrity friends to invite so that the society magazines would get wind of the Sloane family’s fabulous new party venue! Party invitations, Sophia Sloane avowed, were best given in person. It was to this end Sophia had laid on a lavish brunch in the orangery of opulent Sloane Mansion. The attendees were the choosiest of all party guests: billionaire’s wives. Eager to get an excellent attendance of them at her debut spooky-soirée, Sophia had hired Plains City’s most expensive pastry chef to ply her brunch guests with such hefty slices of irresistible cake, washed down with copious vintage Champagne. Thus fed and lubricated, the trophy wives would be in far too elated a sugar-high to say no to anything, least of all an invitation to enjoy Sophia’s delightful hospitality at her bijou little new house! It was clear at a glance around the fragrant orangery that Sophia Sloane’s plan was working! Not one of her two-dozen ultra-wealthy peers, chit-chatting happily to each other, lacked a plate smeared in the residue of multiple large slices of gourmet cake! Nor even, Sophia snidely noted, a bosom free from evidence that its proud owner had dropped a crumb or two of “light and airy” cake, or a dollop of high-priced filling, onto her cleavage! Sophia had craftily restricted the healthy canapés in favour of yet more pastries and tarts loaded with sugar, and the oblivious billionaire’s spouses were grazing delightedly and washing it all down with Champers and cream cocktails. It was quite a testament to the “stamina” of Plains City’s ultra-wealthy wife set that, after an hour of Sophia’s hospitality, they could still stand without swaying from excessive blood sugar and booze! Of course, these uber-rich women had a lot of practice with underwear-busting brunches! It was something of a miracle most of them could even squeeze into their exquisite, single-digit dress size outfits – a miracle Sophia Sloane attributed not primarily to the “strict regime” they all claimed, between mouthfuls of cake, they struggled through to atone for their “occasional” indulgent brunches. Sophia attributed their enviable silhouettes more to liposuction and the skills of elite cosmetic surgeons; to diet pills and mornings suffering the after-effects of laxative fruit smoothies; and to the skill of Plains City’s fashion houses with body-con outfits and vice-tight shapewear concealed in high-end lingerie! Case in point was the city’s latest trophy wife: one “Minty” Sweetwater. Sophia generally thought of “Minty” in quote marks, because that had been the girl’s stage name… back when the six-foot knockout had been a pole-dancer! Alas for “Minty”, her sleazy past – and, more importantly, the fact she’d been born poor and only made it in life by working as a stripper – was public knowledge. And her elderly oil-tycoon husband’s fortune (at $2.5 billion, per Forbes, making “Minty” one of Sophia’s poorest brunch guests) was far too small to shield the lowly Missouri girl from the snide remarks of her better-educated peers. Anyway, “Minty” had arrived from nowhere onto Plains City’s elite social scene, at the age of 22, one year and ten days prior to Sophia Sloane’s latest brunch (according to Sophia’s detailed party records). On her debut, the newly-married “Minty” had sported a gaudily-huge diamond on her wedding ring, to match the bombshell-sized breasts on the red-head’s smoking-hot, 6 foot frame. And she’d also sported a smoking-hot body, with a lean, concave midriff on display between her cheap cutoff T-shirt and her cheap but enviably loose-waisted size six jeans. But it hadn’t lasted! Smirks and titters followed the pole dancer from Missouri, who didn’t know which fork to use at a fancy dinner, but who certainly couldn’t resist loading up the wrong fork with shovelfuls of billionaire food she’d missed out on throughout her deprived youth! Minty could be seen shovelling herself full of Plains City’s richest fare at brunches, afternoon teas, and dinners, never stopping eating until she was green in the face! Lucky for her she didn’t have to fit into her stripper-shorts again! By a month into her marriage, Minty had been too fat for revealing crop-tops. At two months, she’d had to upsize the couture tops she’d replaced them with. And at three months she’d left a soirée crying after her widening caboose tore the seat of her favourite jeans! Sophia Sloane had openly tittered! And Minty had kept piling on the weight all year. Never a good conversationalist, at elite social events she soon learned to keep quiet in front of her betters, and instead stuck to something she was good at: eating herself sick! After a year of marriage, poor Minty’s fattened-up caboose and thighs were straining her rhinestone-encrusted size 12 jeans, and only firm shapewear was keeping her muffin top under a degree of control… … And Mrs Sophia Sloane eagerly looked forward to the day when Minty’s swelling badonk outweighed her own! To which end, she laid on extra portions of sugary junk at brunches and soirées, and made sure to always invite Minty! “Tee hee!” Sophia headed over to the buffet table at which she saw Minty was already glutting herself green on Monsieur du Goo’s gourmet cake, and decided to make sure the Missouri poledancer was the next invitee to her upcoming spooky soirée. Sophia chortled under her breath. “Minty’s soon going to make me look slim! Tee hee!" The prospect cheered the milfish Mrs Sloane greatly. And Sophia Sloane had already been in a wonderful mood this brunchtime! Partly because of her plans proceeding apace for Witch Crescent. But, also, and just as pleasing, Sophia Sloane had awoken that morning feeling much less bloated than she had in weeks! Perhaps the new fruit-and-berry smoothies she’d added to her breakfast were easing her constipation problem? Perhaps the good, hard fucking she’d received from her personal trainer had helped matters? Or perhaps she was just full of energy thanks to Witch Crescent? Whatever the reason, Sophia Sloane was in an excellent mood. So excellent, in fact, nothing whatsoever could possibly spoil it… … Which was just as well. For, as Sophia rounded a cluster of Old Money wives who’d already accepted their own party invitations – and who were helping themselves to more of Monsieur du Goo’s carrot cake even though they were all obviously testing the limits of their size 8 and 10 ultra-bodycon lingerie – Sophia saw that Minty Sweetwater’s conversation conversation partner was the overweight poledancer’s polar opposite. Rachel Tate! “Eeek!” Sophia’s eyes bulged as she saw the perfect Mrs Rachel Tate’s absolutely outrageous – as in so outrageous it was certain to draw prime mention in all the best Society magazines – outfit. A frayed white cotton crop top… Tied under ample C-cup boobs, that reached eagerly for the orangery’s glass ceiling, as if they’d gone through life unaffected by gravity. They obviously weren’t getting any support from the barely-existent black bikini bra that had blatantly been Rachel Tate’s choice because its skimpy flimsiness showed through her tight white top! A bare midriff... With smooth abs to make a heptathlete glow green with envy. Daisy Dukes… Sophia groaned; briefly regretted the cubic yards of hot chocolate she’d guzzled during her marriage; and tried in vain to avert her gaze before noticing Rachel’s perfect legs. Gulp. Sophia involuntarily swallowed a huge mouthful of the carrot cake she’d barely begun to even taste. Somehow – and utterly unfairly, in the view of Sophia Sloane – Rachel Tate had made it through 25 or more years of married life with the body of a nineteen year old. The sluttishness with which Rachel was flaunting her body was beyond indecent – and at a brunch hosted by a woman who struggled with her milf-gut, no less! Ooof! It was – almost – enough to make Sophia say something catty! “Rachel!” Sophia trilled. “You look fabulous! Not a day over…” Sophia gulped, and forced herself not to say twenty-five, but something with a bit of High Society bite to it “… forty. You must tell me your secret!” “Oh, I don’t think you’d like to know my secret, Sophia…” Rachel replied. “… I had to shape up for a little cross country contest, and I’ve been doing a bit more running. I do hope you don’t mind my coming to brunch in just my training gear. I lost track of time, so I had to run here directly, and I simply had nothing else to wear!” Bullshit! Sophia grumbled to herself. As if the slut arrives from a run with pageant-perfect hair and makeup to go with her slutty fake running clothes. Etiquette didn’t permit Sophia to remark upon Rachel’s ostentatiously implausible nonsense explanation for her scandalously slutty outfit, however, so she turned next to Minty. Teasing the overweight and under-confident new Mrs Sweetwater was always good sport. “Minty! How lovely to see you!” Minty smiled weakly. “You’ve positively glowing.” Sophia continued, glancing at the amount of cake on Minty’s plate. “And such… a healthy appetite for my delicious cakes! Is it possible that you might, perhaps, have had the felicitous delight of… falling pregnant?” Tee hee! Sophia smirked, at the cleverly snide way of calling the red-head ex-stripper fat. Minty’s head hung, and she glanced over the side of her enormous boobs, at her too-tight jeans and muffin top. “No…” The poledancer sniffed sadly. “… I still haven’t. But I do hope to soon! And…” Misty paused, perhaps knowing she was going to say something silly. “… Rachel. Um, Mrs Tate. Rachel has been giving me some tips. Um, on how to get pregnant. Um.” “Hahaha!” Sophia laughed heartily. Minty might be 23, but the gossip magazines laughed on a regular basis at any picture of her with her absurdly old and frail husband. The redheaad was six foot, broadly-built, and now overweight with added fat as well. Any attempt on her part to consummate her marriage let alone get pregnant would certainly backfire and turn her into a widow! Minty froze, and looked like she wanted to cry. “No, really! I very much hope to get pregnant.” “Oh.” Sophia decided that she had more important things to do at her brunch than chat with the fat and busty ex-poledancer, and the perfect former Miss Universe. Such as handing out party invitations to super-rich wives. “Anyway. Minty and Rachel. You must come to my upcoming soirée at Number One, Witch Crescent… It is Plains City’s most haunted mansion, and formerly belonged to a powerful witch… So, Minty: I’m sure that the magic of the house, as well as my fabulous cakes that you love so much, will help you to get pregnant! And Rachel: it’s fancy dress, so if you want you can come as you are!” Haha! Take that, Rachel Tate! Come-as-you-are indeed. A good one! Sophia smirked. Not even Rachel Tate had a snappy comeback to that one. She’d probably have to accept the invitation just so she could spend the intervening time until the party thinking of one! “What a generous offer, Sophia.” Rachel really did decide to spend the time up to the party coming up with a suitable comeback. “I think I have space in my calendar.” Minty, of course, was too far below Sophia in social status to have an option. “Thank you, Sophia. I hope it will.” Minty said And, with that, Sophia proceeded to the next buffet table. There, another plumped-up ex plus model, married to the owner of Ohio’s biggest burrito restaurant chain, was grazing on cake next to a skinny ex weather-girl married to a financier. The previous, ridiculous conversation faded from Sophia’s mind with one final thought. Bah! How ridiculous! Fertility advice from Rachel Tate. What a joke! The only advice Rachel Tate could possibly offer was that if you got railed like a freight train seven times a day by a demigod like Hal Tate, you would assuredly fall pregnant within about three hours after forgetting to use two forms of contraception at all times! Sophia’s tummy rumbled. She was hungry! It must be because her bloating problem had gone away overnight. Leaving room for more carrot cake! The carrot cake today was sublime. “Perhaps another slice of carrot cake.” Sophia decided, before joining the next guests. After all, she was hungry… And, even better, Sophia’s girdle had been so easy to fasten this morning, that she’d actually hunted out an old one from when she wore a size 12. That one, after a struggle, had actually gone on too! As a result, Sophia’s designer day dress, with a trendy geometric print on white silk, was actually rather flattering – her mommy gut was held in closer than her generous boobs, and although her caboose was still large there was clearly scope for a slice or two more cake! And that was before her guests departed… After that… Sophia would be at liberty to shed her girdle, and lounge around gorging on leftover carrot cake and pastries like a grizzly bear! What a splendid prospect! Monsieur du Goo’s carrot cake was the best thing she’d tasted all year. Best of all, Sophia had encountered it on a day she wasn’t even feeling remotely overfed or bloated! She might even have to have Mr Goo whip up a whole another cake for later! * Minty Sweetwater dug her fork sadly into the last piece of carrot cake on her plate. “Rachel? Is there more carrot cake? I feel a bit sick, but it’s soo good!” Asked the redhead. Minty was wearing kitten heels such that with a teeny slouch she was as conspiratorial eye-level with Rachel Tate. Rachel gulped down her own cake and glanced at the overfed redhead… A sheen of sugary-looking perspiration, and dilated pupils, suggested Minty Sweetwater had eaten enough for one brunch. Very suspicious. What was in that cake? “Hmm. I don’t know, Minty. You’ve gone kind-of a mid shade of green. Don’t you think the nine big slices you already ate are enough?” “Um…” Minty concentrated. “… No? Um, I only feel a bit sick, and I can take off my bodyshaper and unbutton my jeans soon!” Rachel eyed the remaining carrot cake platter. Four slices. All huge. While Minty was answering, Rachel unhinged her jaw and stuffed a whole slice into her mouth. “Only three left, Minty.” Rachel said. “I think I should probably finish them.” “Aw!!! Rachel, please? I’m hungry!” “No.” Two slices left. Minty sniffed sadly. “Please, Mrs Tate! I’m starving.” “No.” Gulp. One slice. “Rachel! Not fair! You’ve already eaten twice as much as me! Please may I have-” Gulp. “Nope. Ugh. That carrot cake is sickly sweet!” Rachel gulped from a water jug while Minty stared sadly at the crumbs… And then looked around the room for more, and started towards the next table. “OUCH!” Minty cried, at the sudden hard grip on her arm. “Let me go! Rachel, I want more cake!” Rachel Tate shook her head and blinked, as if clearing her vision. “No. Minty. I think the carrot cake has – had – some kind of illicit ingredient. Maybe… That’s why the pastry chef is the city’s richest? Perhaps Monsieur du Goo puts an illicit appetite stimulant in his most expensive recipes? To secure the big bucks from cake-loving clients like Sophia? That would be sneaky, but very Plains City!” Minty tried to free her arm from Rachel’s grip, but couldn’t. And she couldn’t keep from being pulled outside to the mansion’s car park either, so she went along with it and pretended she wasn’t being dragged out of the cake-laden conservatory against her will. “But Rachel! You ate my cake! Why? To save me from being sick?” Sob. “That’s so nice of you! No-one else would do that for me! I think Sophia even smirks at me when I get fatter. But aren’t you worried you’ll get fat like me?” Rachel more or less threw the heavier trophy wife into the seat of her sports car. “Nope.” “But why?” “Because, Mints, I have a fast metabolism, which will definitely burn away any appetite stimulant before it does anything to me… You on the other hand we take for blood tests, to find out if I’m right, and assuming I am then what it is. And also…” Rachel floored the accelerator of her sports car, eliciting a shriek from Minty as they cornered with insane speed from opulant Sloane mansion’s driveway onto the wide, private roads of billionaire suburbia. “… My husband prefers me fat… I’ve lost some weight, Minty, and if I don’t fluff back up to chubby milf status soon, I fear he may refuse to let me fuck him more than six times a day… And entropy will claim the universe before I will ever accept less than unlimited fucking from my husband!” * * Oh I wonder if this is the thing to slow Rachel down again... Borghen and flyer33 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted April 8 Author Share Posted April 8 Chapter 9: The Dragon’s Scale (part 3) The sound of one of her Mom’s sports cars tearing up the gravel driveway, parking with a sideways skid, elicited a groan from Ms Tara Tate. Until that moment, Tara had been occupying more than the whole length of a couch with a view over the north-west garden of stately Tate Mansion. The rangy nineteen-year old had kicked off her semi-molten pair of pink running shoes, to “recuperate for a few minutes” after eight brutal laps to Coastal City and back which her Mom had insisted upon that morning as part of Tara’s “basic speedster training.” Alas, that had been much more than an hour earlier, and Tara Tate had lost interest in the time after discovering a group of her dinosaur soft toys under the coffee table. Tara had been in the middle of a conversation with her fluffy green stegosaurus and a pterodactyl, when she was tragically interrupted by the crash of the back door, and her Mom’s voice. “Tara, Honey! I have an errand for you!” Tara groaned, and tried, too late, to retract her feet from beyond the end of the couch, in the hope her hard-assed Mom might find someone else to do chores. “Tara, have you been on the couch all morning?” “I’m really tired, Mom!” Tara protested, levering herself up on the principle it was now too late to hide. But all Tara’s exhaustion was forgotten in one cold gasp… When she saw the slutty crop top and hot pants ensemble with which her Mom had just entered the mansion. “Oh God! Mom! Please tell me you didn’t wear that outside? Or, at least, not in front of anyone I know or will ever meet?” Tara implored. Rachel Tate returned a defiant gaze. “Tara! Don’t be petty. This outfit is absolutely fine – I have my abs back for the first time in twenty years, so a crop top is a great look... and I’m barely showing a hint of cleavage!” Tara swallowed. True, her Mom was a hottie. And also with permanently pageant-perfect looks since borrowing some of Tara’s speedster powers. (Tara had not had the courage to ask how come her Mom’s subtle makeup never showed evidence of perspiration, nor splattered bugs from hypersonic speed, but she definitely meant to find out some day.) On the other hand… “But Mom! It’s not fair. I already never get any cute boys looking at me when I’m standing next to Dahlia! I don’t think I can handle it if they’re drooling over you too!” Tara shrank back onto the couch. Rachel sighed, and strode over to remove a bent strand of her daughter’s glossy black hair. “Tara, Honey. First of all, Dahlia Drake is an overfed back-country farm girl. You know she’s a Zaftonite with amazing superpowers… But as far as any eligible bachelor is concerned, Dahlia Drake is a plus-size Instagram model with a borderline weight problem who is also almost certainly a very expensive date to feed at a decent restaurant.” “Maybe so…” Tara cheered up a little bit. “Second. You, Tara Honey, have inherited almost all the physical perfection that won me Miss Universe – twice! That includes---” “--- Yeah, Mom, we all know the story. It includes the year you won Miss Universe after all the Miss America contenders were lured to a party by a super-villainess who hypnotised them into getting much too fat to compete in pageants… And, desperate not to embarrass America, the organisers asked you to stand in at 48 hours notice, as you were our last champion so they could technically put you on the list, even though it was just two weeks after your second pregnancy and you were like thirty.” “Twenty-eight!” Rachel corrected. “Oh, was it 28, Mom? I must have forgotten.” “Well don’t. Anyway, my point is it’s beyond time we included advanced cosmetics and seduction in your training… You, frankly, have a lot to learn!” Tara sighed. This was going to be the “You should take up modelling” argument all over again. “Can’t we just do running and Frisbee, Mom? Speedster Frisbee is awesome! And you never played Frisbee with me before, Mom, but I really like that now I’m a speedster we get to bond over it for the first time ever…” Tara used her most manipulative, affectionate-daughter voice. “… So I think we should just do that some more!” Rachel sighed. “Don’t be silly, Tara. Not only is seduction an essential weapon that you have overlooked. It also has… side-benefits.” Rachel smirked, anticipating her daughter’s cry of distress. “It’s how I snagged a hot husband who still fucks me like a blow up doll five times a night, for example!” Tara’s eyes bulged. “EWWWW! MOM! We’ve talked about Too Much Information before! That is very much it!” “It is most certainly not, Tara!” Rachel corrected coolly. “You do want to lean how to snag a hot boyfriend, don’t you?” Tara gulped. It was true she did... “Good! Though, with your father’s horny genes I’m surprised you haven’t been sneaking cute quarterbacks into the mansion for years.” Tara subsided further into the couch, and tried to pretend the idea didn’t interest her. “Don’t worry, Honey. You’re in safe hands. We’ll soon teach you how to… Slake your appetite for cute boys!” Tara sank behind a cushion. “Okay, Mom. If you absolutely insist.” “Good!” With a jingle of metal, Tara yelped as a bunch of car keys landed heavily on her boobs. “You can start out by running an errand for me! Go drive Minty Sweetwater to the Wellman Clinic – tell them to draw a blood test, and courier it to Knight Labs for a full analysis.” “In your Ferrari?” Tara sprang off the couch at the prospect, and was half way across the room in one bound, wondering if she could outrun her Mom if she was told to hand back the keys. “Yes, Tara. Cute boys like Ferraris, so you can get some practice.” “Yay!” Tara bounced on her feet and punched the air. “What else did I say, Tara.?” “Um.” Tara thought. “Something about sweet, minty water. What’s that?” “Who, Tara. She’s the poledancer, Honey.” “Oh! That Minty! She’s nice. Is she OK?” Rachel have Tara a shove towards the door. “Just drive the Ferrari, Honey, before I change my mind.” “I’m gone! I’m gone!” With an excited crackle of pink lightning, and a thud of the garden door, Tara and her half-melted running sneakers vanished. * The vroom of a departing Ferrari was Rachel Tate’s cue to draw a massive breath, grip the couch with both hands… And emit a long, loud howl of pain, like an agonised beast! A crackle of red lightning reached desperately outwards from her sweat-slicked torso. Until, with a second breath and another deep groan, Rachel’s face contorted with concentration, and the crimson arc lightning subsided back into her chest. “Ugh!” Rachel panted. “Not yet! Tara still isn’t trained!” Borrowing her daughter’s powers had been a neat trick. But holding on to half of Tara’s speed long enough to train her – two weeks and counting – was taxing Rachel’s body and mind to breaking point! Day 1, Rachel had felt as strong as her super-heroine prime. She’d outfought a villain with near-Zaftonite powers. Day 2, and after eating her own bodyweight in chocolate cake to recover, Rachel felt like she could take a white-room fist fight with Might Woman at her own prime… That was probably the endorphins talking, but she’d felt amazing. And it was at that point Rachel had decided to hold on to half Tara’s speedster powers “Just long enough to train her”… The fact Rachel would, coincidentally, enjoy the body of a nineteen year old superheroine with super strength and infinite speed, and the ability to eat without consequences for the first time in 20 years. Um, Rachel told herself that totally hadn’t influenced her at all! Day 3, Rachel had the best time ever, teaching Tara speedster Frisby. Day 4… She’d awoken with an icy, uncontrollable adrenalin rush, and the urge to do nothing but eat and fuck! Speedster cravings! Rachel had forgotten about those! That her husband had survived the day… Was solid proof Hal Tate was a strong man – and one whose wife’s sexual appetite had been permanently set to “trophy wife on honeymoon”… until she’d hit milf status a few years later and her libido had doubled! By Day 14, Rachel Tate’s willpower was barely enough to control her speedster powers for short training runs. Any other time, they completely refused to work until she’d fed, fucked, taken an ice bath, and attempted extreme meditation! “Who am I kidding?” Rachel panted. “I have to give Tara her powers back before they kill me… Or my husband!” The only problem – and the dread that kept Rachel awake at night – was that after a fortnight of enjoying a speedster’s metabolism, she’d turned into an insatiable eating machine! Rachel zipped to the refrigerator, where she found to her satisfaction that Tara hadn’t bothered to get up from the couch and drink the eight quarts of protein shake, the two gallons of peanut butter and chopped bananas, or the matching bowl of strawberries and cream, which Rachel had instructed her to consume after their morning run. With a slurp, Rachel downed a couple of the chocolate protein shakes, and dug out a ladle to start on the peanut butter. She barely even tasted it before it was gone. So she slurped another couple quarts of malt chocolate milk, and began on the strawberries. Gulp! “Damn!” Rachel gulped the rest of the chocolate milk, and found a tray of tiramisu (Tara’s favourite snack) and a 2kg bag of frozen fruit. She was helpless to resist. “Mmmph.” Alas, poor Rachel Tate feared that, when she eventually returned Tara’s powers, Rachel herself would still be helpless to control herself! Her willpower ravaged and spent, she’d probably gorge until her Miss Universe body was frumpy and fat! Rachel shuddered… And texted her husband to bring chocolate donuts! “Ugh! What a way to fall!” Rachel lamented. “Giving in to my husband’s feeder fantasies! Fuck! I’m so ravenous… I’ll probably make Diana Drake look like a paragon of self control. Ugh!” There had been a day – during the “Fattest Night Crisis” in the 1990’s – when Rachel Tate as Heat Lightning had saved Coastal City from destruction. She’d picked up a Power Ring belonging to a fallen member of the Fit Lantern Corps – a kind of intergalactic police force who channelled cosmic powers through their magic (or hi-tech, Rachel wasn’t sure) Green Fitness Power Rings. The rings only operated for one heroine at a time – the heroine with the greatest strength of will and fitness of body, chosen from a sector of the universe holding billions of galaxies. Rachel had broken the Power Ring to her own will, and, combined with her speedster powers, kicked a trio of rampaging Fat Lanterns clear across the the solar system. Unfortunately the ring had then burnt out, its energy depleted – and the Fit Lantern Corps had been decimated by the crisis – but Rachel and the Nineties other greatest heroines had saved the universe from the greasy clutches of the villainous Fat Lantern Corps! For a woman who had once controlled a Fit Lantern Ring – the greatest test of willpower in the galaxy – to turn into a helpless glutton like Diana Drake. The prospect filled Rachel Tate with icy dread. Alas, Rachel was also ravenous, so she texted an addendum to her husband... “Honey! I want more donuts today! Six dozen last night wasn’t enough!” * * ulvrik, Kaldr and Batman76 1 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Batman76 Posted April 8 Share Posted April 8 Oh man, Rachel better enjoy speedster powers while she can. I have a feeling her days of walking anywhere will be over soon... Borghen and flyer33 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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