flyer33 Posted January 8, 2020 Share Posted January 8, 2020 Calorie Girl Synopsis Who is Calorie Girl? Following an explosion at a high-tech clean energy research facility, the residents of Plains City, Ohio, are plagued by a wave of super-powered criminals. While the city authorities flounder to respond to the new menace, it seems only one super-fast heroine is able to stand in their way – that is, when she's not snacking on pastries and milkshake as she recovers from her latest show-down. But who is the donut-munching speedster known as Calorie Girl? And just what, the food-obsessed editors of the Plains City newspaper business demand to know, does she think is Plains City's best tasting snack? Meanwhile, former ace-reporter Laura Lawson doesn't care what Calorie Girl likes to eat. In fact, with the pounds piling on due to her new job as a restaurant critic, she'd rather not think about food at all. Unfortunately for Ms Lawson, the position of food editor at More Magazine was the only job in journalism she could get, after her failed exposé of a shadowy group responsible for fattening up a bevy of former models and starlets throughout the city. * * * Chapter 1: Plains City Blues (part 1) The angry noise of gridlocked traffic filled the stifling afternoon air of Little Paris, the most cramped and badly-planned district of the Plains City metropolitan area. Five thousand tourists milled around the picturesque restaurants and boutiques of the infamous red-light district, and generally got in the way of five thousand office workers making their runs for coffee and snacks, and they all got in the way of the too-many delivery drivers and tour buses attempting to navigate the impossible street layout. Amid the urban chaos, a mismatched pair of women emerged from a pink-stuccoed building onto Elysée Avenue. They had descended from the second floor, where a small but very ornate restaurant overlooked the street level through modernised plate glass windows. The first woman trotted down the stone steps at speed. She was a tall, black-haired nineteen year old, wearing brand-new white trainers, fashionably distressed skinny jeans, and a glittery silver tank top. She clutched a leather handbag with chunky silver details that must have cost over five thousand dollars, and her wide-eyed attention was split between the boutique windows and the food kiosks thronging the street. The young rich girl glanced behind herself and called out a suggestion to her companion. “We should get donuts!” The second, older woman's face took on a pained expression, as she stepped gingerly down to the street level. She was a pretty brunette. She was perhaps in her thirties, but she would have been easily able to pass for mid-twenties, were it not for the way her swollen belly bulged over her black pencil skirt. She had clearly put on a fair bit of weight recently, and her plumped-up figure gave away the fact that she was of significantly more mature years than the first woman, and that her metabolism and appetite were absolutely unable to keep up with those of her nineteen year old colleague. Urp! “Oh, pardon me! We are most certainly not getting donuts, young lady!” “Aw! Please, Ms Lawson? I'm still hungry! Those tasting menus only give you like a mouthful.” The older woman took on an outraged expression, however her attempt to look stern was spoiled when she emitted an enormous belch that left her gasping for air. “Tara!” Snapped the senior woman. “The tasting menus at La Vache Grande – and you've just eaten two of them, on the Magazine's expense account – are some of the finest cuisine that Plains City has to offer! You are not going to shovel down donuts on top of such sublime fare! It would be sacrilege! In fact, I positively forbid you to eat or drink another thing until you've finished writing your attempt at a restaurant review, and I've given you corrections to make.” “Aww! Ms Lawson! I can't write on an empty stomach!” “Empty! You've eaten enough to sink a battleship, Ms Tate!” “No, I haven't! 'Cos I'm still hungry! I don't mean to be ungrateful, Ms Lawson. I mean, the food at La Vache Grande was really nice! It's just you only get one mouthful, and they don't let you order sides, like in a normal place...” The older woman ground her teeth at her junior colleague's use of the word nice. It was an entirely inadequate adjective to describe the sublime excellence of the midday repas which had just taken place. Furthermore, the word nice met neither the high standards of descriptiveness nor the precise accuracy that was required of the weekly restaurant review in More Magazine, the publication for which they both worked. Or, more precisely, the publication for which Laura Lawson worked, and at which the nineteen-year-old rich girl Tara Tate had been given an internship by a friend of her immensely rich mining magnate father. “The chef personally sent you five extra puddings, Tara! And two of those had never been served before: it is an incredible honour, and you should have shown more gratitude.” “Yeah, well it was nice of him, and I'm going to say how nice he was in my review...” “And, the plates at La Vache Grande most certainly do not bear just a single mouthful each. I hope you observed, for when you make your attempt at composing a review, that, by the standards of tasting menus, those courses were absolutely enormous! In fact, they were much too big! They've left me feeling like a beached whale, even though I have a big appetite, and eleven tasting courses is usually no problem.” “Erm, didn't you have both tasting menus, though, Ms Lawson? I mean, didn't we try both the Classic Menu and the, erm...” “The Seasonal. Yes, Tara, we did. Well done for remembering that, at least. And I only ate around half of each plate, as you may have observed.” Laura Lawson paused and winced at the twinge of bloatedness that had rushed up from her tummy as her conversation with Tara, the latest in a series of useless interns, reminded her that the magazine had required them to review both of the enormously fattening tasting menus at La Vache Grande – and, due to editorial time constraints, to do so in a single blouse-buster of a sitting. Of course, if Tara had been a competent intern she could have reviewed one menu while Laura tackled the other. Alas, Tara Tate had got her internship effortlessly, despite having no measurable talent whatsoever. No talent, that was, apart from the incredibly annoying ability to stuff her face for twenty-four hours a day while remaining rail thin and stunningly beautiful. Bah! That was apparently another thing Tara Tate had received effortlessly, presumably by virtue of her mother being a Miss Universe who also happened to have two Olympic gold metals (in synchronised swimming and diving). “Oh.” Tara sounded as if she hadn't noticed that Laura had only eaten approximately half of the food set before her. Laura wasn't surprised: Tara had been too busy wiping every last drop from her own twenty-two plates, flirting with the waiters, and asking for more – and getting it! Extra helpings at La Vache Grande! It was unthinkable! “And, I swear, the venison and sweet potato mouse alone was enough for a main course at any a La Carte restaurant: and that wasn't even the biggest thing they served.” “Yeah, the venison froth was delish, Ms L! You're right. You really know your food!” “Mouse, Tara, not froth! Froth has a completely different composition!” “Oh. Was the foie gras a froth?” Tara asked cluelessly. “No!” “Oh. Well, I don't know how I'm gonna write a restaurant review you'll like. I just don't know all the words!” “Then you should buy a dictionary! And study the sample reviews I gave to you.” Laura snapped. Tara looked hurt. As if it was possible for a beast with a metabolism like a blast furnace to feel hurt. “I did.” Tara sniffed. Laura drew a deep breath and resolved to be nicer to this intern. Tara Tate was, after all, from a fabulously wealthy family, and she was a useful person to know. There was scarcely a high society party in town to which she wasn't invited. Connections that good had value. “Did you skim them for more than five minutes?” Laura asked more politely. “Well, no. But I tried to! It's just my brain hurts when I read for too long.” Laura sighed, regretting that her blouse had grown so tight that she was unable to do so deeply. “And, just remind me, Ms Tate. Your brain hurts when you read, but you actually wanted this internship in journalism?” “Oh, yeah!” “Why? If I may ask.” “Well, it was that or work at one of Dad's coal mines, which – although they do have loads and loads of boys – would be horrible for my hair, and don't even ask how you get nails done in the desert! Or... Mom wanted to send me to a big runway modelling house, but they never eat there, and I think I'd starve to death if I went within five blocks: I have a really fast metabolism, Ms Lawson! I got it from Dad. Mom hates it! I got her body, but his metabolism, and he's the size of a mammoth, and he eats like one too! But I'm just really hyperactive, and if I go thirty minutes without food I crash, and I feel like yuk! Say, we should get donuts! They have the best artisan boutique just one block that way, and they make donuts sooo huge Yolanda thought she was gonna be sick when I bought her one, but she wasn't, and she said it was the best thing she'd ever tasted! Oh! You should try some and put them in the restaurant review! I'll run and get you some, and you can say we picked them up on the way home... No, wait the chef at La Vache Grande probably wouldn't like that.” “No, Ms Tate. He certainly wouldn't! It's nice to see you using your brain! Did you get that from your father or your mother?” “Um. Probably Dad. But... It makes me hungry when I think. Say, can I get donuts! Pleeease!” “Oh, very well, Ms Tate!” “YES!” Laura noted that her rich intern didn't bother to wait to be told twice. Instead, the anomalously skinny young woman disappeared around the block corner at a run. In fact it was more of a sprint, doubtless because her long legs allowed her to achieve an outrageous velocity, so that even in a short distance she was dodging from side to side around other pedestrians on the sidewalk with joint-breaking vigor. Laura felt queasy just from looking, and she heaved herself around and began trudging to the Little Paris monorail station. Laura Lawson rubbed her gurgling tummy as she walked, hoping to soothe its severe discomfort, She was uncomfortably conscious of her slightly-contouring lycra midi-briefs' constricting tightness, and wished she'd worn something looser or much lower-slung to this afternoon's gargantuan double lunch. She regretted to herself, with hindsight, that she had probably indulged in a little more than approximately half of each of her servings at La Vache Grande. And it wasn't the first time she'd overindulged during a restaurant review in the last six months! Nor had she skimped on breakfast this morning, either: she'd enjoyed the calorific “All American” breakfast at the old-fashioned diner on the street level of her apartment block. It was all far too much for a woman who was once – in addition to being the Plains City Gazette's ace reporter – possessed of a figure so superb that she could stun at twenty paces in a slinky black cocktail dress as easily as she could draw admiring eyes from her male colleagues when she was reporting on Plains City Fashion Week. And that was, in the latter case, despite her having to compete for attention with supermodels. Alas, after losing her job at the Gazette when her investigation into the disappearance of one of those supermodels attracted the ire of powerful vested interests, Laura's new job as a restaurant critic at More Magazine had been the ruination of her once-vaunted figure! There was no more time for Laura to dwell on her engorged figure, or her professional fall from grace. Her thoughts were interrupted by her newest intern, who crashed to a halt beside her, having apparently run all the way back from her favourite donut place at a phenomenal, tummy-upsetting pace. “Sorry that took me so long, Ms L! They had a huge queue at the milkshake store! I had to go another block. I didn't know if you'd want one, so I got you one too, to say sorry for the delay, and here's your donuts.” Tara Tate pushed a paper bag – a heavy paper bag, with fabric handles – into her boss's hands. It emitted the most delicious aromas: chocolate, almond, chocolate, toffee, chocolate, coffee, and... Chocolate. “Urrgh!” Laura groaned, and burped. Her tummy didn't feel so good. “What? Not enough? I can get more! I have a loyalty card!” “ I didn't want any, Tara. I'm – urp – stuffed! If I so much as look at food once more today I swear I'll explode!” “Okay. Suit yourself, Ms Lawson! What about the milkshake? It's an extra large banana and toffee whip, but you don't have to finish it!” “I, erm...” “It's really good! You can have my coffee and hazelnut whirl if you prefer, but it's more of an acquired taste!” Urp! Laura regarded the plastic cup containing a quart of syrupy, artery-clogging deliciousness. She really shouldn't have any: not after two lunches at La Vache Grande. Not if she wished to slip back into her wardrobe of slinky cocktail dresses... “I'll just have a little!” “Yay! You won't regret it, Ms Lawson!” Laura burped, after she took a sip of the syrupy drink. Her poor agonised tummy was already regretting the choice, but the taste of the banana and toffee was sooo good! The road layout in Little Paris was hopelessly unplanned, but the distance to the monorail station was little more than a block. Even with Laura Lawson setting a slow pace, it didn't take very long to get there. And, therefore, Laura found it all the more horrifying to realise that her companion had practically inhaled in excess of a dozen of the most enormous and fattening donuts she'd ever seen. Just a single specimen had appeared to have six Oreos and a four-inch square slab of Belgian chocolate fused into its artisinal bulk. “Mmm!” Ms Tate enthused orgasmically. “These are soo good! Are you sure you don't want one? Last chance! I got three extra free with the dozen, 'cos of my---” “Because of your loyalty card. Yes, I know.” Laura rolled her eyes. She also, despite the protest of her overfull tummy, liked the look of the last donut Tara had drawn from her second paper bag. It was glazed in toffee and cinnamon sugar, and it looked as delicious as it was large. “Perhaps I could manage just one.” Laura said. “Oh.” Tara sounded extremely disappointed. “Okay. Well this one is a great choice, Ms L! I was saving it for last, because it's my absolute favourite, but go ahead!” “Mmmm! Ohmigods!” Laura exclaimed in near orgasm, after biting into the ludicrously heavy and fattening donut. “I know, right!” Tara agreed. “Oh, this is so good! But it must be a thousand calories!” “Twelve hundred.” Tara replied off the top of her head. Laura groaned. “Twelve hundred calories! Urp. How are you not the size of a tank, from eating like this, Tara?” Tara sniffed. “I told you, Ms L. I have a fast metabolism. It's really hard.” “Oh, poor you.” Laura replied sarcastically. “Yeah, it is, Ms L!” Tara said. “I mean, I've been trying really hard this season to eat more, because ghetto booties are soo in fashion right now! But I just can't gain an inch, no matter how hard I try!” “Oh, boo hoo!” Laura Lawson snorted. Her belly was as tight as a drum, but the toffee donut was dangerously delicious and there was only about five hundred calories of it left. She just hoped she'd left a pair of yoga pants in her office, because her smart pencil skirt was agonisingly tight, and she desperately wanted to change into something more comfortable. Which was clearly a problem the tight-hipped and weirdly flat-stomached Ms Tate knew nothing about! “Yeah!Yolanda – she's one of the other interns –” “I know.” “Yolanda's gained five pounds this season, and her ass looks amazing in booty shorts! Mine's just flat. I wish I had a big round ass like yours, Ms L.” Laura Lawson was about to snap back, but was interrupted by a hiccup and a churning sensation in her tummy. “Urp! Oh, I don't feel so good, Tara. I should not have eaten that donut. Ooof! It was more like a cake!” “ I know how you feel, Ms L.” “I doubt that, Tara. You just ate, how many? Fourteen of those.” “Yours was the biggest –” “Whatever. And you're not even flushed.” “No, but, I mean, I've been trying to eat as much as possible before bedtime, to try and get –” “A booty.” “That's right! And so I totally stuff myself, and then I try to pack down a couple of quarts of icecream just before I brush my teeth, and so I do know what you mean about feeling a bit overfed, Ms L. Too bad it just vanishes overnight on me.” “Urrrrp! Oooo! I ate too much.” “Don't worry, Ms L! We'll get the monorail back to Midtown, then you have a nice snooze in your office, and – oh no!” Laura rubbed her gut as it ballooned over her too-tight skirt. There was nothing for it: she was going to have to unbutton her skirt and hope her blouse would conceal the open fastening. At least there was no chance of her skirt falling down, not as bloated as she was, and not with what Ms Tara Tate described – accurately – as a big, round ass. Laura wondered what Tara was on about. They'd just reached the monorail station, and were about to take the elevator up. “What?” “Bad news, Ms L! The monorail's cancelled. Power outage!” Tara read from the announcement screen. “Shit!” Laura cursed her bad luck. She desperately needed to get back and change her outfit. “I know! We'll have to walk.” “Don't be silly, Tara: it's thirty blocks! We shall have to get a cab!” “What, in Little Paris traffic?” “Urp! There's no alternative, Tara! My tummy can't take a thirty-block walk.” Said Laura. It was true, although a thirty block walk might do her figure some good. “Oh.” Tara sounded disappointed again. Laura had a suspicion the rich girl didn't like having to walk at someone else's more sedate pace. “But.” “No buts, Tara!” Tara huffed. Laura scowled at the way the sexy intern's sparkly silver T-shirt showed off that her tummy barely bulged at all. Of course, she was so tall it probably didn't need to bulge outwards as much as Laura's rapidly-swelling gut, but it was unfair that it barely bulged at all after she'd stuffed herself like a competitive eater. “But...” Tara added as Laura came down with a bout of burping. “If we walk, there's this amazing cafe on Broadway: they serve amazing pancakes, and I have a loyalty card! And, we could get candyfloss too, just off 44th street, and...” “Urp! Excuse me. Let me guess, you have a loyalty card there, too?” “Don't be silly, Ms L. You can't get a loyalty card for a candyfloss place. I was going to say, then there's a great chocolatier's on 48th, and we could get hot chocolates!” “No! Ms Tate – Tara: am so stuffed I can't eat anything for at least a day. The only way we're buying anything on the way back to the office is if we pass a store selling extra-stretchy yoga pants! I've got so fat they're the only thing I'm comfortable in, and I'm disgusted with myself for getting so out of shape!” “Oh.” Tara thought for a minute. “Well, you should have said. I wouldn't have offered you that toffee donut. They're so delish! I just wish some of the calories would go to my ass! And I don't know why you're complaining about your figure, Ms L: like I said, big fat booties are totally in fashion right now! Just, obviously, with stronger spanx than you're wearing.” “Tara.” “Yes, Ms Lawson?” “Shut up!” “Oh. Okay Ms Lawson!” Laura burped. Her tummy felt a little better now that she'd surreptitiously unbuttoned her skirt while the towering socialite had been blathering on about her favourite upscale snack outlets. There would be time for a snooze after she got back to the office, then she'd edit Ms Tate's certain-to-be-awful draft of a restaurant review, then she'd go home and dress for her evening's work: she and Ms Tate would be covering the opening of Plains City's new hi-tech clean energy facility. Of course, More Magazine wasn't particularly interested in clean energy, but it was very interested in big parties, and this would be one of the biggest of the year. Apparently, unlimited, cheap, clean energy was kind of a big deal – and all the more so because Plains City's celebrated technologist, Lincoln Knight, had cracked the method way ahead of his better funded rivals in MIT and Caltech. Hence there would be a huge party, and all the civic grandees would be in attendance to associate themselves with the great new advancement. “Good. Now, Ms Tate. Go and find us a cab. I will rest here, and if you're back promptly then perhaps I will give you a few hints on how to begin your review column.” “Oh, great! I'm gone!” Tara dashed off at a trot. Laura's tummy barely had time to gurgle before the rangy socialite reappeared in the back of a minicab. Laura got in, and Tara got out.” “Where are you going, Ms Tate?” “Oh, well I thought, with the traffic, it'd be quicker if I walk. And I could maybe get candyfloss and hot chocolate en route?” Laura sighed. “Oh, very well, Ms Tate! But don't be late. You have a review to draft, and then you have to get ready for tonight's opening party at the clean energy place.” “The Knight Labs Entropy Reactor, Ms Lawson?” “Yes, that one. I expect you to charm our way past the staff so we can get an interview with Lincoln Knight himself.” “Oh, cool! No problem, Ms L!” “So don't overeat before the party! I want you looking runway-model thin, and prettier than all our competitors!” “Oh, don't worry about me, Ms Lawson. It's not until seven, right? So I wont have time for a proper dinner and I'm going to be fucking starving by the time we get there. I'm probably going to look way too thin. Yolanda's going with her boyfriend, and her ass looks amazing in a cocktail dress...” Laura reached to close the cab door. “Oh, and Tara!” “Yes, Ms L?” “Make sure you wear something extra-slinky tonight. My old sparring partner from the Gazette, Mandy Maine, will be there; she's extremely vain and loves flaunting herself in party dresses, and even though I've lost my figure I intend for someone on my staff to outshine her!” “Okay, no worries, Ms L! See you later!” * * <I should finish Best Served Wet soon, but I wanted to write this up while I was thinking of it -- Flyer33> Pistol514, bigboy1992, ChubbyChics and 11 others 5 2 7 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted May 2, 2021 Author Share Posted May 2, 2021 Chapter 2: The Rounded Reporter Six months later... Saturday brunch at the Serrano Hotel was a lavish affair. The breakfast suite was laden with every manner of dish from canapés to Cantonese, bratwurst to Bolognaise, sushi to soufflé, and omelettes to hors d'oeuvres. The hotel clearly intended that even the pickiest of eaters would find enough tempting treats as to finish the morning absolutely bloated to capacity. But for Laura Lawson, restaurant critic at More Magazine with a professional obligation to sample at least a little of everything, the morning was proving to be a real strain – and not only on the seams of her green knitted dress! “Oof!” Laura mopped her brow with a napkin, being careful not to get crumbs on her expensively-styled fringe, as she regarded a new tray of pastries with a reluctant look. Then she loaded one of everything onto her plate with a speed that could not really be described as reluctant. “Five different kinds of croissant really is unnecessary!” Grumbled the brunette reporter. “If I'm not careful I'll be too stuffed for my hot date this evening! Oh, the things I do for this magazine!” Laura Lawson munched methodically through the Serrano Hotel's five kinds of croissant. They were freshly baked and they were rather delicious, and, indeed, the different toppings of cherry, raisins, almonds, soft icing, and cream did mean the five pastries complimented each other as a distinct medley. The pastry chef was certainly due some praise for that! It was just a shame his handiwork tasted so fattening – especially after Laura had added a thick spread of the hotel's signature home-made butter! “Mmph! This ish so good.” Laura enthused. “Guess that's my diet fucked for another day!” Laura's stomach bulged. She'd deliberately worn her stretchy knitwear dress over black maternity tights, knowing they would accommodate a heavy binge without growing uncomfortable. The only problem, Laura reflected, was that her own belly was also all-too capable of taking in a couple of day's worth of calories in one sitting without growing uncomfortable! Oh, certainly it gurgled from the 6000 brunchtime calories Laura's had sampled and about which she'd scribbled in her notebook – but it was by no means uncomfortably stuffed. And that was why Laura Lawson badly needed a diet! Laura would like to have blamed her recent weight gain – the gymnasium scales informed her she was up to a shocking 196 lbs; and too fat to wear the size 14 lingerie that was the biggest size sold by her favourite boutique – on her work as a restaurant critic. But the hard truth was that Laura Lawson's considerable stomach capacity, and her proclivity to indulge herself in food and drink until even she couldn't face another bite, pre-dated her time as More Magazine's food editor by a long way. Sure, the restaurant reviews didn't help. Of course they didn't! She'd spent the year eating at three or four restaurants a week, and being stuffed every time with complimentary desserts by chefs who had learned the best way to secure a favourable review from the influential but famously-acerbic Ms Laura Lawson was to load up the brunette with sugar until she couldn't think straight. But, in fact, Laura suspected her three gym visits a week could have dealt with the consequences of that, if only she could keep her appetite under control the rest of the time! But she'd never been very good at that. As her college and state cross country champion three years running (pardon the pun!), Laura Lawson had taken so much exercise that she'd been able to stuff herself whenever she wanted, which was often, and still remain almost supermodel slim. “Almost,” being the operative word: Ms Lawson had boasted an ample but pert cleavage more suitable for a slutty swimming team captain than a lithe cross country star, but it had never slowed her down enough to stop her winning. Her good looks and perky tits had, of course, drawn the svelte brunette a plethora of suitors, and soon won her a reputation as a man-eater – and as a big eater too: many of Laura's dates discovered the best way to get into Ms Lawson's shorts was to feed her, and feed her, and feed her, until she could stuff down no more. Which had made for an expensive but memorable night for a lot of eligible bachelors. And it had given Laura plenty of practice at enjoying sex in spite of - or perhaps because of - having a very bloated stomach. After college, Laura had spent her twenties as a rising star reporter at Plains City's best newspaper, the Globe Today. Ms Lawson had discovered to her delight that her fast metabolism meant she could both scale down her race training, and adopt every one of the appalling eating habits of her journalist colleagues, without gaining an ounce! She'd slurped down cappuccinos on top of breakfast muffins, enjoyed boozy lunches with clandestine contacts, munched her way through donuts all afternoon, slipped out early for beers with a hot date, followed by a three course meal with a huge pudding drenched in cream – and still been able to slip into a slinky dress to cover the night's parties at Fashion Week, and look as good as the supermodels doing it! Hitting thirty had been less enjoyable. Laura had discovered that slacking off down to two weekly gym sessions was not compatible with her squeezing into size six party dresses during the summer months when she drank mainly frappuccinos and booze, and ate cake about four times a day. Her response had been to intend to get her gym sessions back to three or four weekly – which she occasionally achieved – and to invest in some lightly contouring underwear. Five years and fifteen extra pounds later, and with several major journalism prizes to her name, Ms Laura Lawson had been seriously considering a fitness kick to regain her college shape. But the Gods of journalism had had other ideas. That had been eighteen months ago. The Globe Today had learned of a nefarious scheme – and one with a great celebrity interest factor into the bargain! Plains City's feuding fashion designers had taken their bitter rivalry to a new level, and it seemed that one fashion house had hatched a scheme to spoil Fashion Week for its rivals: by fattening up their models so much it ruined the shows! For the Globe Today, the story had everything! Pictures! The latest expensive clothes! Celebrity models getting embarrassingly fat! Money! Rivalry! Romance: handsome seducers paid to pose as rich businessmen and tempt their fashion model targets to overeat at expensive restaurants until the poor girls literally burst out of their underwear! The story promised to be a sensational scoop, and Laura Lawson had got it – by leveraging her looks and going undercover as a model, at enormous risk to her own figure! A lesser woman would have gained stones from all the indulgence in Plains City's night-life that have been involved in getting the story; Laura had gained twelve pounds, but the story was worth it! In fact, there had been even more to the scoop than just a bitter rivalry between fashionistas, and Laura had been on the brink of learning everything... When the Mayor and his cousin, the Archbishop, had come down on the Globe Today like a ton of bricks! They'd demanded the investigation stop, and they'd pulled seemingly decades worth of favours to make that happen. Even the Globe's stalwart editor, Perry Cider, had given in and reluctantly pulled the story – not to mention insisting the intrepid Ms Lawson take a sabbatical from the Globe until matters settled down. At least Perry had pulled strings of his own to get Laura a columnist position for the interim, at the offices of popular but low-brow More Magazine. “More Magazine. Huh!” The biggest problem Ms Laura Lawson had endured at More Magazine, aside from the popular publication's paucity of prestige among aficionados of serious news journalism, was the low quality of her co-workers on the writing staff. And the interns! Some of Laura's interns could barely read, let alone write! And the others, even if they could write a bit, had been irksome, air-headed young bimbos. And the most irksome of the lot had been Miss Tara Tate. Oh... Laura attempted to smooth her irritated expression. After all, Miss Tate might have been annoying – annoyingly dim, annoying pretty, annoyingly rich; annoyingly able to spend the entirety of an eight hour “working” day eating cake, and yet leave the office as rail-thin as when she'd arrived. But Tara Tate had tried her limited best to do what Laura had told her to... And, it was while following Ms Lawson's instructions that Tara Tate had been grievously injured! It had been six months ago, at the grand opening of the Knight Labs Entropy Reactor. Ms Laura Lawson had worn an immensely floofy white dress to the party – its creator must have used up Ohio's entire annual production of floof! – in the hope that a six-inch thickness of fluffy fake fur would disguise just how bloated the formerly modelesque reporter was looking. Unfortunately for Laura's self-esteem, but fortunately for her survival, her ploy to conceal her swollen tummy and chubby curves failed. The official photographer had circulated around the party, looking for one or two of the prettiest and most photogenic young ladies to enhance his photographs of the municipal dignitaries and other bigwigs on the stage. When she saw the photographer on the prowl, Laura Lawson had sucked in her tummy as hard as she could, but to no avail! She'd been just too constipated to hide the consequences of her enormous lunch at La Vache Grande! Instead, the photographer had invited Laura's intern, Tara, to prettify his pictures of the Mayor and Plains City's top boffins. Laura had been absolutely infuriated! Not only was Ms Tate her very junior intern, but the skinny rich girl had gorged herself on at least as much lunch as Laura. And Tara had spent the entire party eating like a furnace that was scared it was about to run out of coal; whereas Laura had felt so constipated since lunch that she'd scarcely even picked at her own plates. Anyway, Tara had been smiling prettily for the camera (and casting hungry looks at her distant plate of muffins) when the Mayor had pushed the button to start the reactor and, with a terrific bang and a flash, the evening had turned into an absolute disaster for Plains City! The disaster shouldn't have been. The opening ceremony was merely official. The Entropy Reactor had been pumping clean electricity into Plains City's greedy grid for weeks, and the Mayor's button wasn't actually connected to anything. But, all the same, disaster struck! The reactor had shut down automatically. But not before a great lurid purple arc of ethereal lightning had lanced upwards from the underground containment building. The blast had missed the Mayor and the other VIPs standing at the centre of the event – but it had struck straight through Tara Tate! The unsuspecting rich girl hadn't seen it coming, and by the time the emergency lighting came back she was laying comatose on the ground in the smouldering ruins of her cute party dress. She'd been rushed to Plains City's most expensive hospital, but she'd been in a coma ever since. Her friends at More Magazine had sobbed for days, and sent flowers, but there wasn't much to be done. So, Laura admitted, it wouldn't do to criticise Miss Tate, no matter how annoying as the towering and over-privileged 19 year old had been. Instead, Laura patted her swollen belly and headed for the hotel exit! She needed a nap to digest her enormous brunch. “Ugh! Burp.” Laura groaned, as she saw a final table being laid out with desserts: sticky toffee pudding, and icecream sundaes. “Aw, shoot! My stomach's really getting a workout today!” Laura puffed out her cheeks, and hoped these puddings would be the last thousand calories she'd have to find room for. After all, she had a hot date tonight, and she didn't want to look too fat! * The sunlight of an early Spring afternoon elicited a groan from Laura Lawson as she exited the Serrano Hotel. The star journalist felt FAT! Her hips were thick and wide; her bottom probably looked huge; her belly bulged so far ahead of her she could easily pass for six months pregnant! Her breasts weighed her down heavily. Her arms felt chubby. She really should have worn a more bodycon outfit, rather than the stretchy green jersey dress over maternity tights! The very last sort of person Laura Lawson wanted to encounter, as the ex cross-country champion panted and waddled her way to her car, was an ethereally slender supermodel wearing baggy size six jeans and an abs-baring pink crop top. But that was exactly the person Laura found, leaning against the plinth of a statue, with her pert little bottom propped on the stone and her forty-inch legs showing off the same kind of superior slenderness Laura Lawson had once boasted. And eating her way through a whole box of donuts... Burp. Laura looked up. The crop top clung to the ultra-perky tits of a young woman. A very tall young woman. Laura looked up some more. Supermodel good looks. Sparkly, enthusiastic eyes. Black hair, freshly washed and styled. The supermodel glanced up from her donuts, and practically burst with enthusiasm. “Hey, Ms L!” Laura Lawson's jaw dropped. “Tara? Is that...” “Yay! It's me, Ms L!” “But! But!” Laura spluttered. Tara Tate had been in a coma for six months. Laura hadn't even heard the girl had regained consciousness. She certainly shouldn't be out and about, and definitely not looking hot! “I woke up!” Tara explained, then munched some donut before continuing. “Two days ago! The docs didn't expect me to, 'cos apparently I was basically asleep for ages, but then they gave me all kinds of tests and they said they've never seen anyone healthier... So they said I could go out! And so I went straight to surprise the girls at the magazine! Um, and to get donuts, obviously, because I'm fucking starving! I don't think they fed me properly in the hospital...” Laura burped sceptically. It was just like Ms Tara Tate to think of food when there were far more important concerns she should be considering. What about the other consequences of the disaster at the laboratory? What about all the news events she must knew she'd missed over the winter? Still, Tara did seem to have lost weight – doubtless her coma was responsible for her enviably skinny frame, even more taut than before. In fact, surely it was a surprise that the ultra-lean girl was even out of her bed so soon after regaining consciousness. Huh: never seen anyone healthier, indeed! Absolutely typical of the young rich girl's outrageous good fortune! Tara chattered on regardless, while Laura panted from the exertion of their walk from the statue garden to her car. “... So I booked a table for lunch – so we can all go celebrate me waking up! But Candi has a tummy ache. And Yolanda's put on forty pounds since last year, and she says she can't do lunch because her jeans will pop...” Tara sniffed for dramatic effect. “But they said I could find you here, Ms L, and that you'd want to come for lunch with me for certain!” Laura groaned. She patted her swollen belly and then rested her hands on her fleshy hips – trying to point out the thirty pounds of fat and bloat she'd gained over the winter while Ms Tate was lounging around in hospital. Tara, alas, was quite oblivious! “Will you come with me, Ms L? Please!” “Tara.” Laura admonished. “I've just finished the most enormous brunch! And I have a hot date tonight, and I need to save room! And, frankly, in case it's eluded your keen perception , I've put on some weight these last six months, Tara, and another restaurant lunch is the last thing I need. I'll get fat!” Tara Tate looked downcast. “Please come to lunch with me, Ms L! I'm so hungry, and I've booked a table at La Vache Grande because their food was so delish, and...” Laura's stomach rumbled. The reporter raised a hand. Sure, she was full, and eating more food today would be exceedingly bad for her, but... La Vache Grande! And on Tara's bottomless credit card! “Wait, Tara. Did you say, La Vache Grande?” Tara brightened up. “Yeah, Ms Lawson! And I want you to come with me, because... Well, you know all the best foods, and what's really fattening. And I need that, because I've lost so much weight because of the coma, and I was trying to thicken out a little even beforehand, so that boys would like my figure better, and... Also, you have to come with me, because I don't know which forks to use otherwise! They're all so weird!” Laura ignored the bait of telling Tara to buy an etiquette book. A Vache Grande! Oh, certainly there would be a price to pay if Laura stuffed herself with a vast tasting menu on top of all of her morning's brunch. But, for the sublime fare of La Vache Grande, a little bloating, tummy ache, and constipation would be worth it! She'd just have to take half a pack of laxatives and a glass of olive oil afterwards, to make room for her dinner date! “Well, alright, Tara!” Laura assented to the lunch. “I suppose, for the truly sublime cuisine of La Vache Grande I could manage a little lunch, Tara. After all, it's not everyday one awakens from a six month coma, and you do deserve to celebrate!” “Yay, Ms L!” Tara exclaimed happily. “Oh, Ms Lawson?” “Yes, Tara?” “Could you do most of the talking over lunch? I mean, partly because you can tell me everything I've missed out on, but, also, I'm super hungry! I have six months of eating to catch up on, and I'm not supposed to talk with my mouth full.” Laura eyed the towering intern sceptically. Eating with her mouth full had never impeded Ms Tate before. But the, probably, she was feeling extra hungry today... “Alright, Tara,” Laura sighed, “get in the car.” “Yay!” * * Three hours later. “Uhn...” Laura groaned with almost a sob at the half-uneaten bowl of home-made clotted cream and raspberry coulis in front of her. “Too. Much. Food!” Tara looked up brightly from her own big stoneware bowl of clotted cream. She'd scraped it clean. “Um? May I have...” Tara began asking. Laura pushed her bowl away, and burped from the exertion. She'd eaten too much! Her stomach jutted out, and bulged like she was nine months pregnant! If only her green dress and maternity tights had been less stretchy, she might not have stuffed herself so much. But the sweet-toothed former hottie couldn't help herself, and now she felt very sick. Her belly was as hard as a pumpkin, packed tight with so many of La Vache Grande's irresistible a la carte courses. She knew she should have eaten far less! A light salad should have been the most! But she'd watched the insatiable Tara Tate demolish ten of the most sublime a la carte courses in the whole of Ohio, all selected at Laura Lawson's express recommendation, and Laura simply couldn't say “no” to accepting a plate of her own, each time. And now she feared she was going to burst! And her too-compliant maternity tights were to blame! She could never have overeaten so heavily in the spanx she was forced, by the demands of fashion, to wear quite frequently these days! And more frequently still, with the fat she was sure to gain around the middle from today's binges! Tara looked up from licking her second bowl of exquisite clotted cream. Laura gave as disgusted a look as she could manage without sitting up straight and putting pressure on her overstuffed belly. “You did not just lick the bowl, at La Grande Vache, did you, young lady?” “Um. Oopsie.” Tara replied. “Yes. Oopsie, indeed. BURP! Oh, pardon me!” Ms Lawson admonished the bottomless pit that passed for her intern. “Would you like any more, Ms Lawson?” Tara inquired. “Only, I'm feeling a bit full. I don't think my tummy's used to real food again, yet.” Laura emitted a long, resonant burp. “No more!” Laura groaned. “I'll explode like a nuclear warhead!” “Oh, Okay. Um, in that case.” Tara called the waitress. “Could I have a slice, no three slices, of the cheesecake to go, please?” “Cheesecake to go? At a restaurant of this quality! Are you mad?” Laura fulminated as the waitress disappeared to pack a doggie bag for Ms Tate. “Well, I just thought I'd ask!” Tara protested, as she drew her credit card to pay for the multi-thousand dollar meal. “It's sacrilege! I. BUUURRRRRRRP! Oh, my belly!” A tear rolled down Laura's chubby cheek at the pain of her overloaded guts. “I can get you something too, Ms L, if you like?” “BURP! Absolutely not, Ms Tate! I swear, after you stuffed me with all this lunch, I shan't be able to even look at a dessert menu for at least a month!” “Tirasmisu? Another treacle mouse? Oh, what about one of those big foie gras and salmon terrines, if you don't want something too sugary? I could totally go for another of those... But I want to save room for donuts!” Tara suggested. Laura glared. “No! And we're going home via a pharmacist! It's going to take an entire shelf of laxatives to get me into my little black dress tonight. Not to mention about a ton of Alka Selzer to make my tummy feel better!” Tara's brow knitted in concentration. “Oh! Your hot date, Ms L! I totally forgot! Um... Who's it with?” Laura grumbled. “Never you mind, Ms Tate!” “Is is Ben from Accounts?” “Certainly not.” “Is it. Um... No. Um... Is it, your editor from the Globe?” “Of course not! Have you any idea how old he is?” “Um.” Tara thought. Ms Tate continued thinking all the way to the car. Laura Lawson had stocked up on laxatives and digestive supplements, and arrived home at her apartment and settled on the chaise longue to give her aching legs a much needed rest, before Ms Tate gave up making stupid suggestions – or so Laura hoped. “Oh. Well I don't know who it is, then.” Tara admitted. Laura hadn't intended to say. But the smug thought of Tara's face when she realised that her boss was going on a date with the hottest young stud on the writing staff of the Globe was too much to refuse herself. “It's Devon Drake, Ms Tate.” Laura informed her intern smugly. “What? But he's like, Plains City's most superhot-stud! How the fuck?” Tara demanded. Hah! Laura smirked. “Charisma, Ms Tate. Charisma and intellect are the things which attract the finest of dates. Perhaps you could learn some, if I give you some hints!” Tara rubbed her head. “No. That's not it!” Said Tara. “What do you mean, that's not it?” “Oh, I mean, yeah, you're real nice, Ms Lawson... But so's Yolanda, and she tried to get into Devon's shorts a while ago, and he totally blanked her... Until! Aha!” “Aha, what!” Laura demanded. “So, Ms L. Your superstud date was raised on a dairy farm in Wisconsin, right?” “Yes. So?” “Well, he's probably totally into fat girls! And that's why you got a date with him! With that huge tummy, and those boobs, Ms L, you must really be catnip for him!” Laura's chubby cheeks reddened in outrage! “How dare you, Miss Tate!” “No! I'm being helpful, Ms L! See, when Yolanda tried to date him, he totally wasn't interested, until the time she started trying to fatten up her booty, and she once ate an entire cheesecake, and apparently he looked a bit more interested in her after that! So! We have a plan!” Laura burped, and started opening a pack of probiotic supplements. “What are you talking about, Ms Tate?” “Oh! Well, you see, Ms L! I've thought about it, and I'm totally sure your new boyfriend loves big girls with huge appetites and huge curves! It just makes sense! So...” “So, what?” “So, if you want to get him into bed, Ms L, you have to eat! And I mean, really stuff yourself! I mean, really! Not just like what you ate for lunch! Like, I've seen you eat way more than that before, and I think you need to eat like, the most ever! And, maybe tease him that your eating habits are making you put on a little weight? And, maybe, wear a dress that shows how big your tummy is and how fat your hips are getting! And...” “Tara!” Laura snapped. “Yes, Ms L?” “Shut up!” “Oh. Okay, Ms L! But I know I'm right! So, maybe... If he doesn't want to go to bed with you, um... Could you mention that he's welcome to feed me cheesecake until I'm sick, if that's what he's into?” Laura glared at Tara until the intern shut up. That done, Laura pondered. Hmm. It was true that Devon Drake – who was, she was forced to admit, a super-hot twenty-two year old she was lucky to get a date with these days – had asked her out when they crossed paths in the elevator on a day when Laura Lawson had been feeling as fat as a cow! She'd just returned from reviewing a 21-course tasting menu, and her size 16 contouring midi-briefs were not doing enough to prevent her black-clad belly from bulging ahead of her. On his way out of the elevator, Devon Drake had brushed past her with a grin after she'd accepted his dinner invitation. Laura had thought she'd simply been too fat for the stud to squeeze out without touching, but maybe not... Well! Laura thought. She might be closer to forty than thirty, and her metabolism had certainly slowed down over the years, but she had intended to make dating Devon Drake the impetus she needed to regain her super-fit college physique. But maybe not! Not if, as the irksome Ms Tate imagined, Devon Drake was a dairy-born chubby chaser. Well. In that case, regaining a fitness model body would hardly be the route to sex with the man of most women's dreams. On the contrary, if the dim Ms Tate were correct, the next few weeks of dating were going to be very bad for Laura Lawson's waistline. But, in that case, which Ms Lawson suspected was the case, her former sports-champion figure and collapsing fitness were just going to have to take one for the team! Laura closed her eyes and rubbed her gurgling belly. She hoped she'd be able to handle a good evening blowout once her dietary supplements did their thing. “Hey, Ms L! I'm gonna get donuts. You want anything?” Tara chirped as she dashed out the door. “No... Wait. Yes, please, Tara. Perhaps just one chocolate donut for me. I wouldn't want to look too slim in my dress tonight, now would I?” Tara smiled happily to herself. She had been helpful! “Okay, Ms L! But Imma get you four. Because I'm hungry and I don't want you eating mine! And, don't worry, I'm gonna help you get nice and huge for your hot boyfriend!” That said, Tara Tate dashed out of Laura Lawson's front door, on her way to the donut stand. * What Tara didn't expect, was that the 2 mile dash to her favourite local donut stand – which she'd thought would make a nice jog for her to stretch her legs after all that time of forced bed rest – would take her all of 0.75 seconds... * Batman76, scl04, ulvrik and 6 others 2 2 5 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted May 3, 2021 Author Share Posted May 3, 2021 12 hours ago, Batman76 said: I was hoping you'd have an update soon! And you didn't disappoint, Laura's over gorged predicament as her teenage appetite writes checks her middle aged metabolism can't cash is amazing, especially the description of her portly gut and hips. Aha, thanks! I thought I'd try again at this superheroine story... So, we have Laura Lawson, acerbic ace reporter rapidly plumping up as she approaches middle age. Her new boyfriend is certain to be a disaster for her once-firm physique, and I can only imagine how embarrassing the next Plains City Fashion Week will be for Ms Lawson. I can't decide whether her boyfriend should be (1) a regular, though super-hot, young man, or (2) an alien survivor of the doomed planet Zafton, who derives powers of super-strength, flight, etc not from the radiance of Earth's sun, but from the testosterone rush he receives from watching gluttonous human women getting fat, or (3) a villain. I need an interesting effect for Zaftonite crystals to radiate, in case 2. And there's Ms Tara Tate, a speedster. Tara loves food and boys, and she wants to get curvier to lure more of the latter, but her super-speed powers mean that she just can't make calories stick... Hence, her swimsuit-clad super-heroine alter ego is always hungrily asking for food rewards whenever she saves the day from a nefarious villain. I can't think of what sort of villains Plains City should have. The only one I've got so far is the Batter Baron - a corrupt former cop, turned vendor of cheap donut batter with which he seeks to drive all the city's independent donut shops out of business and establish a donut monopoly that will give him total control of the city's rank and file police. I think he might go on a rampage, destroying independent food outlets with his fattening Batter Cannon, and Tara Tate might be the only person fast enough to stop him. Any suggestions, especially for villains or obstacles? Borghen and Batman76 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted May 3, 2021 Author Share Posted May 3, 2021 Oh, awesome! That's an outstanding set of characters... I love the Drakes - that's a very well-rounded set of characters! It makes perfect sense for Devon Drake to have asked Laura Lawson on a date, because the plumped-up milf provides the perfect fuel for his powers - and, by dating an older, already-overweight woman, he thinks he won't have the ethical concern of fuelling his powers by fattening up a younger, fitter girlfriend, and spoiling her figure. Of course, it also means he's dating a woman with a much-declined metabolism... The others are great too. The Mayor enacting a salad tax ("To protect jobs in Plains City's critical sausage and lard industries")! Laura Lawson stealing a haunted amulet, reputed to have slimming powers, in order to look at her best in Fashion Week, and inadvertently depowering her superhero boyfriend as a result! Diana Drake being defeated by gold zaftonite (and her gluttony for icecream, and inability to limit herself to human-sized portions)! I mean, if you want to do any stories with these characters at any time, feel free to drop them in and I'll go with it. I suspect I won't get much written for a while (and you have a list too), so no time pressure! Batman76 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted May 9, 2021 Author Share Posted May 9, 2021 Right then. As a special bonus, @Batman76 has written some outstanding contributions to the story of Plains City and its superheroines / villains, and if you are all good then he will hopefully post them here in due course! I for one am delighted to have him contribute some fantastically lustful characters! For my part here, I've written up chapter 3 of Calorie Girl, which brings super-heroines officially back to Plains City, Ohio. As a total aside, I discovered while doing my setting research that there actually is a Plain City in the real Ohio - but it's a village in the suburbs of Columbus. In my Ohio, Plains City basically replaces Columbus, except much bigger, and with a high-rise centre, and it takes over Chicago's role as the major transport, finance, and cultural hub of the Midwest (there is still a Chicago, and the Chicago Manual of Style is still the go-to reference for journalists such as Laura Lawson, but it's relatively less important). If anyone would like, I can write up a few setting notes - so that if anyone is minded to write a story in brooding Gothic City to the east, Coast City to the far west, or the magic-drenched settlement of Gainesburg, Florida, then they can have some names to go on. Chapter 3: Calorie Girl Tara Tate skidded on the cracked sidewalk of Augustus Boulevard, once the grand thoroughfare of Plains City's run-down East Poland district. By the time she came to a halt she'd nearly tripped twice, spun around once, and semi-noticed the twin black tracks of melted rubber leading twenty yards back to where she'd wanted to stop. “What the fuck?” Tara began asking. Then she moderated her language in deference to Honest Ivan Kowalski, elderly proprietor of Ivan's Donuts. It was the store to which Tara had run from Ms Lawson's apartment. Two miles away, in fashionable Lincoln Village. “Um. Hi Mr Kowalski!” “Tara!” Boomed the seventy-year old donut shop owner as he leaned through his window at the sound of Tara's skid. “I've not seen you in months! How you doing?” Tara stood carefully with her arms out for balance – as if, as many people might believe of the long-legged, rail-thin, but perky-busted young woman of 6'4'', she was having problems balancing. She prodded the sidewalk suspiciously with the toe of her pink trainers. But the crumbling concrete was no different from normal. Tara's smouldering trainers, on the other hand... “Um...” Tara began. “... Hey Ivan! I was in hospital for a bit, but I'm better now. Um. Say, has the city been working on the roads? Like, um, shortening them, or something?” Ivan chuckled at the very idea of the authorities ever maintaining the roads. This was America, after all, and not just America, but Plains City! “Hehe! Working on the roads? The city? That's a good one! If only, Tara! There hasn't been a repair crew on Augustus Boulevard since nineteen seventy-three. Give or take. Now then, what do you think of this, Tara? My latest invention: Cinnamon and Walnut Caramel.” The sight of the old master-cook proffering a vast pastry in her direction prompted Tara to quit worrying about the boulevard, and how she'd been able to run its length faster than a – um – very fast thing. Instead, she realised she was very hungry! Doubtless because she hadn't eaten enough lunch. She'd been careful not to eat very much at La Vache Grande, because she didn't want to risk a tummy ache on her first day outside after the explosion at Knight Laboratories. So Tara had only slurped her way through ten plates of the restaurant's haute cuisine, and they hadn't been very big servings. She hadn't really felt full afterwards but Ms Lawson had been glaring, possibly for bad table manners, so Tara had made an excuse and finished her meal early. Hence the need for donuts! Infelicitously, Ms Lawson had refused to take a detour to buy any from a drive-thru, even though Tara had tried sobbing a little to show how hungry she was. And not only hungry: Tara felt so skinny she was afraid no boy would ever look at her again – well, she was an heiress to a multi-billion mining fortune, so maybe they might look at her, but with her current sub-size six ass there was no way they'd ever look at her lustfully! And that would mean she might have to go to society parties with a second or third-choice escort, and Tara lamented at the social shame of such a scenario. “Mmm!” Tara's eyes bulged at the sweet, rich flavour of the cinnamon and walnut. “Mr Kowalski, this donut is amazing! It's... Heavenly!” Ivan Kowalski beamed at the compliment. He'd hoped his favourite (and biggest-spending) young customer would enjoy his handiwork. She loved all his donuts, so he'd been confident, but the unalloyed happiness on her face was the greatest reward any chef could receive. Well, apart from a lucrative order, of course, and it just so happened that the pretty Ms Tate offered that prize too! “May I have a box of a dozen of these, please? No, two dozens?” Tara implored, waving her shiny credit card. “And, also, four, no, five assorted dozen boxes! And a milkshake, please, Mr Kowalski!” Mr Kowalski smiled benevolently, and set about the order – first of all putting six small complimentary sugar donuts in a bag for Ms Tate to munch on while she watched him box up the rest. Those didn't last her very long, so he tossed a toffee bun in her direction and watched her catch it with the enthusiasm of a performing dolphin. “Ah, business is good!” Said Mr Kowalski to no-one in particular, as he took Tara's payment. If there was one thing Ivan Kowalski liked to see, it was a young woman with a bottomless appetite for sugar at the counter of his donut store! “That's good to hear, Mr K!” Replied Ms Tate as she munched contentedly on her five hundred calorie toffee bun snack. “Of course, the Batter Baron running so many of the city's independent donut shops out of business helps – just so long as he doesn't come around my poor little neighbourhood!” Tara interrupted her munch at the words “running out of business” in the context of donut shops. “The – mmph – the what?” “The Batter Baron, Tara! You know, surely! He's turned half the city's stores into franchises. And, frankly, his stores selling donuts made with his cheap crappy franchise batter is half the reason I've been doing so well lately. Touch wood!” A businessman buying out donut shops and forcing them to sell inferior product. Tara didn't like the sound of that! “That sounds horrible. How many stores has he bought, Mr K?” Ivan chuckled. Young Tara had no idea how business worked in Plains City. “He doesn't buy them, Tara. He threatens to smash them up!” Tara gasped. What villainy! And threatening her favourite, or at least second favourite after icecream, type of shop! “But, but! The police!” Tara exclaimed. “Can't the police stop him?” “Nope! The Batter Baron is the police. Or, he was. He was a corrupt cop, and he still has dirt on half the station chiefs in the force. So they let him alone. Besides, he gives them free donuts...” “Yeah, but of lower quality!” Tara sobbed. “Can't anything be done to stop him?” She demanded. “Shouldn't think so. For me, I'll just pay up some protection money if he comes by this way.” Said Ivan. “But, but... Wait.” A thought ran through Tara Tate's mind. It had taken a long time to arrive, because she'd been distracted by sugar and pastry, but it arrived. Tara smiled sweetly, and asked for another milkshake. “So, where can I find out more about the Batter Baron, Mr Kowalski?” Tara asked. Ivan Kowalski scratched his grey chin. “Well, Tara, have you ever heard of something called television news?” * * Sunset in Lincoln Village saw Laura Lawson swaying her way, a little tipsily, along the short route through the park to a rather fabulous local bistro. There, she anticipated, the hottest young stud in Plains City awaited the delectable opportunity to wine and dine the irresistibly gorgeous star reporter! Had Laura been less tipsy, she might have added that she wasn't quite so irresistible, pound for pound, as she had been in her twenties: the chubbiness of her face, the heft of her overfed belly, and the girth of her bum saw to that. However – and this was a big however – after three tequila slammers and two vodkas, Laura had fully come around to the opinion of her intern, Tara, that Devon Drake saw a voluptuous and plump Laura Lawson as even more irresistible than the in-shape young college athlete the milfish Pulitzer prizewinner had once been. It had taken two additional tequila slammers for Laura to accept Tara Tate's suggestion of letting the rich-girl intern rummage through Laura's wardrobe in search of the perfect ensemble to lure a chubby chasing boyscout to bed on a first date. It had another taken three vodkas for Laura to agree to Tara's selection. And it had taken two whole packets of probiotic and herbal digestive supplements, along with a glass of olive oil and a large volume enema, to prepare herself physically for a third heavy meal of the day. And then it had taken two spoonfuls of an appetite-stimulating syrup (which Laura claimed she possessed purely for professional purposes as a restaurant critic), four regular cigarettes plus a large home-made “herbal” one, and a few minutes of drooling over images of Devon Drake on Tara's phone for Laura to really feel hungry. The pictures of the hot young farm stud had done the trick, however, and then Laura had prepared and poured herself into Tara's outrageous outfit selection and taken one final tequila for good luck before heading out. Laura had to admit it: six tequila slammers, five vodkas, and Tara's selection of “clothing” for a date was a fantastic idea! The vain reporter was certainly enjoying the looks she was drawing! Across the park, a trendy Lincoln Village mom stared as she vaped – and noted with annoyance that her teenage son was also staring at the obscenely-dressed thirty-something brunette who was wiggling her way across the park. “Ugh!” The brunette was fat! Far too fat, and quite possibly too pregnant as well, for the skintight black unitard into which she'd squeezed her overfed curves. On top of that, the brunette wore “fuck me” heels and a laced leather halter-neck bustier over the top of the plunging neckline of her bodysuit. She was at least a D-cup. And at least sixty pounds too fat for an outfit that would have been outrageous on even a 130 pound girl in a nightclub on her eighteenth birthday! “Outrageous!” Muttered the trendy mom. She noted with annoyance, however, that her son's mouth was agape and his tongue hung out. She turned towards him, to began a stern lecture on the importance of not staring at slutty overweight milfs – especially not when one's trendy mom is in a permanently-irate state due to her low-calorie liquid-only diet, to which she has to adhere to stave off post-pregnancy weight gain and delay the day her rich husband trades her in for a younger model. * “Why, hello there, Mr Drake!” Laura Lawson slightly slurred. She was gratified by the clear effect her attire and physique exerted on her studly date, who had stared open-jawed as she wiggled from the restaurant entrance to his table. As a cynical journalist, Laura prided herself on being a shrewd judge of character. It was usually easy for her to tell what people were thinking about. Pleasingly, just as Tara and Laura had decided over afternoon drinks would be the case, Devon Drake was clearly concentrating on Laura's plump middle. That was good! It would mean Laura could relax and enjoy her dinner, without any concern that she should have worn crushing shapewear or deny herself dessert in order to make sure she could prize off Devon's pants later! Indeed, the bulge within Devon's pants made it clear Laura was going to be enjoying a second pudding tonight, and quite possibly a third, while sitting smug in the expectation of a damn hard fucking afterwards! Still, Devon's obvious interest was no reason not to make his hard-on a little harder already... “I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long...” Laura drawled, while turning sideways to show off her pregnant-seeming silhouette. She had gorged twice today, and her lower belly swelled like a dome, but there was room for more on top – in the space below her bulging, leather-clad boobs. Laura patted her tummy to emphasise her next point. “... But it took me a little longer to squeeze into this old thing than I'd expected. I confess I've put on a little weight since I used to wear this clubbing. Um, I hope you don't think it's too much?” Laura inquired with false shyness, but smiled like the predator she was when Devon replied. “You look great, Ms Lawson!” Laura smirked. “So do you, farm boy! ” Said Laura, licking her lips and running her hands over Devon's shirt, and the hulking but lean pectoral muscles beneath. “And call me Laura – after all!” Laura leaned to whisper in the ear of her buff date, making sure to squish her boobs into his chest in the process. And, not accidentally, pressing her tummy bulge into his crotch, to gauge just how hard she was making him – and, well, well, the answer was superhumanly! “A girl can hardly indulge herself in fantasies of dragging her hot date to bed for a good, hard, night-long fucking until he's on first name terms!” “Laura!” Devon gasped, this throat dry as the zaftig milf touched on all the sexual fantasies he'd never revealed to any of the lithe cheerleaders and college fitties who'd been brave enough to date him in the past. “Mmm! That's better!” Laura drawled with a hungry squeeze. “Now. Let's eat!” Devon sat and drank in the luscious, overfed curves of the older reporter. She was his dream woman! Well-fattened from a life of overindulgent meals – just like any dairy farm boy wanted in a woman! And, had she already talked about sex on their first date? Devon gasped at the thought! Not that other dates hadn't thrown themselves at him. As a prime example of clean-cut American beefcake, Devon had had cheerleaders and even lingerie models practically tearing their underwear off as soon as they got him in a room alone. But they weren't Ms Lawson! They'd been perky eighteen year olds, with B-cups and C-cups – not enough for a boy from a dairy farm – and they'd barely had an ounce of spare bodyfat on them. Some of them, sadly, had even crash dieted before their date, in the misbelief this would make them more appealing to the hot stud. It hadn't. Ms Lawson, on the other hand, had clearly not crash dieted in her life! In fact, she looked even more rounded tonight than Devon had ever seen her before – as if she'd come to dinner after stuffing herself with a vast, indulgent lunch! The thought of Laura Lawson cramming down a huge dinner on top of an already bulging belly made Devon almost painfully hard. Even more, As Laura Lawson sat, spilling out of her leather top and straining her tight black Lycra skinsuit, Devon realised she obviously wasn't wearing any underwear! That thought pushed him from “almost painfully hard” to “very painfully!” But in a good way. Laura Lawson teased her hot date mercilessly, from the moment she sat down with the certainty he was a chubby chaser, until she demanded he help her to stand up after her third dessert (an overindulgent treacle pudding), cheeseboard, cream liqueur coffee and her several-th glass of wine. She did, in fact, need all the help she could get: she'd eaten far too much! She'd popped away mouthful after mouthful through her crimson-painted lips, until her belly hurt very much! Her immense seafood platter starter had followed breadsticks, pork cracking, olive and cheese appetisers; then a huge hunk of steak with which she'd coaxed Devon into thinking that having five side-orders had been all his idea, then cheesecake, and icecream sundae, and... It all added up, and Laura's already pre-stuffed guts were not happy! She felt like she'd be able to do nothing all night but lay back, push her bloated belly out for relief as far as it would go, and get fucked, fucked, fucked, by a hot stud doing all the work! Felicitously, that was exactly what the night had in store for Ms Lawson! Fairly soon, leaning heavily on her immensely-strong date whose muscles felt harder than structural steel, Laura found herself in her bedroom slurping a high-caffeine energy drink in between tearing off Devon's clothes and ordering him to do the same for her – she was too stuffed to get out of her skinsuit without help. And then the milfish Ms Lawson had discovered just how spectacularly well-endowed her new boy-toy was. Oh! He had to be way over twelve inches, and deliciously thick in proportion, and so rock-hard she would need a whole tub of lube just to begin the evening. College-athlete Laura might have tried to take him in cowgirl, and spend the night trying to break his stamina to see who was the greatest fuck in Plains City... Late thirties Laura could only laugh at the naïvety of her younger self, and instead lay back on her silk sheets, pushed her bloated belly out for comfort, and demanded Devon Drake to pump her full of his cream until she could take no more! Alas, Laura grew utterly exhausted after five tectonic orgasms, and could take no more... But Devon had proved so ardent a follower of her demands, she invented some more for him. Including bringing her a whole tub of cookie dough, which he brought with alacrity – and, Laura was pleased to see, one spoon, with which he proceeded to feed her the entire quart. Eventually, happy, sated, overfed, and well-fucked, Laura lay perspiring and flicked on the TV. “Bah!” Laura grunted. “What's the matter?” Devon asked, from his position laying on her fat breasts. “It's that skinny news bitch, Mandy Maine. She used to be my junior in the Globe. I see she's been stuffing down the Lord diet pills to get herself on TV. Hah! Actually, television news is about her level.” That said, Laura proceeded to watch as the vapid Ms Maine breathlessly emoted the news into her PCTV microphone, from the channel's logo-covered newscopter... * “You're joining us as, right below, as we soar at six-hundred feet in the PCTV newscopter, the first bona-fide supervillain fight in Plains City for the last twenty years has just taken place...” Laura Lawson chortled as Mandy Maine checked her peroxide hair was being held in its perfect coiffure, despite the roaring wind blowing through her “newscopter.” Still, it was annoying to see the airheaded Ms Maine get such a scoop! A superhero fight! The first in years. Decades, even! A superhero fight would most certainly be tomorrow's front page story on the Globe, and the lead story in More Magazine too. Despite the fact that the fight itself was far from vintage. In the Supervillain's Corner, Bobby Ball, the Batter Baron. The Batter Baron was a corpulent corrupt cop. Aside from dealing in corrupt influence over the rank and file of PCPD, Sergeant Ball traded in general extortion and protection rackets. Some time ago, he'd extorted a small donut store from a new owner who'd recently inherited – only to find the former storekeeper had been some kind of gadgeteer. Sergeant Ball had adopted the name of the store – the Batter Baron – and used his newly-acquired gadgets, including a super-fattening batter cannon and an exoskeleton suit necessary to carry its massive batter tank, to force the other donut shop owners of Plains City to pay him protection money or sell up their stores to his mega-franchise for a derisory price. The Baron's police influence – and the free donuts he supplied to all police officers – had made him untouchable. But no more, apparently. For the superheroes, or more accurately heroines, a tall girl with black hair and runway-model leanness, in a shocking pink swimsuit and eye mask. Laura Lawson suppressed a grunt of envy at the young woman's figure: she had quite big, C or even D-cup tits, but elsewhere she was rail thin. Probably because she was a speedster. Not a very good one, though. The Batter Baron had arrived at the Arcade District: a seedy entertainment venue, and one with plenty of snack outlets. He had announced, though the loud-speaker of his Batter Armor, that the local fast food association had earned his ire by refusing to pay protection money. And then the Baron had begun the punishment: blasts of destructive batter from his cannon destroying scenery and waistlines alike, as its fattening goo caused instant bloating of the store owners and innocent bystanders by the dozen. Then the girl in pink had arrived – Calorie Girl, as Mandy Maine had instantly coined the name, due to her behaviour after the fight. Calorie Girl was clearly not a seasoned speedster. A skilled speedster would have blasted the Batter Baron with their kinetic lightning, and shorted-out his cheaply made mecha suit. What Calorie Girl did was attempt to tackle the corrupt cop with flying kicks and shoulder charges. She was, however, terribly poorly co-ordinated, and kept missing her target, overshooting, and flying into walls with a smash and a painful, rather sad sounding, “ouch.” In her defence, the Batter Baron's armor seemed to have an auto-defence system, and its servo motors hopped him aside with super-human speed whenever Calorie Girl managed to get a well-aimed kick on target. And Calorie Girl had even learned, eventually, to use her environment to her advantage: she'd kicked over barrels of cooking oil, creating a huge spill around the Baron, and then, just as his suit batteries were going flat, she'd got another kick on target, and, when the Baron jumped aside with his failing suit motors, he'd slipped on the slippery oil and fallen on his tremendously fat ass! Then, due to the weight of his massive batter tank, and the failure of his batteries, he'd become trapped under a great spill of his own fattening batter! Then, as the defeated villain swelled to a ton-weight, and had to be collect by a flat-bed truck for delivery to Coalville Prison to await trial for extortion and the use of a weapon of mass fattening, Calorie Girl had slumped in an exhausted sobbing heap. She'd only cheered up when the grateful junkfood vendors offered her a congratulatory hug – and free food! Hence the name, Calorie Girl. The skinny 6'4'' speedster hottie had gorged herself gratefully on donuts, burgers, burritos, fries, cake... It was a display of outrageous gluttony that Laura Lawson found mildly nauseating! And Laura wasn't an abstemious eater herself. But Calorie Girl – annoyingly, Laura was certain that Mandy Maine's name would stick – was even worse than Tara Tate! Still, the news would all be about Calorie Girl tomorrow! Questions needed to be answered. Laura Lawson already knew the key questions that More Magazine would need to investigate. What was Calorie Girl's cup size: C or D? Her favourite flavour of donut? Did she have a boyfriend? And, more darkly: how long before one of Plains City's legendary rogue's gallery took her down? * * * Batman76, Borghen, charlesjohn and 4 others 1 2 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted May 9, 2021 Author Share Posted May 9, 2021 Outstanding character. I love Diana Drake / Might Woman! I'm delighted to see the advanced genetic engineering of lost Zafton, because it fits with a high-level villain for the future: Feastday. Feastday was genetically engineered by the geniuses of Zafton's Gourmet Guild, to be the perfect glutton (for a reason probably related to the eventual destruction of Zafton)... Borghen and Batman76 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted May 12, 2021 Author Share Posted May 12, 2021 5 hours ago, >_< 0_0 said: How did I miss this? I love the world building you’ve started! Your styles mesh together really well — Flyer’s feasts and Batman’s bods. With powers combined, we have Captain Planet Hehe. Well you've been putting Catwoman on the Chonk Chart for us (She Chomnk), so you've been engaged in important work, with convincing use of the Catwoman's natural idiom too. Once I write the next chapter, possibly involving a party thrown by Tara Tate's billionaire parents, Batman76 has some delicious sections to come. That said, I am being held up by my interest in world-building: important questions like when/where does coal mining wealth come from (Ohio is not a bad answer) and what related businesses are there. Most likely people will be more interested in "what fattening luxury canapes might a rich Ohio mining magnate offer at a party" which I will also investigate. >_< 0_0, Borghen and Batman76 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted May 12, 2021 Author Share Posted May 12, 2021 3 minutes ago, >_< 0_0 said: West Virginia is where the coal is at; it’s the only economic activity in that state. It’s also right next to Ohio. And wait until you see my attempt at Harley’s accent. If I screw it up, it’ll sound like George Costanza. West Virginia appears to have a coal mining governor named Jim Justice, who could practically be a comic book character himself - possessing both the name and the style. But my research indicates that it is plausible for a coal mining dynasty to have settled in Ohio, near to the Appalachian coal seams but also, in this case, in the midwestern metropolis of Plains City. I've decided the Tate dynasty has to have some other interests besides Appalachian coal in order to be super-rich, so I've also given them assorted global coal interests (Wyoming, Poland, Indonesia) and some other businesses (salt mines, palm oil plantations, and general old money investments). Anyway, will look forward to Harley's accent! Batman76 and >_< 0_0 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted May 31, 2021 Author Share Posted May 31, 2021 Phew, sorry this has taken ages - superhero stories seem complicated! I believe @Batman76 has an additional story... Here is Tara Tate meeting Helena Hunt, and being recruited for some training - training which will almost certainly involve Ms Tate being forced to gorge herself stupid by Shade, in order to fuel her powers... Chapter 4: How to be a Former Supermodel Later, on the night of the night of the Batter Baron battle, two of More Magazine's writers slept very differently. First to bed was Laura Lawson, after a night of being grossly overfed and fucked silly, and giving her rock-hard, sixteen-years younger, superstud boyfriend a blowjob which had finished with Laura swallowing what felt like at least a pint of exceedingly high calorie, but delicious, cream. She'd washed it down with “just a little” chocolate icecream and French lemonade, and then passed out as her body finally refused to let her gorge her bloodsugar level any higher. Laura slumbered deeply and long, as her formerly athletic physique glorped and gurgled noisily with the effort of digesting her day of excessive meals, adding more fat to her chunky body in the process. She dreamt of herself covering Plains City Fashion Week on television – with the cameras zoomed in to give a flattering view of Laura's ample bosom, her fabulous off-the-shoulder black ensemble, and her chubby but still alluring features. Then she dreamt of her ultra-buff stud, Devon Drake, feeding her icecream after an enormous tasting menu at La Vache Grande, and then fucking her so hard in their hotel room that she was slim enough to squeeze into her college running shorts the next morning! Coincidentally, that dream shared a few features with the equally horny ones of her intertwined bedmate – except in Devon's dream the running shorts split down the back when Laura's waist-sculpting underwear gave out, and then the milfish reporter gorged herself on her own bodyweight of muffins and cheesecake to soothe her embarrassment away. Anyway, Laura's figure bulged heftily under her fashionable French bed covers. Indeed, the dome of Laura's belly even protruded higher than her buff boyfriend's huge pectoral muscles, although, thankfully for Laura's BMI, she wasn't nearly so broad. At least, not yet... Second to bed was Tara Tate, aka Calorie Girl – although Tara didn't yet know the alias coined for her by television's svelte newscopter ace, Mandy Maine. In contrast to her over-glutted milf of a boss, Tara had somehow dragged herself to bed hungry. She hadn't expected that! She'd eaten loads. Sure, it made sense a speedster would need extra calories, but Tara had very little concept of just how many calories were involved in running at Mach six, then fighting a mechanised villain for several minutes (and speed-healing the frequent injuries caused to her by clumsily running into walls). Tara also had no idea that a trained speedster – in fact she had no idea super-heroine training was a thing – could buffer her energy requirements from the cosmic Calorie Force to which she was mysteriously connected. The Calorie Force, however, being an impersonal cosmic entity or possibly just possessing a dry sense of humour, was quite content to let Calorie Girl fuel her entire energy outlay via gorging on junk food, if she didn't think to ask anyone whether there was an alternative. In fact, only the small mountain range of free donuts, burritos, and burgers gifted to Calorie Girl by the grateful stallholders she'd saved from the corpulent Batter Baron had allowed Tara Tate to eventually stand up and zip her way ten miles back to her family's mansion. And even then, Tara had arrived home hungry and feeling weak, and she'd eaten a cheesecake with a gallon of milk in the faint hope it might restore her energy levels. It hadn't, and the inexperienced speedster had been barely been able to drag herself up the antique stairwell to her room, crawl into into bed, and fall asleep under the fluffiest pink duvet money could buy. All without remembering to take off her pink eye mask, which she eventually found the next morning. Tara Tate shivered under her bedclothes. She was too cold to fall asleep properly – not to mention her exhausted body ached all-over from crashing into walls and dodging waves of high-pressure batter – and only cuddling her vast collection of fluffy unicorns, gremlins, and other soft toys eventually comforted the young speedster enough for her to drift into a dream. And Tara Tate's dream was much simpler than Laura Lawson's. Tara just dreamt that one day she would be curvy enough that top-quality cute boys would look at her instead of going straight for shorter girls with big booties and double D's like Candi and Yolanda. Tara's long body stretched out as she lay front-down on her pillow and wrapped herself into a Swiss roll of duvet. Then, Tara shifted restlessly and hoped her mom wouldn't tell her off again for gorging too much at breakfast. Hopefully the former Miss Universe, Mrs Rachel Tate, would still be sufficiently happy to have her daughter back from hospital as to to not grumble about Tara's pancake intake. But Tara had learned not to hope for too much when it came to her mom's ridiculously strict ideas on calorie allowances... * * A few days later... Mrs Rachel Tate, bedecked in shimmering silver and dozens of matching blue diamonds, surveyed the scene: an early-season soiree at the opulent Tate mansion. A little evening sunlight dappled the Spring flowers, and the crème de la crème of Plains City society munched appreciatively on their small but exquisite canapés, while taking it in turns to congratulate Mrs Rachel Tate on the magnificence of her party. Officially, the event was to celebrate some sort of business success – perhaps one of the Tate family's overseas mining ventures turning profitable – but, so far as former Ms Universe and twice Olympic gold medallist Rachel Tate was concerned, the main purpose of any society party was for the guests to admire her. Alas, after twenty-six years of marriage, and three pregnancies – mostly the third pregnancy, in fact – Rachel Tate didn't receive quite so much admiration as once she had garnered, despite the extravagant effort and expense that she poured into assuring the success of her parties. Almost as much effort and expense, in fact, as it took to pour Mrs Rachel Tate into the fabulous haute couture ballgown of shimmering silver that currently flattered her once-godlike and still-fine physique. It was, of course, Rachel Tate's perfect body that had won her marriage to Plains City's richest, although not most prestigious, son. But it was her competitive zeal and sharp eye for perfection that had secured Mr and Mrs Tate the reputation of hosting the most eagerly-anticipated receptions, fundraisers, and events in the Midwest. With Rachel's critical eye for elegance, and her husband's thick wallet, Society events at the Tate mansion were dates not to be missed. Rachel Tate's parties were not a place guests would be seen in anything but the most exquisite of dress, and nor would one of them dream of behaving in anything but the most refined manner. Well, only one guest at a Tate mansion party would dream of behaving in an unrefined manner... Rachel Tate's eyes narrowed, at the irksome sight of her third child and only daughter, Tara. “Ugh.” Rachel bemoaned inwardly, but she stopped herself frowning lest it cause a line. “That girl is outrageous!” Rachel felt herself subconsciously sucking in her tummy – not that there was any need! Eighteen-plus years with no dessert, an iron gym regime, and weekly hypnotherapy sessions with Plains City's premier lifestyle coach, Madeleine Hatter, had almost entirely erased the considerable weight gain caused by Rachel's pregnancy with Tara. Almost. And it was the almost which had made Mrs Tate into – or at least, she'd tried to be – the most disciplinarian mother imaginable. Rachel Tate, back in her early twenties, had become the only Miss Universe in history to win two Olympic gold medals. The golds had been in the obscure sports of diving and synchronised swimming, but still. Her goddess-tier physique and perfect features had made Rachel one of the most desired women of the nineties. The blonde beauty-queen had capitalised on her looks and strength ruthlessly by marrying the heir of a multi-billionaire – but never with any intention of letting success spoil her perfect body! And indeed she hadn't let it! Less than three months after her second pregnancy, she'd won double Olympic silver, in real swimming events this time, and Miss Fitness USA. A few months later, Rachel had presided over the Miss Universe finals, and all the critics had proclaimed that she had made the latest year's competitors look chubby and plain in comparison to Rachel's eternally-pert beauty! Rachel's perfect physique had not been perfect enough, however, to tolerate her third pregnancy! In contrast to the rather easy pregnancies with her delightful sons, after which her tummy had snapped back like spring steel, pregnancy with Tara had turned Rachel Tate into an eating machine! The body which had easily handled her 4000 calorie-a-day Olympic training regimen, and with which she'd been among the sveltest Miss Universes in history despite seldom eating below 2500, had rebelled against her! For nine months, Rachel had been able to do nothing but be spoiled rotten and eat, eat, eat! When Rachel had next been seen in public, a year later, she'd been sixty pounds fatter: an overweight Plains City blonde trophy wife; glamorous but fattened-up; another casualty of the city's infamously obesogenic cuisine! And the weight had stuck. Pre-Tara, Rachel had been able to add or subtract a few pounds of lean muscle from her physique, for athletics or beauty contest purposes, at will. And she'd been able to feast in moderation with zero risk to her figure. Post-Tara, it took months of gruelling diet and exercise for Rachel to shed a pound of flab, and if she even looked at a dessert menu she would wake up seven pounds fatter the next morning! It had taken ten years to get back into a size eight, and even today Rachel relied on subtly contouring silver shapewear under her glittering gown. Needless to say, Rachel was determined of two things. First, that her own daughter would acknowledge the sacrifices, in the physique department, that Rachel had made: this would require Tara being an extremely obedient young woman, and a respectable reflection upon Rachel herself. Second, Rachel definitely did not want Tara flaunting the youthful, dessert-proof metabolism that she had caused Rachel to lose. Infelicitously, Rachel Tate was unsatisfied in both her requirements. First, despite inheriting Ms Universe-level good looks except with a little added legginess and some bonuses in the bust department, Tara Tate had point-blank refused to pursue the modelling career that her mother had lined up. Apparently, Tara “didn't like the idea of being forced to diet for shows” - despite the fact that, annoyingly, she clearly didn't need to. That was the second thing: Rachel had to watch her daughter, who was endlessly indulged by her husband, eat like a fucking incinerator at family meals, a minimum of three times a day. And at snack-times, which, so far as Ms Tara Tate was concerned, occurred every thirty minutes or so. The girl could quite happily consume a mound of fried breakfast sufficient for a long-distance Olympic swimmer, followed by a mountain range of waffles and pastries slathered in chocolate sauce, cream, and syrup... And then be seen grabbing a couple of Mars bars a few minutes after skipping up from the table. The sight was enough to make Rachel's tummy feel sick – and, although Mrs Tate never admitted it, to rumble hungrily. All this meant that Rachel Tate was alert for any annoyances or misbehaviour for which she could admonish her daughter. And tonight provided another example. Tara was dressed in a sparkly little pink party dress, that showed off at least forty inches of perfect legs, plus about a million dollars of emerald-studded jewellery that her mother had prescribed a recalcitrant Tara to wear at the evening's soiree. Now, while Rachel did feel a twinge of satisfaction that her daughter, towering over the other party guests at 6'4'' plus heels, was clearly one of the most beautiful girls in Plains City – though not so definitively the most beautiful as Rachel had been – that was where Tara's satisfactoriness ended. For Tara, rather obviously, was lurking near the buffet with a wolfishly hungry look! She was licking her lips in a way that was quite inappropriate at a highly-civilised, High Society event! Rachel resolved to excuse herself from her very civilised conversation with the ultra-fit CEO of Lord Industries, Leandra Lord, and head over to the buffet where she would have to subtly reprimand her daughter for gorging, and order her to mingle among the extremely important, High Society guests. Irksomely, even that simple desire turned out to be too much for Rachel Tate to demand of the universe! For, no sooner had Rachel started across the large ballroom, but Ms Tara Tate's attention was grabbed by a passing tray piled high with huge pastries of a type Rachel didn't recognise – certainly, Rachel would never have specified such large and fattening-looking eats for one of her soirées. Frankly, the pastries looked like donuts! “Disgusting!” Rachel Tate muttered, at the sight of the uncultured, low-brow pastries. Alas, Tara Tate, apparently unsatisfied with eating her way though expensive canapés fit for High Society, piled high again and again on her hand painted English porcelain plate, and devoured again and again, immediately set off in pursuit of the chubby waitress bearing the tray with a mountain of possibly-donuts. And, by the time Rachel followed the pair out through the French windows onto the terrace overlooking the gardens, there was no sign of either the fat waitress, nor her spoiled daughter! “Harumph!” Rachel muttered. Before Rachel could form another thought, she was interrupted by a noise. A rumbling noise. From her own tummy! “Oh!” Rachel moaned, hungrily. The sight of the donuts had been too much! Her weekly hypnotherapy session was overdue, and she could feel her willpower weakening. “Oh no!” Rachel gasped. She knew from experience that the only way to stave off a full-on pudding binge was to sate her appetite with one or two fattening little treats from the buffet. But no more! Mrs Rachel Tate was a former Ms Universe, Ms World, and multiple Olympic champion. The thought of letting her VIP guests seeing her lose control and overeat like a pig was unthinkable! She would just have to dig deep and hold on until her next diet-hypnosis session! Oh, if only that darned daughter of hers hadn't reminded her of donuts! * * Tara Tate licked her lips as she pursued the donut-waitress, through the gloaming dusk, around many corners of the Tate mansion! “Hey. Excuse me? May I have some donuts, please?” Tara called out again. Alas, the waitress, who was a real hottie – a tall Latina with perfect legs clad in black stockings, a deliciously bulging butt, and a preternatural sense of how to wear a French maid outfit and look as good as a supermodel despite carrying a few more pounds than a supermodel could ever get away with – was listening to music and paying no attention to the very hungry cries of Tara Tate. Now, technically, Tara was sure she could easily catch up with the Latina hottie and steal her tray of donuts. But there were so many problems! Tara might be able to use her burst of super-speed, with which she'd practiced a couple of times since her successful but exhausting fight to defend Plains City's independent donut outlets from the Batter Baron. But, problem number 1: Tara had no idea if she could use use her super-speed in heels. Her Mom had insisted Tara wear three-inch pink monstrosities, which made Tara about 6'7'' or 6'8''. Tara hated it: she already felt like she was forty or fifty pounds skinnier than the minimum BMI where any cute boy might look at her with insatiable lust, and heels made it worse. Also, they added to her usual balance problems, and she was doubtful she could run in them. Problem number 2: if she did steal the donut tray, but fell over or crashed into a wall and any of the party guests noticed the resulting clatter, there was sure to be a scene and her Mom would never let her forget it, and probably she'd be subtly punished by her Mom sneakily ordering the staff not to restock the snacks cupboards, or not to keep spare cheesecakes and other inter-meal sustenance in an unguarded refrigerator, and then Tara would spend the next few days starving. Problem number 3: the tall Latina hottie with the big butt seemed very nice, and Tara would not like to get her into trouble for losing snacks, so it was much better to ask for the donuts than to steal. But the Latina wasn't listening! Tara started to sob slightly in frustration! “Um, hey?” Tara inquired with increasing desperation. “Say, could I have those donuts?” The world slowed to a near-crawl. It was as if the world's master clock had been encased in syrup. Milliseconds yawned like hours. “Oh no!” Tara gasped. “Are you Okay?” The Latina waitress had slipped. There must have been a loose paving slab, just beyond a dark, shadowy stone buttress of the mansion's old wing. And the sway of the hottie's big, jiggling booty must have carried too much momentum for her to handle: and time nearly froze as Tara watched the Latina begin to fall. “The donuts!” Tara cried in extreme alarm. As the waitress tumbled to onto her big bottom, her huge tray of donuts – thousands upon thousands of mouth-watering calories Tara had been desperately hoping to gorge on – flew away. There was only one thing to do! Tara kicked off her shoes, and lunged forward. There would be time to grab the donut plate, and catch the chubby Latina before she hurt her bottom! It wouldn't even be difficult. “Ouchie!” Tara yelped. Her hand had closed on the donut tray, when something else closed on her shoulder: it was the iron grip of a vice, and its force was so hard and so painful it wrenched Ms Tate – i.e. the speedster Calorie Girl – back into normal time. “Hungry, Miss Tate?” Asked a steely voice – a girl's voice, but really hard and steely like the vice-grip on Tara's shoulder. “Ow!” Tara repeated. “Let go of my shoulder! You're hurting me!” “You'll heal.” Menaced the voice of the short woman who, Tara realised with mounting adrenalin, had gripped her with some sort of one-handed shoulder lock from which she couldn't move. “Oh!” Tara tried. “Please let me go! I was just trying to help – um, the waitress, not just the donuts, I swear! Oh! Um. Hey Ms Korin! Um. I'm confused.” Tara sniffed unhappily. She was very confused. Like Ms Lawson had set her a difficult assignment again. The big-bootied Latina in the French maid outfit had landed quite softly. And, in the time while Tara had found herself grabbed from behind, restrained, and menaced by a strong but short woman, the waitress had stood, turned around, and Tara had recognised her face: as the retired super-model and oft-voted sexiest woman in the world, Andi Korin! “I'm really confused.” Tara sniffed. And realised, unhappily, that she'd dropped the donut platter. The dark voice from behind Tara sighed, while its owner continued to crush Tara's aching shoulder in a vice grip. “Well, Ms Tate, or should I say Calorie Girl. If you're serious about wanting to help – and you don't just mean yourself to the donuts – you're going to need training.” Sigh. “A metric fuck tonne of training. At least. You can't even dodge, while you're in super-speed.” “Huh?” Tara whimpered. “What do you mean, training? Is crushing my shoulder training?” “That depends.” Asked Shade. “Do you want to help this city, Tara?” “Um. Well. Um.” “It's not a hard question, Calorie Girl.” “I just wanted to help the people who run the donut stores!” Sigh. The destructive force on Tara's shoulder eased. A little. “Good enough for now. Meet me at Darke Canyon tomorrow night. Bring your outfit...” Tara started to ask a followup question, but then realised her shoulder had been let go. She rubbed it tenderly. “What outfit?” Tara asked. There was no answer. Tara Tate turned around in confusion. The evening was just shadows. “Where'd you go?” * * * Batman76, >_< 0_0, scl04 and 1 other 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted June 1, 2021 Author Share Posted June 1, 2021 11 hours ago, Batman76 said: Absolutely loved her mom, the opposite of Lara... so far! So she is! Laura Lawson (37) is the once-superb athlete and could-have-been supermodel who ploughed her way through hundreds of huge desserts and hot studs, with no consequences until she turned 30 when she began transforming into a lavacious Milf. Mrs Rachel Tate (48) is the former equally-good athlete and actual Ms Universe who lost her figure to pregnancy, but mostly got back in shape through iron discipline - aided by expensive hypno-therapy. Of course, being in Plains City, there is every risk of Rachel's hypno-therapist developing criminal insanity (if not already) and using her trusted position and talents to fatten up the city's elite... Any other suggestions for how Rachel might find herself gorging on fattening foods are welcome, of course! Both Rachel and Laura are jealous of nineteen-year-old Tara's Plus-Ultra version of the youthful, athletic metabolism they have both lost. Hopefully I'll get to play with bootlicious ex-supermodel Andi Korin's own, friendly jealously of Tara, and maybe Helena Hunt refusing to acknowledge that Tara is fitter than she now is. Meanwhile, Tara would love to get curvier, but can't... Oh, and as to why a speedster like Tara doesn't gain weight from her love of food, I've done a calculation @>_< 0_0 may be entertained by: to accelerate a 61 kg Tara to Mach 6, to say nothing of then manoeuvring, requires 29 690 kcal! (Significantly varying with air pressure and hence speed of sound.) At this constant speed, at ambient pressure, the drag force is about 33 kN (about 7000 lbs) - assuming jet-plane aerodynamics - which is a thrust power of about 67 MW, or 16 000 kcal / second. The latter number is too high for story purposes - because speedsters shouldn't normally destroy cities by dissipating a 67 MW shockwave in 5th Avenue. Therefore the Speed Calorie Force can be assumed to apply suitable magic to the drag coefficient, as well as to buffer the speedster's energy requirements to some extent. Tara still gets to be first character in one of my stories who is likely to get to eat her own bodyweight in donuts. I have no idea how many Fatrovian donuts that is, of course. >_< 0_0, Borghen and Batman76 2 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted June 1, 2021 Author Share Posted June 1, 2021 6 minutes ago, >_< 0_0 said: And also... omg I’m really into this... and also as to how this crime syndicate is revealed, I think the best way is what I call “reverse onion.” Tara defeats some low-ranking boss, who leads to another, higher boss, and so on. Each time she thinks she’s found the real “boss,” there’s another with an even bigger master plan. The whole conspiracy unravels like an onion being peeled from the inside-out! An onion being peeled from the inside out sounds like some sort of non-Euclidean cosmic horror. Anyway, I'm looking forward to whatever Tara has to resort to to fuel her calorie-hungry powers. Fortunately (or unfortunately, for Tara), I think Helena Hunt is the kind of resourceful and ruthless character who will come up with a range of ways to energise her speedster ally, even if it means feeding her weight gain shake from a vat between missions... Batman76 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted June 3, 2021 Author Share Posted June 3, 2021 3 hours ago, Disaster98 said: This story is amazing.. Will we have the chance of see Lara farting? 😅🤭🤭 It's a possibility, but who is Lara? I mean, I'm not entirely innocent of renaming characters mid story, because "I'm sure her name was X, and I certainly don't need to check my own writing." But I'm sure that there are Laura Lawson, milfish ace reporter who overeats like a pig in a cake shop, and Tara Tate, Calorie Girl. Which one? On 6/2/2021 at 1:29 PM, >_< 0_0 said: Any plans to add these to DA? I started a DA yonks ago, Flyer33, for story chapters. I never really got along with the formatting, but I could put some stories up if there's a demand. Or Batman is welcome to post Calorie Girl if he wants. On 6/2/2021 at 12:35 PM, scl04 said: This has been great so far in both "canon" and the "side-chapters", I'm looking forward to more! Cheers! Probably a training chapter in the Bat Fat Cave next, but no promises on schedule. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted June 22, 2021 Author Share Posted June 22, 2021 These are brilliant chapters! I love Dahlia Drake already, the balance of 75% mean rich hottie and 25% powerhouse with a growing sense of justice, and I'm looking forward to writing Helena "training" Tara, by inventing ways to pack some pounds of fat reserves onto Calorie Girl. Anyway, I'm on a beach at the moment, and here is the next chapter - which was going to involve Tara's training, but that will come next after a chapter about horny Plains City girls versus Laura Lawson. Chapter 5: The Fat Cave (part 1) Great cities have reputations. Plains City had several. First, as the great nexus of the Midwest, where corroded smokestacks belched fumes and wealth into the nation, and coal-mining dynasts rubbed shoulders at haute couture fashion shows with old money political families and famous scholars in every field from engineering to esotery. Second, as a longstanding member of the “Top 5 Fattest Cities in America” club: Plains City's infamously large portions of calorie-heavy food having destroyed the figures of generations of young hotties, their metabolisms and heroic sexercise regimes inevitably not able keep up forever with their gluttony. Third, and consequently, Plains City was infamous for its young women being not only hotties but also the thirstiest and most sex-hungry hotties in North America. Indeed, Plains City was one of few metropoles where the average young woman aspired to burn off more calories in bed than at the gym; and the figure of 800 calories-a-day was oft cited at brunches and cocktail parties as the grueling amount of aerobics a well-fed hottie was aiming to do on top of her boyfriends. Not every woman in Plains City could handle 800 calories of sex every day. But two of them who certainly could, and who put a great deal of effort into keeping up Plains City's average, were Candi duVal and Yolanda Jones. Both of the rich girls were interns at More Magazine. And, at this moment, both were striding along the plush carpets of the Luxuria Hotel. Hunting their latest prey: their super-stud coworker, Devon Drake! “Urp!” Candi emitted a wet burp after taking a long chug from one of the cartons of heavy cream she was carrying. She was dressed as if for a beach-themed party, a glittery green bikini and skimpy sarong cladding her heavy breasts, her thick love handles, and curvy rump “Are you sure I have to chug both of these, Yo? You know I'm lactose intolerant, and heavy cream gives me tummy ache and gas!” Yolanda Jones took a long pull from her own open carton of heavy cream, before tipping it upside down to drain the last few drops onto her eager tongue. Then she unscrewed the cap of her next carton – all the better to ensure her own still-youthfully pert but heavyset curves, in her black lifeguard swimsuit, remained significantly more bombastic than Candi's. “You want to get into Devon's shorts, Cands?” “Burp! Oh, tummy ache! I'm gonna bloat! Yeah, like, totes, Yolanda!” “Then quit whining and chug your cream! The worse your tummy feels, the harder you're going make Devon's cock! You've seen the way he looks at Ms Lawson when she staggers back from a restaurant review looking like she's gonna pop with twins!” Yolanda demanded of her friend. “Ugh. Lucky cow! Oh, I feel sick!” Yolanda sighed theatrically. Candi duVal, Yolanda's best friend, was going to be one of her worst five threesome partners of the month if she kept moaning like this! “Suck it up and keep it down until after we've fucked, Cands! One of us needs to look seven months pregnant so that super-stud gets horny and fucks us! You know that's what he's into with Ms Lawson! And I don't bloat that much. You, on the other hand, just have to eat a burrito and half a glass of milk, and you inflate like a fucking weather balloon! So chug your fucking cream, and lay back and dream about your turn getting fucked by super farm-boy!” “Oh!” Candi moaned. She emitted a pained burp and leant against the hallway wall. She clutched her bare, distended, and urgently-gurgling belly. Yolanda looked around from the door on which she'd rapped four times with her knuckles. “Quit moaning and think sexy, Cands! We may be best friends, but I will force feed you every last drop of cream in this city with a funnel if that's what it takes to get Devon Drake's gigantic cock into me!” Yolanda barked. “Ugh!” Candi whined, and doubled over some more as her guts churned. FFFFAAaaaaart! Candi whimpered. “Good thinking, Cands. He's probably into that too.” Yolanda mused. “You fart away and get him horny for us, while I fuck him! You can have a ride when you feel better...” “Ouchie!” Fart! Urp! Candi duVal doubled over from the agonising consequences of all the lactose-rich cream she'd let Yolanda talk her into binge-chugging. It wasn't fair! She was probably going to get five pounds fatter from all this – but she was in too much discomfort to even think of getting a fuck out of it. At least she was, until her super-stud coworker with the body of a demigod opened his hotel room door wearing just a white fluffy towel that was totally incapable of concealing his massive erection. “Hey, Laura! Oh, my...” Devon Drake exclaimed smoothly, pectoral muscles and biceps freshly-showered and bulging like ripe melons. Candi would have swooned, were her guts not in so much pain. Yolanda did swoon, but, felicitously, she was able to catch herself against Devon's super-buff chest. “Oh, hey Devon!” Yolanda oozed. “Um. Hey Yolanda and Candi!” “Oh, were you expecting Miss Lawson?” Yolanda asked coyly as she gave the buff stud a hug and attempted to wrap her arms around his muscular chest. Yolanda was being super deceitful. She knew perfectly well that Devon Drake had been expecting Ms Laura Lawson to knock on his hotel room door. But Yolanda knew better. “Um, kinda!” Devon Drake explained. Yolanda smiled her most alluring smile. She'd done painstaking research, and undertaken no little trickery involving the magazine's publication schedule, to thwart Devon's hopes of Laura Lawson joining him in his hotel room for a hard and steamy fucking, but she didn't let it show. “Oh! I'm sorry, Devon!” Yolanda stroked his arm. “Ms Lawson was called away from the office by the Editor to do an emergency restaurant review. For a special menu at Le Cochon Grosse, so I'm sure she'll be far too stuffed to come to see you today... Oh!” Yolanda lied fluently. “I'm not sure if my info is correct, but I gathered from my sources that Ms Lawson has forced you to help her with a special assignment, reviewing the most romantic hotels in Plains City for couples to have an affair?” Devon gulped, as he watched Yolanda pat her heavy, swimsuit-clad breasts. He was expecting to meet the woman with whom he was hopelessly in lust, Laura Lawson. The ace older journalist had shamelessly abused her power as a senior reporter, to make Devon Drake help her with reviewing the hospitality at ten of Plains City's most expensive “Lust Hotels” which drew custom from the city's large population of couples conducting illicit affairs. But Devon had not been in any way unhappy with that, because his role in Laura's plan had been to fuck the woman he lusted after more than any other – the milfish exemplar of gluttonous weight gain herself, Laura Lawson – in every imaginable position, on every conceivable piece of furniture, in ten different expensive hotel rooms over the course of a fortnight. “But since Ms Lawson can't come this afternoon, because she's feeling too fat and stuffed, not to mention that she's over thirty years old and she can't fuck as hard as she used to...” Yolanda said breathily. “Candi and I thought we would come along and help you out! We're happy for you to fuck both of us until it hurts, and then fuck us some more! Um, if, of course, that would be helpful for your little assignment, Mr Drake? Oh, or, also, if you like, we could just fuck you in case you happen to be horny? We're both only nineteen, but we're very sexperienced!” In the background, Candi burped wetly and sobbed quietly about her aching tummy. “Oh, and...” Yolanda added to sweeten the deal, as she noticed her super-stud prey's engorged package growing even huger under his fluffy towel. “I've just accidentally eaten three quarts of heavy cream, and I happen to have another one with me. But I'm feeling a little bit fat at the moment and I could only chug it if can get plenty of sexercise afterwards! So... What do you say, Devon? Could I help you with your assignment, and perhaps enjoy a little bit of heavy cream into the bargain?” Yolanda patted her tummy. It sloshed a little, within her bulging swimsuit. The sight was almost too much for the Wisconsinite stud. He panted with lust, as his bloodstream flooded with the puissant hormones of his Zaftonite genetic heritage, alpha-testosterone swelling his already bulging muscles and hardening them with the strength to tear crystal steel like tissue paper. Any horny young man would have lusted to pump his cream into a Plains City girl even half as hot, curvaceous, and thirsty as Yolanda or Candi; and for a half-Zaftonite stud who could barely see through his testosterone haze, though his heightened senses could feel Yolanda's lustfully pounding heart, and the engorged, hot, wet state of her fupa, their offer was literally irresistible! And so, to Yolanda's delight, it was only a matter of seconds before she found herself lifted like a soft toy and squished against the plush wall, being pumped – and gushing – like an oil well! In between breathless gasps of pleasure, and waves of almost-pain from her stretched-to-the-limit pussy, she managed to thank her lucky stars she'd had the foresight to prep herself with plenty of lube: her latest stud was even harder and more engorged than she'd imagined in her wildest dreams! Candi duVal wanted her turn too! The poor rich-girl had a horrible tummy ache due to her lactose intolerance combined with Yolanda's forcing her to chug half a gallon of heavy cream. But, although it hardly seemed humanly possible and it made the bulging blonde's eyes water from the effort of squeezing herself onto her ride, her painfully engorged and gassy guts made Devon even harder than Yolanda. Still, Candi was in too much gastric distress to manage anything more than a little cowgirl, followed by a long burping and farting session with Devon rubbing oil onto the blonde's belly and heavy breasts. Then a naked, cream-chugging Yolanda wanted more cowgirl, and their super-stud was too horny to do anything but get straight to work. At this point, however, Yolanda's scheme came apart. The sound of a key turning preceded, by seconds, the entrance of ace reporter, and woman of Devon Drake's wettest dreams, Laura Lawson herself! Who was, even she would have admitted, looking fat in a way not even her forgiving wrap dress could conceal. “Oh, Honey! Momma's just eaten a twenty-one course gourmet lunch, and she's feeling as fat as a pig and needs a real hard fucking to help get her figure back! Get me outta this wrap dress – it makes me look nine months pregnant – and get your huge cock in me right now!!” Laura called from the other side of the hotel suite from the bedroom where Candi was diving for cover behind a sofa – and where Yolanda should have followed suit, except that she was too close to a tectonic cowgirl orgasm to do anything but bounce hard on Devon's massive cock and scream “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Laura Lawson very soon noticed the scene. She arched a cynical eyebrow as Yolanda Jones reached the highest-pitched screaming orgasm of her life, and Devon's hot cream exploded into her with so much force Laura could swear the heavily-curvaceous intern lifted clean off the bed. “Yolanda Jones!” Laura barked with all the authority of a dreaded editorial senior. “Get off my intern right now! He's my fuck toy, not yours, and you may count yourself very lucky if I settle for punishing you by having him spank your bottom raw, rather than firing you for outrageous misbehaviour as you so richly deserve!” Ms Lawson's tirade was, however, entirely lost on Ms Jones, because Yolanda's eyes had already rolled upwards as she passed out from an orgasm too strong for her pampered, fat, rich-girl body to handle. Instead, she slumped forward into unconsciousness, her heavy breasts slamming onto Devon's face. “And as for you, Mr Drake!” Laura continued. “Put down that skinny little whore right now! You need a real woman, and...” Laura untied the silk belt of her wrap dress, and let the green silk fall aside to reveal her totally naked, zaftig body. She was stuffed! A gut-busting menu at Le Cochon Grosse had given Laura a stomach as hard and swollen as a ripe watermelon, that even the bloated Ms Candi duVal could not compete with. And that was on top of a lower body flabby with love handles, ripe hips, and a hefty badonk that Yolanda was no match for. Laura patted her swollen belly, and let her breasts sway heavily as she swung herself on top of the irresistibly stud-like Devon Drake. She picked up Yolanda's half empty carton of heavy cream and tipped it down her throat in one practiced chug. “...Urp! Momma needs to fuck off some of the two dress sizes you've made her gain before she goes up a third!” * * bigboy1992, Borghen, Batman76 and 4 others 7 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted June 22, 2021 Author Share Posted June 22, 2021 54 minutes ago, Batman76 said: Goddamn but Laura is fucking hot I'm pleased with how thirsty and fat Laura has come out. I think the idea for having Ms Laura Lawson as Tara's boss came about because you mentioned you'd like to see some more horny Lois Lane fiction, and I thought I owed you a few chapters you might like. DC Universe Overweight has, I think, an awesomely thirsty Lois Lane. I'm writing her as an Expy, because I don't know the canon so well, but it's all good I guess. Borghen, >_< 0_0 and Batman76 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted June 25, 2021 Author Share Posted June 25, 2021 Chapter 5: The Fat Cave (part 2) Tara Tate, any reasonable observer would agree, had a very nice ass. “More waffles, Flaca?” Demanded Ms Andi Korin, herself until recently the possessor of the world's most admired derrière. “Mmm! Yes, please!” Enthused Tara Tate, at the prospect of having her plate refilled with even more mountains of calories, without even having to ask – which she normally did by this point in an eating session. Indeed, if an irate fitness goddess had set out to inspire jealously and despair in the heart of a fading former supermodel who had spoiled her once-divine figure by overindulgence, the rear view of Tara Tate might well be the final iteration of her design. This was in spite of Tara herself lamenting her lack of bootylicious bulk. Andi Korin had, in fact, spent an hour or so drooling over Ms Tara Tate's flawlessly tight ass in skimpy skintight pink Lycra running shorts. This had mostly involved Ms Korin drooling over the pictures captured by the security cameras which the first Shade had installed to monitor the approach to his Darke Canyon base of operations. It was to this, somewhat dated, hideout that Andi Korin's paramour – and newly fiancée – Helena Hunt had invited Tara Tate's alter ego, Calorie Girl, for super-heroine training. The video feed had displayed countless frames of Tara's slender legs and the ass she'd inherited from her supermodel mom, as Tara levered herself up rock steps, or generally stood around looking lost with her derrière facing a camera while failing to properly read the map which had mysteriously appeared under her pillow the previous night. * A little earlier, Tara had eventually found her way to the old Shade sanctuary, where Helena Hunt had given the speedster a pep talk and slapped a fitness tracker on Tara's slender wrist. Ms Tate had gazed in awe as Helena introduced her real, as well as secret identity to the leggy heiress. Ostensibly, this was Helena's way of expressing her faith in Calorie Girl; but Andi suspected it was also a good excuse for Helena to avoid battling into her too-tight Shade armor. Anyway, Helena had immediately dispatched Tara on a training run... Tara's expression had shifted from elated awe at her invitation to join a superhero team, into one of maximal horror as Helena Hunt had revealed how she intended to motivate Calorie Girl into learning to control her speed instead of constantly crashing like she had during the Batter Baron fight. Helena Hunt had pulled a lever, and a bulletproof glass display case was suddenly illuminated by artful spotlights. Above the impenetrable glass box sat a tank of green goo; and, imprisoned in the glass chamber beneath was Tara Tate's most treasured possession in the world: a mid-sized fluffy pink unicorn toy gradually shedding glitter onto its surroundings. “NO! Not Sparkles!” Tara had screamed, and lunged at Shade with an ear-splitting sonic boom – only to be caught by the wrist and slammed painfully into the cave's rock wall. “Ouchie! Let Sparkles go, you heartless brute!” Tara yelled as she tried in vain to pull free. “You want me to let your friend go, Calorie Girl?” “Yes!” Tara squeaked. “Please, Ms Hunt!” Shade sighed. “You have a hell of a lot to learn, Calorie Girl. Do you think Plains City's vile villains would free your friend just because you ask nicely?” Tara sniffed. “Um, no?” Shade released Tara's arm. Then pointed a remote control at a screen, which switched to display a fluttering flag in a corn field beside a big road. “That's right, Tara. You'll need to beat their death-traps for yourself! Lucky for us, almost all super-villains suffer from an irresistible urge to make their traps slightly flawed. In today's little training exercise, for example, the key to that impenetrable glass case is attached to the flagpole picture in that screen, and you have exactly one minute, starting now, to go bring it back before your soft toy is gone forever in a shower of ultra-corrosive molecular acid...” “Um!” Tara paled. “But, but!” “The location is shown on the map in your fitness tracker, Tara. As, by the way, is your minute countdown. You can make it, if you learn not to keep crashing!” Helena sighed. “You might want to start out, Tara. Indiana isn't that close to Plains City. Turn left at the bottom of the canyon, by the way.” “Aaaah!” Tara screamed, and vanished with a rush of air and a flash of kinetic lightning that left Andi Korin blinking furiously. Helena squeezed the plump Latina ex-supermodel's shoulder. “Could you put up the tracking monitor, please Darling?” “Of course, Amor.” Andi obliged. A crude 1990's outline map of the Midwestern states appeared on Andi's cathode ray screen, and a fast moving red dot and some numbers. “Ay Carumba! She really love that unicorn!” Andi Korin gazed enviously at the display. Not so much at the speed attached to Calorie Girl's red marker as it moved perceptibly across Ohio at Mach ten, and climbing. What Ms Korin really envied was the rolling “Calories Burned” counter, with the first three numbers changing too fast to see. Oh! Korin sucked in her tummy. Seventy-five thousand calories in twenty seconds! That's like twenty pounds! That's almost all the weight those bastardos put on me in the Model Wars! And – ahem – pretty much the same amount I've filled out since I had to sort-of retire! If I could borrow that lucky Flaca's speed I could model jeans and lingerie again! Hell, by the time she runs back I could be in runway shape again! “You just have to know how to motivate people, Honey.” Helena smirked. “How many times has she crashed yet?” Andi eyed the numbers on the outdated display. “Um, three...” Andi sucked in breath through her lips as Tara's track kinked. “Oh, ouchio! Four.” “Okay. Let's see if it's less on her way back.” Helena gave Andi's round breasts a squeeze. “Amor?” The Latina inquired. “You wouldn't really melt her favourite soft toy, would you?” Helena squeezed harder. “Of course I would, Honey...” The ex-supermodel gasped, and only partly because her nipple was being squished too tight. “... But in this case the so-called acid in the tank is actually green jello. You can have some with cream later, if you like?” The Latina fretted automatically about what Helena's offer would do to her figure, as her tummy rumbled involuntarily at the mention of cream. Damn that long-acting Lord-Corp appetite stimulant! “However.” Helena added. “You mustn't have too much!” “Oh, Amor!” Andi exclaimed. “Am I getting too much plump for you?” Helena Hunt licked her glossy lips and stroked her girlfriend. “No. I just think Calorie Girl's gonna need most of the cream!” “Gulp!” Tara Tate's speed marker was slowing rapidly. She just couldn't maintain the multi miles-per-second she needed! She must be terribly exhausted!” Andi thought with a mixture of sympathy and jealously for the taut butt she herself had lost. At that moment, a pair of flaming tracks and a sonic boom ran through the Shade cave and came to a crashing stop when their source, the lightning fast blur of Calorie Girl, crashed against the indestructible glass of the display cabinet, sobbed the word, “Ouchie!” and fumbled desperately with a key while the antique red timer overhead reached 00-00. “No!” Tara exclaimed in panic, as precisely zero of the green jello descended from its tank onto the glittery pink unicorn that was her oldest friend. Helena fixed Tara with a strict look. But the leggy new super-heroine was too exhausted to meet it, and instead slumped onto the floor where Helena tipped a water bucket over her burning trainers. “Lucky Sparkles, this time, Tara.” Said Helena. Helena glanced at Tara's fitness tracker. “We'll try again for real tomorrow. After Andi's fed you back up, and maybe added some fat reserves so you don't tire out at the end.” Calorie Girl groaned sadly, as ex supermodel Andi Korin knelt beside her to pour some high sugar energy drink in the direction of Tara's mouth. “Come on, Tara!” The model said jealously. “You get to eat all my favourite foods! About a hundred of each!” * Tara Tate slurped the last of her waffles. At least, she'd assumed they were the last of her waffles. To her surprise – and another sensation Tara wasn't used to – a new platter appeared with another dozen, plus extra syrup. “There's more maple syrup in the crate. I could maybe blend it with some fruit and cream for you?” Suggested supermodel Andi Korin, while slurping her fingers of chocolate sauce and cream which had oozed off the side of the waffle plate. Being binge-fed by a famous supermodel, not to mention discovering that said (ex) supermodel ate like a pig herself when she thought no-one was looking, was an odd experience for Tara. “Urp! You're like, the anti-version of my Mom.” Tara remarked, feeling a bit sick. “She doesn't like it when I keep asking for more helpings. But you won't let me stop. I feel kinda weird! Like, maybe, um...” Tara was looking for the word “Full.” Except it was an unfamiliar word for her. “... A teeny bit sick. Could I have a little nap to digest all those waffles and cheesecakes, please, Ms Korin?” The Latina's eyes hardened. She took a bite from a nearby donut. “No!” “AW!” Tara groaned. Ms Korin was as much a hard-ass as Ms Lawson, in her own way! “Oh, Honey. I would let you, but Helena, my Carino, will force feed me anything I don't feed you. So you must to eat everything, lest I will grow fat! Gulp!” Andi swallowed her bite of chocolate donut, which was far from her first. “Except this donut. Everything else, you eat! Otherwise you'll stay in calorie deficit, and you'll be as powerless as I am!” Tara burped. She glanced up from the leather couch she'd been carried to. “Fuck! I look pregnant!” “Is Okay for you!” Andi Korin huffed. “You'll digest this in an hour, and you can burn it off in a half minute! This junk gives me tummy ache for days, and it's made me fat! And it's all that bitch Leandra Lord's fault!” Tara slumped back on the couch and let the waffles keep coming. It wasn't like she'd be able to get past the vicious Helena Hunt, even if she could escape the feeding clutches of Ms Korin. Plus, Tara lurved being gorged. It just would be nicer if it hadn't been fifty thousand calories in a couple of hours, and she was allowed to graze at a nice, tranquil 10000 kcals an hour or so... “Ms Lord?” Tara asked, intrigued. “She's at all the best parties. But she doesn't talk to me much. She's got nice hair, though...” Andi Korin snorted. “No she doesn't. Not her own, anyway. She bought it all herself.” “Really, urp! Hey gimme a minute!” Tara burped through a mouthful of donut with treacle filling. Tara's protest was interrupted, as Helena Hunt stalked in, followed by a 6-foot-plus auburn haired hottie with impressively huge breasts. Looked like a farm girl, Tara thought. She tried to stand up, but she was still weak from her training run, and Andi shoved her back down on the couch easily. Then scooped more waffles into Tara's face. “Mmph!” Helena's lips curled. “Eat up, Tara! Your next training run's cancelled. My sources just turned up a hot tip! It seems like the Model Wars are back on! One of Leandra Lord's associates is planning to hit the April Fashion Expo! Only problem is, we don't know if she's planning to hit the Lingerie or Jeans event. And so, since Andi and I can hardly sneak undercover in the fashion world any more, I'm sending you... Along with our second newest recruit. Tara, meet Dahlia Drake. Dahlia: this is Tara Tate, be nice to her. Tara's going to be your partner, and she'll be going undercover in the Lingerie event. You, Dahlia, will be sneaky-sneaky modelling Jeans..” “What! The! Fuck!” Exclaimed Dahlia Drake in a tone of outraged shock. “She's getting Lingerie?” Dahlia used both hands to lift her magnificent E or F cups for emphasis. “I was born to model lingerie!” Dahlia protested loudly. “My mom was literally the hottest and highest-paid lingerie model ever!” Helena Hunt was in no mood to tolerate dissent from her second-newest recruit. “You, Dahlia, Honey, were born with your mother's propensity to overeat and under-exercise, as well as a physique to die for. And, consequently, while you may, with the right shapewear – on which Andi will advise you – currently pass for an extremely sexy jeans model, you are much too fat to pull off a lingerie show!” “Huh!” Dahlia gasped sharply. Helena continued. “Meanwhile, somewhere underneath that veritable lake of spilled cream, waffle crumbs, and chocolate sauce, Ms Tate has the facial features and bone structure of the most celebrated Miss Universe of all time; in addition to a quite sufficient C-cup in combination with a figure that will assuredly not look incongruously fat when seen alongside serious, professional, Plains City lingerie models!” Dahlia Drake seethed inwardly, but she hid it so as not to incite Helena Hunt to kick her ass again. Besides, she was too excited at the prospect of a mission! And a mission in which she would be given the identity of a highly-paid model in Helena Hunt's legendary fashion stable – albeit only in the Jeans division. Therefore, Dahlia seethed quietly, and resolved to out-do the waffle-drenched “Tara Tate.” Perhaps, in the process, Dahlia Drake could embarrass her leggy C-cup ally, while simultaneously demonstrating Helena's folly in denying Lingerie to Dahlia, and, of course, succeeding in her undercover mission, whatever it might turn out to involve. “Hello, Tara!” Dahlia introduced herself sweetly. “Do you have much modelling experience?” Tara Tate tried to sit up and answer, but was temporarily delayed by an, “Mmph!” as Andi Korin pushed her down and shoved more waffles into her mouth. Probably, Tara thought as she chewed, she had too much heavy cream and sauce on her shoulders and hair for Dahlia to be immediately convinced of her modelling potential – not that, so far as Tara was concerned, she really relished the prospect of modelling at all, since it was too much her hard-assed mom's thing. But, anyway, modelling beat having the psychotic Ms Hunt threaten to dissolve Sparkles again, so Lingerie modelling it was! “Gulp. Um, a little.” Tara replied. “And I have waffles, too. Do you want waffles, Dahlia? I got waffles to spare.” That said, Tara slumped backwards into a very brief sugar coma. * * executiverogue, Batman76, >_< 0_0 and 3 others 1 1 4 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted June 26, 2021 Author Share Posted June 26, 2021 A fiendish layer-cake of a chapter! Dahlia's allies attempting to force the gluttonous half-Zaftonite (sans super-metabolism) to eat healthy. Her bro Devon (arguably a more useful hero, due to Laura Lawson, and half of Plains City, being eager to gorge themselves fat for his pleasure and alpha-testosterone fueled empowerment) being the sibling who wasn't recruited by Helena Hunt. Dahlia falling for an obvious succubus trap, because, in her own way, she's as inexperienced and vulnerable to trickery as Tara. And Georgia Junk-Food seeing through said plot, on account of being actually smart. Also, the \Sigma \Alpha \Tau sorority is hilarious. Batman76, Borghen and >_< 0_0 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted July 1, 2021 Author Share Posted July 1, 2021 13 hours ago, Batman76 said: The brass button punched through the hollow door next to Georgia’s head, leaving a fist sized hole through the fake wood, and kept going to shatter a window, rip a limb off a tree and knock over a power pole, sending the area into a blackout. Lol, Dahlia's going to need some adamantine-laced shapewear if she's gonna model jeans at the Fashion Expo. Unless she just plans to suck in for the duration of her runway spots. Batman76, scl04 and Borghen 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted July 19, 2021 Author Share Posted July 19, 2021 This is excellent. Adam Wrong is a really interesting new character, and maybe cute enough for Dahlia to enjoy... If he were meant to be English, I think his accent would be against the Geneva Convention (think Daphne in Frasier) - but, in fact, he appears to have carefully cultivated his accent from a variety of cultural sources, so it's actually pretty funny and works! I have a rough idea about the next chapter at the Fashion Expo, but haven't written it yet and I look forward to seeing how this chapter goes.. Batman76 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted January 26, 2022 Author Share Posted January 26, 2022 4 hours ago, Kaldr said: is there any plan on continuing this series? Thanks! Yes, but I have 2 other stories that are higher up my list for their next chapter. Kaldr and Seenthe 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted June 10, 2022 Author Share Posted June 10, 2022 Here you go, @Kaldr ! Fashion Week, part 1 While Plains City's two most recently appointed superheroines scoured its Fashion Expo for signs of demonic interference – as well as for cheesecake shops and hot male models respectively – Laura Lawson was putting everything she had into her own investigative assignment. Which, specifically, was a More Magazine review on the relative merits of five of the sexiest items of maternity lingerie the great fashion houses were releasing at this year's Expo. Normally, Ms Laura Lawson would spit nails at the notion of writing such mass-market junk as “Kinky Pregnant Lifeguard Uniform or Third-Trimester Negligee: which makes my man harder?” However that was before she'd snagged the all-American farmboy and all-round ultra-stud Devon Drake into her bed – and the prospect of having him fuck her stupid on company time, and then getting to write a bragging article about her sexcapades, was enough to turn the cynical journalist's brain softer than whipped cream. The new, helplessly in-lust Ms Lawson was instead focused on only one question. She knew Devon Drake had a huge fetish for bellies and overfeeding her, so: just how many times could she make him creampie her if she stuffed down a blouse-busting lunch and then modelled her swollen figure in a kinky crotchless lifeguard swimsuit for him? And thus, More Magazine's sex editor found herself gripping the frame of her bed for dear life, as Devon Drake helped her evaluate lingerie item # 3 (said lifeguard swimsuit) – by pounding her harder than the ground of an artillery proving range, bringing her to so many epic orgasms in quick succession that she screamed herself hoarse, and pumping her full with such huge creampies that Laura was sure she could feel her uterus bulge and swell from the load! And there were two more pregnancy lingerie items to “evaluate for sex appeal” and Devon Drake showed no sign that he would ever tire of pounding her senseless in this one! It was at this point Laura Lawson began to fear that if she had one more orgasm she might expire from heart failure; or if Devon's colossal cock pumped one more load into her she might instead burst with squelchy lethality from too much hot cream! “Nnyygheh!” Laura screamed desperately with all the volume she could manage between panting for air. “Too much! Stop it, Farmboy! I... pant... Can't take... gasp... Anymore!” “I can't stop!” Devon gasped back, in between pumping himself into her, each time slamming the bed frame harder into the wall and making Laura gasp from the earthquake magnitude pressure within her pussy. “You're so fucking hot, Ms Lawson! Uhn ... I need to...” Laura screamed as Devon's cock pumped another hot creampie – surely the most immense yet – into her already swollen belly! She felt hot fluid splurt out of her overfilled vagina – so stuffed already with his cream that some of the new excess had nowhere to go but surge around the huge cock that was twelve-plus deep inside her, and spray over Laura's legs clear down to her ankles! Simultaneously, the pressure from his gigantic load propelled her a whole pillow width up the bed. Laura felt her head bump the bedframe, and at the same time the sensation of her lower belly stretching bigger – bloated not only with food, but her lover's hot cream, and unable to contain another drop without stretching to fill out her maternity lifeguard swimsuit like she really was pregnant! Her eyes rolled upwards as the overtaxed pleasure centres of her brain responded to the hard fucking in the only way they knew how. After some time, Laura Lawson opened bleary eyes and managed to focus her attention, after a couple of false starts, on the muscular sex god of a farm boy who was on top of her – as well as still twelve inches deep, and smothering her lips with electrifying kisses. She kissed back for some time, and groaned as Devon Drake continued to fuck her... Until Laura realised he was about to splurt in her again, and managed to summon up some of her natural angriness at the concept that she might burst in the process! “Uhn! Harder, harder... No, stop it, you brute!” Laura Lawson groaned, her back arching from another near-orgasm. “Stop treating my uterus like a water-balloon, you over-endowed farmyard beast!” But the cynical reporter's indignation only intensified as her words proved too much for Devon's horny mind to bear, and he once again splurted a huge load, causing Laura to groan in pain and pleasure as her legs got a fresh spraying of hot cream, and her belly swelled even more! “Stop it! One more drop and I swear I'm gonna burst!” Laura screamed. Happily, Laura's fear was not realised, as Devon's massive climax had flooded the half-Zaftonite superstud with fresh hormones – alpha testosterone and hyper-adrenalin – even his superhuman body was unaccustomed to handling in such quantity, and he slumped comatose on top of Laura's voluptuously swollen body. This did mean, irksomely for the easily-ired editor, that she found herself pinned under a great mass of steely muscles and grade-A boyfriend physqiue that were even denser than they looked. And there was no sign that Devon would recover consciousness from his sex-coma anytime soon, so it was with much angry snarling that Laura tried to prise him off of her. No dice: he was too heavy, and Laura Lawson's once-hard musculature had steadily faded into milfish chub over the years. Still, Laura was a stubborn woman and she did eventually, with the aid of a whole tub of petroleum lube, manage to slide herself free. Feeling splattered, exhausted, and almost mortally oversexed, Laura Lawson staggered to the shower, and then into a maternity pencil skirt that had arrived with her lingerie samples. It was the only garment suitable right then! The combination of serial overeating and a marathon session of being pumped full of Devon Drake's hot cream had left the milf journalist with a belly that five months pregnant, and impossible to squeeze into her usual business attire, despite Laura already having dressed that morning in an outfit three dress sizes above her ideal! Oversexed, but also oddly hungry, Laura slipped outside, intent on sating her appetite with some of the Fashion Expo's excellent and ample free food. A triple-scoop gelato cone and a burrito didn't quite do the trick, and it was with a greedy gulp that she sampled from a can of a new energy drink she'd been handed by some scantily clad and skinny model at one of the Lordcorp promotional stands. “Hah!” Laura Lawson chortled at the name of the energy drink: Sin. “Lordslurp: SIN. Tagline: It's sinfully sweet! Worth a try, I guess!” Laura Lawson took a sip from the can. And then, after gasping from the sweet sugar deliciousness, a long gulp! “Oh, my!” Laura panted. “I think I'm going to have to do a More Magazine special food editorial on this drink! Its tastes absolutely divine!” Not for the first time in her career, Laura Lawson's perception was along the right lines, but slightly misdirected. Lordslurp: SIN was not divine in origin, but quite the opposite! Its hellish sugar content made it irresistible to all but the strongest of mortal wills. And also fattening. Unnaturally fattening! But Laura Lawson, clad in a forgiving maternity skirt and still in a daze from her sex marathon, didn't notice her ass swelling an inch fatter as she finished the can of new soda, and walked purposefully back to the promotional stall to collect another few! * xXWWhiteXx, Seenthe, scl04 and 5 others 2 1 2 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
flyer33 Posted January 16, 2023 Author Share Posted January 16, 2023 Chapter 6: The Hefty Hypnotist (part 1) Overnight rain had soaked the gravel driveway to stately Tate Mansion. A limousine circuited the fountain and parked, excavating heavy tracks all the way. A splash of sunrise gold hair brightened the cloudy morning, as the passenger door swung open… And the limo rocked from side to side at the vast weight of the passenger struggling to exit, grunting with the effort of hauling her super-sized frame upright. Diana Drake’s chubby face flushed with exertion, as she struggled against gravity and the immobilising tightness of her customised bodyshaper. Eventually, she heaved one vast thigh out onto the gravel, then twisted herself sideways a few inches at a time until her belly rotated through the limo door. She sighed from relief that she hadn’t quite gotten too fat, on in-limo snacks, to squeeze out the door unaided. Then she hefted her other bulging leg, flab wobbling under her contouring white pressure tights. The former Might Woman’s clothes were a total parody of her super heroine era outfits! The full length white compression tights were a necessary concession to Diana Drake being able to walk without painful chafing from thighs with the girth of four-century oaks. Sadly, she needed them as her thighs no longer had the hardness and strength to crush watermelon-sized diamonds – something which she had done some time back in the nineties, to destroy the power crystals of the otherwise invulnerable gemstone golem of Glutorania, a kiloton monstrosity of sorcerously animated stone. Miles of luxury cashmere wool had gone into making the fleecy white sweater that, for all its acreage, stained taut around Diana’s airbag belly. A belly currently inflated with a “light” ten thousand calorie breakfast, rather than air, of course. Though, really, the sweater was mostly strained around flab, hundreds of pounds of it. If the gluttonous ex super-heroine hadn’t more than quadrupled her size, the oval boob window in her woollen sweater might almost have passed for subtle or demure. But it didn’t… Diana’s boobs had grown from huge but firm to immense and fat, and no miracle of Plains City fashion designers and underwire could restore their former perfection of shape. So they merely bulged, spoiling the intended elegance of her clothes. Diana Drake sucked in a deep breath, and pushed off from the limo with a grunt. Her blue sneakers dug deep into the wet gravel and slid. Her buried leg muscles trembled from the effort to keep from falling, and the arches of her feet began to ache after a few steps. But the ex Might Woman sucked in air and pressed on. Relying on a mobility scooter, and having to use the back entrance to stately Tate manor – home of the flawless, two-time Miss Universe, Rachel Tate – was absolutely NOT an option! Rachel Tate, Earth’s most celebrated beauty queen, and four-time Olympic medallist, had been one of very few women who could vie with Might Woman for nineties magazine covers. Not that Diana Drake was jealous… Rachel Tate’s sex appeal just meant that Earth’s greatest super-heroine had only occupied simultaneous covers on all the Big Four fashion magazines eleven times, instead of fourteen. No big deal. What was a big deal was that Rachel Tate had been the only supermodel ever to turn down the offer of a weekend being forcefed cheesecake and weight gain shakes by Diana Drake! Pretty much every other model or beauty queen on whom Diana had ever wanted to indulge her kinks for feeding and fattening... Had eagerly said yes. Might Woman’s perfect body, heroism, and fame had been irresistible to them all. Rachel Tate had been openly lustful too, and even made the first move on Diana – but then balked at the suggestion of being hand-fed even just one teeny entire chocolate fudge cheesecake, with a little pint of heavy cream that would have barely dented her Olympian abs! In short, Rachel Tate had a will of iron when it came to fitness and maintaining her sculpted twenty-four inch waistline. And Diana’s intriguing failure to break down that will had made the Zaftonite insatiably horny for weeks. And between that history, plus the totally inconsequential matter of having lost a few magazine covers to her, Diana Drake was not looking forward to seeing Mrs Tate. Or, rather, she was not looking forward to Rachel Tate seeing how Diana had become a supersized slave to her own gluttony and laziness, who could never again vie for a major beauty magazine cover, and indeed could barely walk! But it would be even worse if Diana embarrassed herself in front of the billionaire’s trophy wife, say by being so fat that she had to drive a scooter rather than risk collapsing on the walk to Tate Mansion’s front door! So Diana struggled up the wet granite steps. She had no choice! She might no longer be Might Woman, but Diana still had to know about the new superhero in Plains City! After all, her own family, her half-Zaftonite son and daughter, could be at risk if the lure of heroism drew them – as it inevitably would – into some would-be champion’s life. So there was the question: who is Calorie Girl? Fortunately, it hadn’t been hard for Diana Drake to learn the answer. Helena Hunt, Plains City’s shadowy and final protector, could undoubtedly have told her. Of course, she wouldn’t: Shade II had a steely commitment to protecting the de-powered former Might Woman from danger, including any involvement with her past life. But Shade II’s brooding reticence wasn’t actually a problem for Diana Drake… … Because Andi Korin leaked like a sieve! The chubby latina ex super-model had a terrible weakness for super luxury icecream; and Diana Drake happened to be the rich proprietress (and chief icecream sommeliere) of Wisconsin’s top luxury brand! A few gallons of spiced quintuple chocolate chip with quadruple fudge, shipped covertly to Miss Korin every month even though she was constantly supposed to be on a diet, ensured Shade II’s curvy-assed paramour would spill whatever secrets Diana Drake wanted. And, for once, she’d actually wanted. Calorie Girl, then, was one Tara Tate: eligible heiress turned rail-thin speedster. But what sort of would-be hero was she? Could she be guided? And did she need Diana Drake as mentor, rather than the dangerously cynical Shade II? Gasping for breath, heart pounding as if she’d gone ten rounds in a rematch with the Champion of Worlds, though in reality she’d only struggled up ten steps, Diana Drake rapped the brass gargoyle door-knocker to stately Tate Mansion. * * One good thing about stone floors, Diana Drake had learned from years of result of gorging her already-obese body ever fatter, is that they don’t creak. Wooden floors, by comparison, were rather passive aggressive: put anymore than six hundred or certainly seven hundred pounds on one and they squeal like they’re being misused. It had become such a persistent annoyance that Diana had even been impelled to trim back the number of weekly funnel feeding sessions she did for her feeder husband, from six down to five, until the worst offending upstairs floor had been replaced with reinforced concrete. Anyway. Diana hadn’t expected to care about the stealthiness of stone floors, but, as she struggled not to pant too loudly, it had turned out that she did... * The Tate mansion’s doorman had been a fat lot of use. In fact, he’d refused to admit Diana to see Rachel, and gave every indication he intended to waste her time, with supposedly polite hospitality, until she left. Which seemed odd. “If you would please wait here in the Wiltshire Lounge, Miss Drake? Mrs Tate will see you in due course.” Diana had been told firmly, by an obsequious valet with an English accent and a face that suggested he did a lot of sneering. “But, she told me she was free all day!” The ex Might Woman had pouted. Alas, the expression which once had caused red blooded men to have heart attacks out of urgent desire to please Diana Drake, now only worked on men with a serious fat fetish. Which the snooty English valet apparently was not. “Mrs Tate is occupied, Miss Drake.” He continued snootily. “I assume you will take scones and sandwiches with tea while you wait?” You sarcastic English bastard! Diana had seethed. I’m practically starving! I barely ate breakfast, and I had nothing in the car except a couple of XL pizzas, six burritos, and eight milkshakes. Oh, and the Chinese takeout. So you’d better fucking believe I want scones and sandwiches! And don’t you dare put so much emphasis on the “and!” A tray of sandwiches later, and a delicious cup of tea, and Diana Drake was feeling much calmer. It probably wasn’t the sandwiches that had improved Diana’s mood. They had been delectable little triangular white finger foods, but the tray had been rather small. It might have been the four baskets of excellent, warm scones, with homemade jams, clotted cream, and butter. But it was probably the rest of the food she’d gorged on between delicate sips of tea. More specifically, it was probably because she’d discovered how to annoy the sarcastic English valet, by sending him for endless little “extras”! “Do you have a few more scones?” Had become, “Perhaps I will have another basket, thank you!” And “Perhaps a little selection of cakes while I wait… Just, oh, one chocolate, one Victoria sponge, a coffee and walnut, and one carrot cake, thank you: I’m on a diet!” Had turned into, “Oh, I didn’t mean just one slice of each! I meant just one whole cake. Of each, in case I wasn’t clear! Would you be a darling and get the rest? I’m famished!” This had, pleasingly, annoyed the unhelpful valet – who continued to refuse to say when Rachel Tate might be available – and Diana had switched into the full on “bratty feedee” mode she usually only used on enthusiastic bedroom partners. “Apple pie, please! Um… Hot chocolate? May I have some icecream…” Somewhere along the line, Diana had eaten an entire roast ham; and there had been a big basket of breakfast croissants that were probably from yesterday. Four dozen hard boiled eggs probably hadn’t been the most sensible thing to eat on top of that, either. But, in due course, Diana Drake relaxed in the smug sensation that she’d won! She’d eaten more than the sarcastic, and blatantly obstructive – and now sweating and exhausted – English valet could be bothered to carry! Pleasingly, her final couple of requests, more chocolate cake and a cheeseboard, were served to her by a much better person: a quite cute young man with a west coast accent. He was far more helpful, and Diana soon coaxed some useful information from him… Of course, Diana knew she’d probably pay for it. She’d stuffed herself stupid, as if she had nothing better to do for the rest of the day that lay in bed and digest while a masseuse took care of her overstuffed belly. She’d probably get a bit of a tummy ache. It had been a huge ham, after all. Oh, and she’d probably blown her chances of being able to stand up and walk back to her care without needing a couple of strong assistants. However… Speaking of blown… The cute west coast boy caught Diana’s eye, as she spooned the last of a bowl of crumble and pouring cream into her mouth. What particularly caught her eye was the pleasing bulge in his pants. “Like what you – slurp, gulp – see?” Diana asked, with a practiced lick of her lips. Cute west coaster groaned softly. Diana hid a smile behind a huge mouthful of cake. Definitely a fan of excessive curves! Twenty years earlier… Well, twenty-four, when Diana still had her powers, and probably for a few years after. Anyway, in her prime, Might Woman had been accused of wearing scandalously revealing outfits that were expressly designed to not just distract, but to cause mass heart attacks and seizures among foes and innocent bystanders alike. It was totally unfair! Okay, distraction Diana admitted to. When you have a cleavage that can stop a salvo of fourteen inch shells from a gunship battery, without taking a scratch to anything except your bra, then an outfit with a boob window is absolutely as practical as real armor; and an amazingly effective distraction. But Diana had actually toned down the sluttiness level of her costumes, specifically to decrease the number of traffic accidents that tended to happen when she was in view. The fact was, Diana Drake was HOT, in block capitals… Sure, she was also invincible, and boasted an array of superpowers that were all individually of such unstoppable power that if she were a comic book character the creator would be accused of bad writing. (Laser eyes, and arctic hurricane breath, to go with your god-tier super-strength and indestructibility? Why not add flight too, you hack?) But she was also impossibly hot, and her ability to motivate people by just asking had often been overlooked. Now, totally losing her powers; and twenty-four years of time; and two pregnancies; and gaining five hundred pounds of flab: all of this had blunted the cutting edge off Diana Drake’s goddess-tier beauty. But she still had a lot: her face was chubby, but could beat supermodels off a magazine cover on a good day, with effort. And, after a lifetime practice seducing thousands of the Earth’s most beautiful males and females, Diana was pretty sure she had more than enough for one cute west-coast chubby chaser. She was kinky too, and dangerously good at identifying the same in others. “Um…” Croaked the cute server. “… I…” “It’s…” Diana tipped the cream bowl back, savouring the taste, and artfully letting a drop fall on the mammoth cleavage displayed in her boob window. “It’s Okay. You can tell me anything. I won’t be offended if you think I’ve eaten far too much and made myself immensely fat!” “Uhn! Uh...” The server groaned. The swelling bulge in his pants kind of answered for him, though. Hmm. Serious fat admirer! Lucky! Diana gulped another slice of almond cake, and kind of wished she’d asked for donuts. Probably should have asked his name. Oh well. Diana licked something from her fingers. Seemed like heavy cream. “In fact…” Diana finished licking some fingers so she could point. “… Name, please?” “Kelin.” Odd name. That’s the west coast for you. Diana ran a hand over the vast dome of her belly. She was hugely tall, but it still dominated her silhouette; so much so she’d had to sit back from the table. “Kelin. Do you think I have eaten too much?” The creak of Diana’s reinforced dining chair said yes. But Kelin’s throat seemed too dry to answer, and Diana recognised lust when she saw it. Perhaps he was kinky? If so, it would be a piece of cake to get what she wanted, and end up free to rummage around the mansion. “Kelin. I would not blame you if you wanted to, for example, spank me? As punishment, obviously, for my naughty and excessive binge eating habits, which have ruined my supermodel figure and left me super fat… As well as, perhaps, additional punishment, for my impolitely forcing you and your colleagues in the kitchens to prepare such a vast quantity of food for me – more than any dozen women should demand, in fact, even if they follow strict gym regimes, which I do not!” “May I…” Kelin stammered. “Yes. Come closer!” Diana smiled invitingly. “… I mean… I meant to ask. May I… Feed you? Some more?” Diana gave a double take. She’d been a hundred percent certain the cute boy would go straight for spanking! She usually had such a good eye for a spanker! And she’d been sure she could then make him pass out from a blow job, after pumping him for… information about wherever Rachel was hiding. Instead: more feeding? True, she was a fucking glutton, and a full-blooded Zaftonite; but even she had limits! Well, she did now, anyway. Following up an epic food binge with further feeding was sure to give her tummy ache! On the other hand. “Fuck it. Yes. Feed me! Kelin: I’ve been an insatiable calorie whore since… Well, since you were probably jerking off over old pictures of me in lingerie. That’s what every other boy I ever meet used to do, anyway… So yes, sure, even though I’m already fucking stuffed, I’ll let you gorge me some more! What do you want to feed me?” Cheesecake. Cheesecakes, plural, in fact, was what Kelin wanted to feed Diana. Cheesecakes massive in girth and height, sized for a mansion dessert trolley! Chocolate, naturally… Boston… Cherry… Three huge cheesecakes. And a red fruit tart to match – Diana slurped and licked it down by the fistful off the cute servers hands. And the rest of the cheese, and a bowl of homemade butter, and a beef pie. “More!” Diana gasped, swallowing down the last of the cheesecake. “More? Are you sure?” Kelin groaned in disbelieving pleasure, as Diana licked his hand clean and looked for spilled fruit syrup to lick more. “Yeah! More! I’m still hungry!” Diana gulped down food. “In fact, I’m starving!” Surprisingly! Even my my standards, I’ve basically crammed down two huge binges back to back. Hmm. Must be because I ate a light breakfast, and basically didn’t eat in the car! “No way, Miss Drake!” “I think I’ve licked you enough you can call me Diana. Yes way, I’m actually still hungry… Which is odd, even for me. Ugh: maybe it’s a symptom of the menopause!” Kelin’s eye’s boggled. “You’re like, twenty-five, Miss.. Uh Diana.” “That’s really cute of you. But… I’m actually… A little over thirty.” “No way!” “Yes, way! And, I said I’m still hungry. What you still got in the kitchen?” “Um…” Diana rolled her eyes. “Heavy cream? Peanut butter?” “Yeah.” “Go fetch!” Diana shoved. Diana’s vast belly gurgled, and she stood up to massage it. A twinge in her knees prompted her to prop her ass on the dining table – perks of being hugely tall, it was a convenient height. The hardwood beams creaked theatrically. “Oh shut up. You’re worse than the floorboards!” Diana’s guts gurgled. Hungry! “Urgh! I cannot be hungry!” Diana patted her belly – sure enough, the dome strained her bodyshaper more than ever… Getting back in the limo would need some sort of mounting block, and probably grease. “Where is that boy with my cream?” Duly, Kelin rushed back bearing several cartons and horny expression. “You horny?” Diana smiled. “You’re so hot, Diana!” Diana felt flushed with adrenalin, from seeing the effect she could still have on a cute, but significantly younger stud. “Good. Well, I’m going to take care of that for you, Kelin. And I promise I’ll be gentle and you’ll recover consciousness soon. Like: definitely later today. But, two things… First, this is not enough cream. It’s like a gallon, do I look like I diet?” “It’s all that’s left, Miss Diana!” “Ugh. Fine. Second. Where is Rachel Tate?” A dreamy expression came over Kelin’s face. “Kelin.” Diana snapped her fingers. “Your boss was super-unhelpful. I had to binge eat to annoy him – not just because I’m a fucking pig – until he got bored and sent you instead… So, don’t be unhelpful. Tell me where Rachel is!” “She’s… Um…” Diana pouted. She put effort into it. “I would be so happy if you tell me, Kelin.” Kelin sighed. His expression was definitely sleepy. “Mrs Tate is with her hypnotist, Madeline Hatter, who ordered us not to disturb them while they are secluded in the back library. And to bring food! And all the donuts! That’s why we’re out of cream! I’m sorry, Diana…” Talking seemed to have exhausted Kelin’s energy. He slumped, and slammed onto the table, which cracked ominously under the load. “Shut up! I’m not that heavy!” Diana exclaimed. Hatter. Diana had heard the name before, in the old days. Not of a Madeline Hatter. But being a hypnotherapist, entrancing the Tate mansion’s servant(s) would fit. And Miss Hatter would be as deadly dangerous to a fully depowered Zaftonite, as to any human. Nonetheless, Diana Drake had always has a soft spot for one beauty queen named Rachel Tate. And anyway, there was Tara Tate too. And they could easily both need her help. And so, hoisting her white cashmere top so that it pulled less around the hundred inch belly where once she’d sported six abs stronger than titanium steel, Diana Drake waddled towards the foyer to find the “back library” and her friend. * scl04, Batman76, zachi and 2 others 5 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... * * Batman76, Kaldr, Seenthe and 2 others 1 1 3 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, Batman76 and 1 other 1 1 2 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… * * scl04, Batman76 and Kaldr 1 1 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! * * Borghen, scl04 and Batman76 1 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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