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The Harem on the Hill


Maverick

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QUICK REMINDER: Last November, "The Harem on the Hill" (previewed here: www.deviantart.com/maverickthe…) made its debut.   It's basically an R-rated, weight-gain-centric, Choose Your Own Adventure-esque serial I created especially for a page I share with my buddy @riptoryx.  We're currently up to Part 36, and our patrons have already molded the story and its characters in a variety of compelling (and titillating) ways.  It's been a challenge to write, but man has it been fun!

I’ll gradually post older chapters here, but should you feel like jumping ahead, or better yet influencing the action yourself, please visit the above link to learn how you can join in on the fun!


Thanks again--

Maverick

PS: I’ve bolded and italicized the winner.  Did our Patrons make the right choice?

 

PART XXI

 

 

Once you're confident Tabitha is in no medical danger, you swipe-right on your phone to bring up Tina's vitals.  Her heart rate is elevated from the exertion--it's the most she's had in months--but rather than slowing as she recovers in the grass, it spikes as your index finger hovers above an onscreen button.

Your eyes meet Tina's.  "Do it," she mouths silently.  Part dare.  Part command.

Your finger drops and so does Tina.  Her face tenses and she rolls onto her back like a bug sprayed with Raid.  

Splayed limbs and contorted bodies in unitards litter your yard like the scene of some strange yoga-related disaster.  Of course, as the last man standing, you're in charge of clean-up.  

You lift Tabitha in your arms and head up the hill.  After a few steps, you realize that if you're going to continue to carry conked-out concubines, you'll need to get stronger.  It isn't that Tabitha is much heavier than Tina, but at nearly six-feet tall and with her lusciously long limbs limp and languid, it's like carrying an octopus.  

As you enter the house, Tabitha wakes.  Her weary green eyes study you but she doesn't struggle.  In fact, she tucks her legs and crosses her arms which helps you navigate the hallways and corners.  The stairwells are still brutal, but you soldier on under Tabitha's trusting gaze.  It's a little disconcerting actually.  Of course, if your day began with a trip to the gym and ended in the arms of a billionaire socialite, you might be awestruck, too.  

It makes you wonder what would happen if you took Tabitha to your bedroom.   By the look on her face, anything you'd want. 

Despite the temptation, you carry Tabitha over the threshold to her personalized chamber.  Like Tina's, it's modern and furnished to taste, but the guided tour will have to wait.

"Rest," you say, placing her gently on the bed.  Her eyes follow you as you turn off the light and begin the trek back for Tina. 

The return trip is much faster.  You bound the stairs two at a time and shuffle briskly past antiques and sculptures.  Your burning biceps aren't looking forward to another load, but at least it's Tina.  She may have plumped considerably in your care but she's still pocket-sized compared to Tabitha.

Only she's not there.  All that remains of the morning's massacre are faint depressions in the grass. 

"Tina!" you yell, spinning in a circle.  "I don't have time for this shit!"

Right on cue, an alert trumpets from your phone.   A touch of its surface reveals a bare belly that fills the screen and seems to jiggle with your finger's prodding. 

"Look for my ** at the end of the rainbow," comes a detached voice.  Then the display goes black.

"Jesus, Tina."   You drop your head and sigh.  She picked a helluva time for a scavenger hunt.

Seconds later, your head snaps up.  You know where she is.

You follow the perimeter of the house.  The main entrance is actually on the second story, while the first floor is built into the backside of the hill and therefore hidden from the front.  Along the sides, the hill slopes away, revealing the "ground" floor and the bulk of your estate.  You traverse the decline and continue past a flower garden--where you discover the tracks of a mammal wearing size six tennis shoes.

Turning the corner to the back of the house, you reach one of its most impressive features--an infinity pool overlooking the surrounding woods.  It's on a hill, not a mountain, so the cliff effect isn't QUITE as grand as you hoped for, but the view is still impressive.  

Especially with a certain brunette beauty sitting naked at the pool's edge, her ivory skin sheltered by the shade from a large steel sculpture with rainbow-colored tendrils.         

Tina smiles as you approach.  "You found me." 

"You're naked."

"I figure it's your turn to be shocked."  Tina lifts her legs from the water and pivots on her butt to face you.  "Like what you see?"

You do.  While the fabric of Tina's unitard squeezed her fattened form into a relatively petite package, free from its constrictions the pounds can be found.  Some cling to her breasts, sagging her nubile nubs ever-so-slightly against her chest.  Some round her arms, which look like drumsticks (the poultry kind) as they prop her.  And even more thicken her thighs, which spread against the deck in the back and rise like dough in the front, partially obscuring her pubic patch. 

But what really makes you grin is a smile-like crease beneath Tina’s abdomen.  It's just a crescent right now, but you expect it will eventually come full-circle. 

"Meh," you say, feigning indifference.  "I was hoping for gold."

"You have enough.  Besides..."  Tina arches her back and pushes her belly out as far as it will go, proudly patting its protuberance.  "This is worth its weight in the stuff."  

You cock your head to the side.  "Are you expecting some sort of reward?"

Tina correspondingly cocks hers.  "Don't you think I deserve one?"

How do you reply?


A.) "That you do." (Fuck her.)

B.) "Not after your treatment of Tabitha." (Punish her.)

C.) "I'm afraid you're still too skinny." (Stuff her.)

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  • 2 weeks later...

PART XXII

 

"I'm afraid you're still too skinny."

Tina's head lolls back onto her shoulders.  "Jesus," she says, looking the appropriate direction.  "Fine.  But at least carry me like your cheerleader bitch."

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

"Not jealousy, practicality.   You don't want me burning too many calories, do you?"

Your arms aren't wild about the idea, but the rest of you finds the prospect of carrying a naked and plumped-up Tina appealing.  As you lift her, however, other parts protest.  

"Ooof!" you exclaim, nearly toppling into the pool.  "I won't be able to do this much longer."

"I'm going to make you," Tina adds coyly, wrapping an arm around you.

It's striking how much the weight has transformed the wasp-waisted waif you began molding months ago.  Thirty pounds doesn't seem that impressive--a modest gain that could sneak up on someone if they weren't careful--but in practical terms, it's 25% of Tina's original body weight.  In that context, the dramatic changes to her figure are less surprising. 

They're no less alluring, however.  The sexy spitfire who once tried to strangle you is now swaddled in layers of pasty plumpness.  Back then, her body was sinewy smooth and toasty to the touch.  A furnace of pent-up energy ready to explode.  Now it's thicker.  Colder.  The morning's activity tells you the hellion is still in there, but the fires that stoke her have cooled with the added insulation. 

"Where'd that come from?" you say, spying the tire of flesh forming around her waist.  It ebbs and flows as you carry her, nearly disappearing in wider spaces, but rolling back into view as you cradle her through cramped quarters.

"You did that," Tina answers with a mix of frisk and indignance.  

"You did it to yourself."  You squeeze her beefy bicep with one hand and the floppy flesh of her thigh with the other.  "What would Major Dad say if he knew what a pig you were becoming?"

Tina closes her eyes and rubs her legs together.    

"Maybe we'll pay him another visit in a couple of months.  See if he recognizes you."

"Mmmmm."  Tina spasms involuntarily, nearly bumping her head as you carry her down the corridor to her chamber.  If Tabitha was like lugging an octopus, Tina's like a hooked tuna.     

Fortunately, a few more steps and you're depositing her on the bed.   You turn to leave--fully anticipating what comes next. 

"Where do you think you're going?"  Tina winds her hands through the trellis headboard.
"Feed me."

Smirking, you head to the kitchen and grab whatever junk food you can.  Donuts, candy, ice cream, chips--your arms become so heaped you can hardly see.  Mercifully, all that high-caloried cargo is still lighter than Tina...though you expect the fat content is about the same.

It's difficult to tell which grows wider upon your return, Tina's eyes or her gaping mouth, but by the end of the evening her waist is the winner.  It takes hours--the expanding orb of Tina's belly is your only time-keeper--but you eventually stuff every last morsel inside her.  Playfully at first.  Forcefully by the end.  

Once the final crumb has been crammed, Tina removes her hands from the headboard and probes the round mound heaving heavenward between her hips.  Her touch is delicate.  Her breaths are shallow.  It's as if she might pop.  And considering the amount of food inside her, she just might.  

Tina seems afraid to move anything but her eyes, but they eventually find you.  "NOW do I deserve a reward?"   

You expect she does.  What shall it be?

 

A.) "I'll give you a little time to rest before the next course."

B.) "Would you like to help me fatten Tabitha?"

C.) Mount her.

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  • 3 weeks later...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter falls more in the NC-17 category.  Reader discretion advised!   

PART XXIII

Tina holds her belly like a beach ball ready to be tossed. Swollen and pink from the evening's abuse, it actually looks like one wobbling above her comparatively svelte form. Although a game of catch is impossible (both the ball and its fatty contents have found their forever home) you can't resist playing with it.

"My God," you say, patting its protuberance. "What have you done?"

Tina writhes with the weight of your dribble. "Fuck me," she groans. Her painful expression suggests the statement is a lament rather than a request, but that's not how you take it.

"Gladly," you say, moving to the foot of the bed and unbuttoning your pants.

Tina peers over the crest of her stomach. "Now?!?"

"A prized hog should be stuffed and mounted." You step from your pants and pull your shirt over your head. "We've done one, now it's time for the other."

You crawl onto the bed as Tina parts her legs. Beyond their fleshy gateway, her balloon of a belly wobbles to and fro with the mattress' movement.

"Think a prick will pop this thing?" you ask, tapping its drum-like surface.

"Jesus," Tina groans. "Let me flip over."

Tina capsizes to one side and slowly props herself onto all fours. She moves like a matron, with no sign of the grace and fluidity that marked her months ago.

From behind, she still looks relatively svelte, but it's a mirage. The burden of her belly pulls the skin taut across her waist and torso, forming an artificially sleek silhouette, while her ass-up position keeps her posterior perky. Ironically, it's her disappearing thigh gap that most betrays the illusion, as the gelatinous flab that fills it shows none of the youthful resiliency found elsewhere on Tina's body. A few more pounds and you suspect the backs of her legs will be dimply, pock-marked messes.

Your stiffening manhood pokes between Tina's ivory orbs until it finds its mark and she gasps as you plunge inside. Whether from inexperience or the thousands of calories packed around it, her orifice is tantalizingly tight. Deeper and deeper you thrust, until each pounding probe is punctuated by a satisfying 'slap' against Tina's jowly cheeks.

Once in a rhythm, you reach around and caress Tina's tummy. "Soon this will reach the mattress," you whisper.

"Mmmmm."

Your hands slide up the sweaty slope of her stomach until they're stopped by her flapping funbags. "And these will never be perky again."

"Oh, God!"

You knead Tina's tits like dough, rolling them against your hands. You can almost feel them fattening between your fingers as her belly gradually deflates (almost as if your penile penetration caused a leak) and digestion spreads the caloric wealth throughout her figure.

"Keep eating like this and no guy will want to fuck you," you chide.

As you enter the home stretch, you lean into Tina like a jockey, pressing your face behind her ear. Her floral fragrance, which you once enjoyed in the courtyard, is gone, replaced by an aroma of fear and oily perspiration. Clutching the shallow between Tina's bounding belly and bobbing breasts, you work her like a giant piston. Up. Down. In. Out.

And as you finish you add a final whisper:

"Not even me."

 

PS: I wanted to end on a climax (ha! ha!) so no choices this week. 

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  • 1 month later...

PART XXIV

You awake to your cell phone clattering to the floor.   It was on vibrate and must have crawled its way off your sleek lacquer nightstand.      

Groggy, you watch it shake and hum across the hardwood like a summer Cicada.  Or perhaps a firefly, as every vibratory cycle is accompanied by a harsh glow that illuminates the pitch-black room.   

You're loath to respond to its beacon.   The phone is out of reach, the floor is frigid, and you were in the midst of the soundest sleep you can remember.  Years worth of effort went into your tryst with Tina, more than some of your Fortune 500 companies, and the release was as explosive and draining as you could have hoped.  For the first time in a long time, "what's next?" wasn't the prevailing thought on your pillow.  

Plus, you know why the phone's all a tither and don't want to deal with it.  The clock on the nightstand shows 3:15 AM.  It's too early to be anything else.

Grudgingly, you throw off the covers and retrieve the bright buzzy nuisance.  A check of the screen confirms your suspicions and, after donning a robe and a pair of slippers to shield your feet from the chill, you trudge to your office.  

Tabitha's voice arrives before her image on the monitor. 

"---me out of here!"  

She's on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, screaming into a camera.  Another camera--the one covering the entrance--is off-line, its carnage strewn across the floor beyond Tabitha's crimson face.            

You pinch the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger.  Maybe you should have intervened sooner.

"I know who you are!  You can't keep me forever."

Tabitha's batting .500 so far.  A few points higher if you consider her piñata of the entrance cam.   

"Calm down, Miss Reynolds."

Your booming voice startles her so much she nearly falls off the chair.  She steadies herself before resuming her verbal assault.    

"Let me out of here!  I didn't sign any contract!  I know my rights!"

Contract?  Tabitha must still be deluded on Tina's 'reality show' diversion.  You don't follow the genre but can't imagine kidnapping and captivity are a thing (much less taser-level shocks).  Still, it's probably preferable to contemplating less seemly alternatives.  

Which gets you to thinking--what approach should you take with her?  You hoped your tact with Tina would help establish some sort of template, but if you've learned anything from Tina's capricious nature it's the folly of that reasoning.  

How do you proceed?     

 

A.) Keep up the reality show ruse (playful).

B.) Tell her what's going to happen (domineering).

C.) Sympathize with her (friendly).

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  • 2 weeks later...

"Ms. Reynolds, I'm going to need you to calm down so we can have a little conversation."

"Calm down?!  Fuck you!  I'm not goin--"

With the stroke of a key, Tabitha falls silent.  You lean back in your chair and watch as she jaws into the camera like a dog eating peanut butter.   If only you could mass-produce a button like that for unruly wives and girlfriends.  (The Nag Gag?  The Silent Partner?)  You'd make billions. 

While crickets fill the vitriolic void in Tabitha's wordless rant, you punch a separate button to bring-up Tina's quarters.  Surprisingly, she's awake, enjoying an after-midnight snack of ice cream on the sofa.  Her opaque skin radiates in the dim room, a mix of post-coital glow and iridescence from the television.  The white sheet she's wrapped in enhances the ghostly effect. 

Another keystroke produces a split-screen between the two chambers, and you wait for Tabitha's luscious lips to stop flapping.  Eventually, she runs out of breath.  Her chest, pressed overripe by her unitard, heaves in and out of camera view as she wobbles on her perch.  The flimsy kitchen chairs you purchased weren't meant to be stood on, especially by someone of Tabitha's generous proportions.  Considering your ultimate intentions, investing in sturdier furniture would have been more prudent...but far less fun.  

"Are you finished?"

Tina, from her side of the screen, looks confused by your query until Tabitha answers with a curt, "Yes."  At that point, Tina turns off her TV and digs a generous spoonful of Chunky Monkey.  Apparently, she anticipates the closed-circuit action to be more entertaining than whatever passes for programming at 3 AM.  

"Good.  Congratulations."

"What for?"  

"For realizing it's better to listen than talk."  

"Fine," Tabitha bristles.  "Let's get this over with.  What do I have to do?"

"First, I need you to eat what's in the fridge."

"Let me guess, bull testicles?  Horse rectum?"

"No, nothing like that.  Take a look."  

Tabitha clambers from her wobbly roost and opens the refrigerator door.  Just a few inches at first, as if she expects some sort of culinary ambush, but swings it wide when she sees its filled with fattening fare.

"What do I have to eat?"

"All of it."

"All of it?  That will take weeks!"

"It better not.  You don't want your erstwhile classmate, Laura, to get the best of you." 

Tina's head lolls back against the cushions.  Her microphone is muted, but you can tell she's laughing.

"What's my reward?"

"You get to move onto the pantry."

Tabitha shuts the fridge and struts to the pantry, providing an excellent view of her caboose and the pistons powering it...and eliminating all doubt as to where her recent couch-potato pounds accumulated.  

When you spied Tabitha last year, her flawless face and chiseled chest were the men magnets, but since then her plumpening rump has formed a holy trinity of hotness, balancing her hourglass figure and wresting visual dominance.  With emerald eyes, lush lips, and a dazzling dimpled smile, Tabitha needn't worry about wandering eyes face-to-face (even with such a top-self, um, top-shelf), but from behind you'd defy anyone to avoid being hypnotized by the tick-tock metronome of such satisfyingly spherical shapes.    

Of course, you know that while exercise may have kept her ballooning buns like gravity-defying orrery orbs, their contours were created via implant--administered orally in the form of midnight pizza and soda binges.  Tabitha's 'Triple-B' triumvirate of beauty, breasts, and butt may distract people, but there's evidence her Gremlin-esque gobbling may further metamorphose her physique: a bulge in the nylon around her lower-abdomen, shadow-like creases beneath her shoulder blades...and a blossom of skin beneath her chin as she recoils from the vast volumes of junk food lining the larder.

"What reality show is this?!  'So You Wanna be a Circus Fat Lady'?"    Tabitha's quip and the disdain in which she utters it slaps your manhood from its post-sex slumber.  

"This is YOUR reality, Tabitha.  Time to dig-in."  A tap to the keyboard and she vanishes from the screen.  "How was that?"

"The ice cream or your conversation with Tabitha?"  Tina tips her empty container towards the camera.  

"Both."

"Delicious."  She suckles the spoon then holds it aloft.  "You have to promise me something though."  

"What's that?"  

"No matter how much weight I gain.  No matter how fat you make me..."

"Yes?"

"You make Tabitha fatter."

You smile.  "Sweet dreams."

"I just had one."  Tina runs a hand along her waist, pressing the draped sheet against the swell of her belly.  It's as pronounced as it was during last night's stuffings, and will likely grow once the ice cream finds its mark.  

Though you're tempted to join her for another round of "fuck the fatty," you resist the urge, adding a quick "goodnight" and turning off the monitor.

Wide-awake despite the hour, you pivot in your chair and contemplate the harem you're developing.  Despite some loose ends and unexpected twists, mostly courtesy of Tina, you can't complain.  Two of your three finalists are safe and secure in your care and both are gaining (although Tabitha's weight-wounds have been self-inflicted thus far).  Still, you feel you're at a crossroads.  

As an entrepreneur, you're inclined to accumulate assets.  "If you're not growing, you're dying," your father always said, and that adage has served you well.  You've built the basement to house eight girls, but more than a dozen are doable, especially once a few are fattened beyond the point of fleeing.  Variety is the spice of life and more girls could benefit morale.  Ask any good cattle farmer and they'll tell you cows fatten better in a herd than in isolation.

Of course, the pragmatist in you advises caution.  You're not a cattle farmer and these aren't cows.  Get a dozen girls together and whatever "herd mentality" they develop is unlikely to benefit the guy.  Add in the risk inherent in their capture and a slow-and-steady approach might be prudent.

You've also considered involving Tina on the fattening front.  Over the past few days, she's been your partner-in-crime and your partner-in-bed.  Having her serve as a sort of Valide Sultan, a ruling housemother to the other girls, could speed production and free you to plan and protect your empire...as well as enjoy the fruit it bears.  Tina is an enigma wrapped in a fattening shroud, but she's proven loyal as long as you've indulged her, and you'd rather have someone of her cunning work with you than against you...at least until she grows fat enough to control completely. 

What tact will you take?

 

 

A.) Aggressive growth: Expand your harem.

B.) Slow-and-steady: Focus on the girls you have.

C.) Calculated growth: Shared responsibility with Tina.

 

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed this extra-long TWENTY-FIFTH chapter of my epic weight-gain serial, "The Harem on the Hill."  Learn how to take control of the action here: https://www.deviantart.com/maverickthewriter/journal/Serial-Preview-818531396

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PART XXVI

 

"That cake isn’t eating itself, piggy." 

Tabitha stares at the layer cake heaped in her hand.  “I can’t.”

"Jesus, Tabitha, no wonder you’ve never accomplished anything.  'I can’t.  I won’t.  What’s my reward?'   That’ll be on your epitaph.  Either that or your high-score in Fortnite."

Tabitha forces the clawed clump of confection into her gaping maw.  Most makes the mark, but some catches her cheeks and chin to form a growing mask of icing and crumbs.  Though she wasn't beaten, Tabitha definitely looks battered.  “Why are you doing this?” she cries, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand. 

“I like it.  What I don’t get is why you don’t.  This is your dream.  All you can eat, all you can drink, all the videogames you can play." 

“I want to go home!”  Tabitha pounds her fists on the table, sending remnants of cake skyward. 

"Why?  Everything you did there you can do here, and with none of those pesky societal responsibilities.  Bills are paid.  Shopping is done.  You don’t even have to worry about maintaining that dream figure of yours.  Unless you consider eating junk food maintenance." 

“I don’t want to be fat,” Tabitha sobs.

"You’ll come around.  In the meantime, I expect that gone within the hour.  Then get you and your sty cleaned-up, piggy.  It’s almost time for inspection."

Tina jabs a button on the keyboard and the monitor goes dark.  “How was that?”

“Delicious,” you say, taking a bite from a pint of strawberry Häagen-Dazs.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

“Sorry.”  You hold up a spoonful and Tina gobbles it greedily.

Tina leans back to savor the bite, her bare butt squeaking in her seat.  “I kind of like the captain’s chair,” she says, then she spins around in it like a top.

You hold up another spoonful of ice cream.  Tina misses it on the first pass, but grabs it in her mouth, spoon and all, on the second.  On the third, you stop the chair with your foot, remove the utensil, and kiss her creamy-cold lips.

"Mmmm," she says.  "I thought you wanted to inspect the troops."

"I'm starting with the top."  You run your hands up Tina's naked thighs until they're wedged between soft leather and even softer skin.  "Captain may need a new chair soon."

Tina juts her bottom lip in a playful pout.  "Captain may be stress-eating."

"It's a stressful job," you say, lifting another spoonful to her eager lips.  

A drip of cream dribbles between her breasts until it's diverted by a deep crease of fat running horizontally beneath them.  Following the milky trail, you slide a finger down her softening sternum until it also disappears in the fold.

Tina lets out a doughboy giggle.  "It's like the Bermuda Triangle."

"I think that's further south," you say, kissing her again.

"True.  Your dick always disappears down there."  Tina allows you some time to fondle her flesh but interjects before things progress too far.  "We do have business to discuss, you know."

"Fine," you say, reclining in your own chair.  "Has anyone ever told you you're a taskmaster?"

Tina smiles slyly.  "Repeatedly.   Especially Tabitha.  Shall we start with her?"

What do you say?

 

A.) "No, let's talk about your progress first."

B.) "Sure, tell me about Tabitha."

C.) "No, let's discuss the new girls."

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  • 3 weeks later...

PART XXVII

 

Tina takes a clipboard from the desk and reviews its contents.  "Tabitha, Tabitha, Tabitha."  She punctuates the red-headed hottie's name with back-and-forth pivots in her chair, before adding a final exclamation in the form of a devilish grin.  "You're going to love the report on Tabitha."

"Thrill me," you say.  It's like one of your staff meetings with middle managers from back in your corporate days.  Only this time the manager is naked and her middle bloated with Häagen-Dazs straight from the carton.

"Hmmm."  Tina scours the clipboard as if looking for a crucial stat, even though you're certain she knows it by heart.  "Twenty-five pounds."

"Twenty-five pounds!  In one month?  Holy cow."

Tina's chubby cheeks go full chipmunk.  "She's becoming one."

Twenty-five pounds.  It was hard to fathom.  Blessed with more curves than the autobahn, you assumed Tabitha's plumping pace would rival that of the vehicles on that famed German motorway--especially with indulgent tendencies already in place--but the first few months had been nothing but exercises in frustration (and frustrations with her exercise).  She stubbornly refused to cooperate despite promised rewards and administered sanctions.  You weren't sure what was more aggravating--her childlike petulance or her monklike willpower.

In business, you excelled at providing the initial impetus and creative direction for your companies, but like most visionaries, you found the day-to-day minutia a ** tangle of red tape.  So, at Tina's urging, you stopped micromanaging Tabitha's progress and turned over the reins of her gain.  You hadn't even checked her vitals in weeks.

"Twenty-five pounds," you repeat again.  "What have you been doing to the poor girl?"

"Does it matter?"

You jab the keyboard and Tabitha's kitchen returns to the monitor.  Having finished her cake, Tabitha cleans as instructed, plodding back and forth between the table and sink in nothing but her underwear, the spring in her step weighed down by circumstance and twenty-five additional pounds.  

It's the best look you've had at her since her arrival.  Tabitha thwarted previous peeks at every turn--obscuring cameras, hiding behind furniture and under covers, and even bundling up like an Eskimo--but now she makes no effort to cover up.  If she knew you were watching, you're certain she'd at least suck-in the glorious **-belly doming over her hot pink panties.

"It just happened so suddenly," you say, hypnotized by the undulating flesh poking beneath said panties as Tabitha delivers a load of dishes to the sink.

Tina joins you in admiring Tabitha's fattened frame.  "It helped that I convinced her to stop sneaking in work-outs."

"How did you do that?"

Tina tosses the clipboard back on the desk with a clatter and hefts herself from the chair.  Her labored movement is accompanied by a suction sound as her hips pull free of the padded leather.

"Why ask so many questions?" she says, swinging her legs over your armrests and plopping her plump posterior in your straddled lap.   "Can't you just be satisfied knowing there's been growth?"

Despite topping 200-pounds, Tina remains nimble; however, the prodigious poundage pressing your pants suggests you were wise not to skimp on the quality of your office furniture as you did in your concubines' quarters.

Tina places one hand on your shoulder as the other explores your torso.  Eventually, it's between your legs, grabbing both your manhood and its attention.  She smiles as it stiffens.  "Your growth certainly satisfies me."

"I'm intrigued by the process," you say, running your hands along the supple skin of Tina's thighs.  They're plusher than the chair's calfskin armrests.

Tina guides your hands to her billowy bi-folded belly.  "I thought you were a results man."

Your hands follow the crease in Tina's stomach opposite directions around her waist until they rest on her shelf-like ass.  "The bottom line is important," you say, giving it a healthy squeeze, "but I like to be kept abreast."  You peck the tops of Tina's tits as they spread against your sternum.

"Ignorance is bliss."  Tina kisses the top of your head.  "You of all people should understand that."

In a flash, you're on your feet.  Tina gasps and dangles from your neck like an oversized choker until you plant her--hard--back in her own chair.

"What's your game, Tina?" you huff, trying to appear as if tossing Tina had been effortless.  A few months ago it would have been, but today you and your spasming back regret the decision.

Conversely, dumping Tina on her ass should have stunned her, but the collision between two such well-upholstered objects hardly phases her.  "No game," she retorts.  Tina settles back in her chair and pokes her belly, indenting its flab.  "We all have skeletons buried."  Then she looks at you and cocks her head.  "Some just deeper than others."

You force a tight-lipped smile, then pivot and stride from the room as straight as your back allows.  Clip-clopping down the hall, your mind is awash with hearings, trials, and an assortment of other unpleasant memories you're pissed to relive.  That's why you took early retirement and moved to this backwoods town in the first place.

Angry, frustrated...and more than a little horny, you find yourself at the entrance to your basement.  Time to relieve some tension.

What do you do?

 

A.) Remind Tina who's boss.

B.) Get under Tina's (thickening) skin with some quality Tabitha time.

C.) Pay a visit to one of your two new girls.

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  • 2 weeks later...

PART XXVIII

 

Tina turns on the light to find you seated in her living room.

"Jesus!  she screams, clutching her chest and the terrycloth robe that covers it.  "Do you want me to have a heart attack?  Just keep pumping me with junk food and lurking in the shadows."

"I was on my way to Tabitha's to give her an in-person inspection, but wanted to deal with you first."

"Don't forget the new girls," Tina says, regaining her composure.  "I know you like to break them in before I break them."

You strum your fingers along the armrest and contemplate the blimping brunette.  "You're getting a little big for your britches, aren't you?"

"Why do you think I've been going around naked?"  Tina smiles and twirls the tassel-tie of her robe...but stops when your fingers strum their way to the cell phone in your lap.  "Look, I'm sorry about the skeleton comment.  It's just that every once in a while you need to be reminded we're partners in all this."

"The last partner I had bilked me for millions."

Your corpulent concubine yanks the tie of her robe.  It falls open, revealing a pubic triangle shadowed by the belly above it. "Do all your partners want to screw you?"  She steps closer but freezes when you level the phone at her face.  "Put that thing away."  Tina attempts to sound indignant, but the fear in her eyes belies her.

You spin the phone in your fingers as Tina fidgets under your scrutinous gaze.  The silence is as thick as the waistline peeping through the curtain-like gap of her robe.

Finally, she blinks.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

What do you say?

 

A.) I'll forgive you...if you can fit into your old Cornicuppia uniform.

B.) I'll forgive you...if you put on 10 pounds this week.

C.) I'll forgive you...if you convince me you're a subservient little piggy.

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  • 2 weeks later...

PART XXIX

"Ten pounds?  In one week!?  What if I can't?"

"Then you'll have to gain 20 next week." 

Tina stares at you with her mouth agape.  It's the longest you've seen it open without her shoving something inside.   "What will that put me at?"

A quick swipe of your phone brings up Tina's vitals.  "235 luscious pounds."

Tina's jowly jawline quivers and a look fills her eyes you've not seen in her before.  

Regret.

"That's double what I weighed before." 

She was actually 120 pounds when she arrived (maybe a few pastry pounds from the coffee shop had slipped onto her undetected?), but for all intents and purposes, Tina will be twice the woman she was.  

It's glorious.

Some women have the frame to support a sizable gain, but Tina is not one of them.  While the thirty pounds Tabitha's added is like insulation on a well-built house, Tina's fat behaves like an invasive species, morphing the landscape and making it unrecognizable.  Unrecognizable and, by traditional standards, ugly.  In any case, the lithe coffee shop nymph that caught your eye has disappeared.

Tina closes her robe around the beach ball that used to be her waistline and cinches the belt.  It does little to define her Weeble shape as she wobbles to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator.

As she chugs through its contents, you train your eyes on her caboose.  While Tina's entire figure has been vandalized, the breaking of her inverted heart ass is akin to iconoclasm.  Its crescent curves have gone full-circle--rounding out before collapsing like a failed soufflé. Now boxy and wide, Tina's butt battles her belly in the excess baggage department, but without the latter's prominent protuberance.  

The retired barista removes a tub of potato salad and plops down at the kitchen table.  Dowdy.  Defeated.  Even Tina's bob hairstyle, once so trendy against her well-structured face, looks as sloppy and overgrown as the rest of her.

"I wouldn't worry," you say, rising to your feet.  "That new girl packed-on six pounds this week and she's not half the woman you are."  

Tina doesn't acknowledge your wink or your exit as she plows through her potato salad.  Oh well, she'll come around...once she's round.

Time to issue more marching orders to your troops.  Who do you visit next?

 

A.) Tabitha.

B.) One of your new girls.

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  • 1 month later...

Author's Note: One of my “watchers” over at DeviantArt suggested I celebrate hitting 900 watchers by posting a few chapters of "The Harem on the Hill" all at once...so I'll do the same here! You know the drill--the choices following each chapter were offered to our Patrons and I've bolded the winners.

THE HAREM ON THE HILL (PART XXX-XXXII)

You pause outside Tabitha's chamber and check the interior cameras to be sure she’s not lying in wait for an ambush. They show the statuesque redhead standing behind a chair in the kitchen.  It looks like she's doing leg lifts, but it's hard to tell with her lower half obscured.

You’re tempted to knock, but ultimately decide against it. It's hard to shake the gentlemanly facade that defined your life for so long.  That's what you've presented to the world and that's how the world knows you...save for one or two alleged indiscretions. Still, you make a ruckus so you won't totally surprise her. 

"I'm eating!  I'm eating!"  Tabitha shouts frantically as you enter. As you turn into the kitchen, her emerald eyes widen to match her chipmunk cheeks.  Then she spits whatever they're crammed with into a napkin. It looks like the remnants of a donut. “Thank God it’s you,” she gasps. “I thought it was that psycho, Laura.” 

It takes a second for you to remember that “­­­­Laura” was the trumped-up alias Tina used to pose as one of Tabitha’s erstwhile classmates. Apparently, their reunion hasn’t been a fond one. 

Your homecoming with Tabitha is much more pleasant. It’s been three months and thirty pounds since you’ve visited her in person and, as she rushes to give you a desperate hug, you soak in the changes. She’s so relieved to see you that she either doesn’t realize how immodestly she’s dressed or doesn’t care. Her hot pink panties and neon green sports bra can’t contain the jiggles as she jogs over.

“You have to help me,” she pleads, engulfing you in her arms. “She says I was a cunt to her in school and need to be taught a lesson, but I don’t even remember. Sure, I was a cheerleader and a little cliquey, I suppose, but I thought I was nice to everyone.”

As Tabitha rambles, you relish her warm breath in your ear and the even warmer press of her flesh. “I believe you,” you finally respond, assuring her with a squeeze of her spongy back.  The good cop, bad cop ploy has its benefits. 

“Please,” Tabitha sobs, the donut-tinged sweetness of her breath mingling with salty tears. “I’ll do anything.”

Anything?

How do you respond?

 

A.) “Show me what Laura’s done to you.”

B.) Kiss her.

C.) “I’m afraid Laura is the least of your concerns.” 

 

"Oh God, she’s making me so fat!”  Tabitha steps back to let you glimpse Tina's handiwork.    

“Nonsense,” you say.  “You’re not fat.”  Tabitha isn't fat, at least by your definition.  She still has a few hundred pounds to go before she attains that distinction. The thirty pounds packed onto her Amazonian frame are mere drops in an oversized bucket...though as she stands before you in nothing but underwear it's evident where some of the drops landed.

“What do you call this?”  Tabitha squeezes the blubbery potbelly rounding over her pink panties.  It isn’t as pliable as it looks, suggesting a good measure of muscle still exists beneath its surface, providing a rock-solid foundation for her accumulating flesh.

Something will have to be done about that.

“That’s nothing a few crunches won't cure,” you say.  

“She won’t let me!  Every time I exercise, she punishes me.”

“What does she do?”

"Usually, she makes me eat something.  Or several somethings.  Sometimes she humiliates me. That’s why I’m dressed like this, so she can see just how fat I’ve grown."  

You'll have to remember to thank Tina later.  

Tabitha extends her arms like the Vitruvian Man and does a pirouette.  She reminds you of one of those corkscrews that looks like somebody doing jumping jacks.  Of course, Tabitha's jumping jack days are over, but her physique remains as curvy and symmetrical as a Rorschach test.  She's a natural-born hottie.

After her spin, Tabitha's face falls and her arms slap to her sides like a marionette whose strings have been cut.  "She won’t tell me how much I’ve gained, but it’s got to be at least twenty pounds."

You decide not to correct her.  “How does she humiliate you?”

"She talks about how I’m losing my looks.  That each day I'm getting a little fatter.  A little uglier.  How my best days are behind me."  Tabitha rubs her wrist just below the silver bracelet that encircles it.  "Of course, she didn't like it when I pointed out the bitchy little butterball was twice as fat as I was."  

You force a tight-lipped smile.  Tina may be a bitchy little butterball, but she's your bitchy little butterball.

"You still think I look good though, right?" Tabitha asks as her sea-green eyes begin to flood.  

For some reason, Tabitha's pathetic plea for affirmation makes you even angrier.  Still, you're uncertain you want to abandon the good cop, bad cop ruse just yet.

You take a deep breath before responding:  

 

A.) “Of course, I do.”

B.) “I’m afraid you’ve grown a bit too fat for me.”

C.) “You’ll look better once we’re through with you.”

 

Tabitha covers her mouth with her hand and staggers back against the kitchen counter.  To her credit, she doesn’t crumble, and her expression of fear quickly transitions to one of thought. No doubt weighing her options. Fight? Flight? Accept defeat? 

Just as she seems resigned to option three, a blare from your phone causes you both to jump. You smile and shake your head, embarrassed that the alert for Tabitha’s spiking vitals startled you.

Only it isn’t Tabitha’s spiking vitals. It’s police at your front gate! 

A peek at the screen shows a black and white cruiser with flashing lights. The driver, a male officer with sandy hair, leans out the window and speaks into the pin-pad’s security camera as his shadowy partner looks on from the passenger side. You hit unmute—

Just as you’re hit with a chair to the chest. You stagger backwards into the living room and the phone falls to the floor. Before you can react, Tabitha plows into your bruised sternum and you both topple over the back of the sofa. 

“…with Metro. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

You roll intertwined from the sofa to the floor and Tabitha ends up on top. She straddles your waist and pins your wrists by your ears.

“Are you there, sir? It’s important we come in.” 

Tabitha leverages her body against yours to hold you down. It’s effective--especially now that she’s in your weight class. She’s a healthy girl. And she’s balanced with a nice base. Obviously, she’s had some sort of training. Probably a rudimentary self-defense class to ward off sexual predators. 

“It’s regarding the disappearance of a local girl.”

Tabitha whips her head towards the voice. “Yes! That’s me! I’m Tabitha Reynolds!”

Although you’d prefer to stay pinned beneath the beautiful Amazon, she’s distracted, and the situation needs to be dealt with. Resisting the hypnotizing sway of her bosom above your face, you slide your right arm above your head to shift her center of gravity, then you thrust your left hip up and out, toppling her. Tabitha may be a healthy girl, but she’s not healthy enough to resist the newfound pull of gravity from her hips, ass, and belly. 

Ideally, your maneuver would end with you on top of Tabitha, but that will have to wait. Instead, you spring to your feet and hurdle the back of the sofa like a gymnast on a pommel horse. 

Where the fuck’s the phone?

You suddenly regret your choice of dark patterned carpet.  It's basically urban camouflage.

"Hello?  Someone there?"

Like a game of Marco Polo, you follow the unseen officer's words until you spot the phone’s glow beneath the couch. You fall to the floor and fish it out.  The driver remains in the patrol car while his partner, a diminutive woman with a stern expression and even sterner haircut, has exited to check the gate; however, neither shows a sense of urgency.  The phone was unmuted, but the microphone never engaged. Tabitha's cries went unheard.  

So do your own. 

Before you can stand, Tabitha drops a cord around your neck from the back of the sofa and yanks you like a hooked tuna.  What is it with your girls and ligatures?  When you planned their chambers, you were concerned with sharp objects like kitchen utensils.  Apparently, you should have been worried about robe ties and video game controllers. 

You fall back against the couch and Tabitha reels you in. Like an expert angler, she doesn’t hoist you up immediately; instead she lets you dangle with your butt a few inches off the ground.  High enough to choke you, but not high enough for leverage. No matter how much you kick you can’t get your feet beneath you.

“We could use your assistance,” officer sandy hair says.

So could I, you think. 

You can’t see the phone—your head is locked in Tabitha’s noose and your vision reduced to spots—but at least you didn’t drop it. Working from memory, you swipe right twice, scroll down, and mash the screen with your thumb. 

Nothing happens.

So this is how it ends? Autoerotic asphyxiation administered by a robust redhead. Could be worse, you suppose. 

As your thoughts and visions fade, your thumb continues to probe. Scrolling.  Pressing. Scrolling.  Pressing. Scrolling. Pressing—

Suddenly, you’re yanked violently into the air. Then just as suddenly dropped on your butt.  

Gasping, you pull the ligature from your neck and rub the trenchlike indentation it created, restoring circulation. Using the sofa for support, you slowly rise, blinking away the blackness to find Tabitha prone on the sofa. She looks peaceful. Almost like she passed out watching TV after a pizza binge rather than the 25,000 volts you sent surging through her.

You glance at the screen for Tabitha’s vitals—only to find the forecast for Pasadena. It seems all your blind swiping and scrolling did was activate your weather app.

“YOU’RE WELCOME.” 

Tina’s voice booms like God over the intercom. 

“NOW WHY DON’T YOU DEAL WITH OUR VISITORS?”   

You swipe back to the gate camera just in time to see the gate closing and a cloud of dust wafting across the screen.

It seems police are patrolling your harem on the hill.

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  • 2 weeks later...

THE HAREM ON THE HILL (PART XXXIII)

 

 

"Good afternoon, Sir.  I'm officer Petty and this is officer Morgan."

"What can I do for you..."  You almost say gentlemen, but notice Morgan's full lips and flawless olive skin.  "Officers?"

"First of all, thank you for letting us through the gate," Petty says.

"Of course," you say, although you had nothing to do with it.  If it was up to you, Officers Petty and Morgan would be on their way back to headquarters right now.

"Secondly, we were hoping to ask you a couple questions about a missing townie."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  Who?"  When dealing with the law, you were cautioned to be careful asking questions to which you already know the answer, as it can come off as phony or diversionary.  In this case, however, you really don't know.

Officer Petty pulls a photograph of a diminutive brunette from his breast pocket.  "Her name is Tina Jordan."

Lithe body.  Bright smile.  Trendy bob haircut.  It's Tina alright, though she hasn't looked that way in quite some time.  

You nod.  "She was a waitress at a coffee shop I used to frequent."

"Not anymore?"

"I would assume not."  You can't resist a little cop show sarcasm, although it probably isn't the best legal strategy.

Officer Petty smiles.  He's either a good sport or a good actor.  "I'm sorry.  I meant you don't frequent the coffee shop anymore."

"Occasionally," you say.  That was true.  You didn't want to completely abandon ship once Tina was gone and had visited a handful of times since.  Besides, the coffee was good and you liked the owner, Paul.

"But not as much."

"No, I liked Tina.  The owner, Pete?  Paul?"  The officers' blank faces are no help.  "Anyway, he mentioned she had disappeared.  Not really disappeared, just no-called, no-showed and never came back."

"Were you concerned?"

"Not really.  I figured that sort of thing happens.  Disappointed though."

"You were friends?"

"Friendly."

"Rumor has it you might have been more than friends."  Officer Morgan speaks!   By the look Petty shoots her she wasn't supposed to.  Regardless, her voice is as smooth as her skin.

"Who told you that?"  Another question you don't know the answer to, though you'd like to.

"We're not at liberty to say,"  Officer Petty says.  There's a hint of irritation in his voice, likely with his junior officer.

Officer Morgan is undaunted.  "This is quite a place," she says, sizing it up.  "I imagine that's why it took so long to let us in.  Heck, I'd pee my pants trying to find a bathroom!"  She smiles at her partner, but he doesn't return it.

"That's where I was when you showed up."  Your first lie, though innocuous.

"Is that where you got the scratch?"

You locate a tender spot on your chin.  In your haste to meet the police at the door you hadn't checked yourself following your incursion with Tabitha.  "No, I was doing some gardening.  I must have gotten it then."

Your second lie.  You're not sure you like talking to officer Morgan.

"Really?  I figured a guy like you would have people for that.  What are you planting this time of year?"

Now you're certain of it.

"Just routine maintenance," you say.  "It's a bit too warm for planting."

Morgan nods then adds, "May I see it?  I've got a bit of a green thumb."

"I'm sorry, sir," Officer Petty interjects.  "I'm sure you don't have time to give guided tours of your garden."  Then he glares at his partner.  "And we don't have time to take them."

"Another time," you smile.  Frankly, you'd love nothing more than to give Officer Morgan a one-way tour of your basement.

"It is a bit warm out here though, sir," Officer Petty adds.  "Would you mind if we came in just for a couple of minutes?  Then I promise we won't bother you again."

You've heard that promise before.

Ideally, you'd invite the officers in.  Nothing raises red flags like avoidance and you've gone to great lengths to ensure there's nothing incriminating on the main floor.  However, with one of your girls electrocuted and another running amok, it isn't a great time.

What do you say?

 

A.) "Please come in."

B.) "I'm sorry.  I can't right now."

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  • 3 weeks later...

THE HAREM ON THE HILL (PART XXXIV)

"What a view!"

Officer Morgan stands in the middle of your living room with her hands on her narrow hips. Although you're certain she's using the 180-degree panorama of the surrounding woods, distant city, and even more distant mountains as an excuse to push further into your residence for possible clues, you can hardly blame her. It is impressive.

A lush carpet of green extends for miles before a haphazard scattering of squares and rectangles--like a child dropped a handful of Legos--marks the adjacent township. Beyond that, the green transitions to pale blue as it reaches the base of a mountain range twenty-five miles away. At that distance, your humble hill appears level with its summits.

Morgan does a deliberate 180-degree pan, one eye on the view, and the other on your furniture and the contents of your sitting table.

"What's behind that door?"

If only you could show her. Still, you can't begrudge her the question. With its vertical oak planking and iron strap hinges, it looks like the entrance to a medieval dungeon. Maybe it was a bit on the nose, in retrospect.

"My wine cellar." Among other things, you think. "Officer Morgan, don't tell me you have an acute nose paired with that green thumb?"

"Me? Oh, no. All I know is white goes with fish and red goes with beef."

You're tempted to ask her what goes with pig. "It's a bit early for wine, but can I offer you both some coffee?"

"That would be nice," Officer Petty says. He's right on your heels as you return to the kitchen and beckons for Morgan to follow. He's clearly uncomfortable with her thinly veiled trespassing.

Morgan and Petty sit at barstools running along the kitchen's island divide as you rummage through drawers looking for a measuring scoop. You haven't made a full ** of coffee in months, preferring single cups from your office Keurig machine.

"If it's too much trouble..." Officer Petty says.

"Not at all," you say, holding up the discovered scoop.

"I guess it's an adjustment making coffee for yourself now that your barista babe's gone." Morgan's playful smile belies her jab. You can only hope the thin smile you return similarly disguises your thoughts.

"How can I help you, officers?"

"When was the last time you saw Tina Jordan?" Petty asks.

"I don't know," you say, dumping a scoop of grounds into the brewer. "What was her last day on the job?"

Usually, police ask a few innocuous questions before they get to the incriminating ones. Maybe Petty's fed-up with Morgan's games, or worried she'll violate procedure more than she already has, or perhaps they already have enough evidence they don't need to pussyfoot around.

The glance Morgan and Petty exchange at your non-answer suggest it may be the latter.

Morgan pulls a small spiral notepad and a pen from her breast pocket. "How did you say you got that scratch on your chin? Wrestling with a hoe?"

"A rake, actually." You press the button on the brewer and it begins to drip. "This will take a few minutes, I'm afraid."

"That's fine," Morgan says. "That'll give us some time to check-out that garden of yours."

Officer Petty slips a paper from his pocket and pushes it across the island's countertop. Your blood goes as cold as the marble surface it rests upon. Official seal. Multiple signatures. Today's date.

It's a search warrant.

Morgan arches her brows so high they disappear beneath her police cap. "And then maybe you can show us that fancy wine cellar?"

"This is ridiculous," you say. "What are you expecting to find?"

"I think you know what we're expecting to find." Officer Petty places the photo of your 'barista babe' next to the search warrant. "Tina Jordan."

Suddenly, the creak of a floorboard announces a foreign presence in the room. The officers whip their heads to find an even more foreign body standing in the kitchen's arched entryway.

"You've found her."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: No choices were presented for this chapter

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  • 3 weeks later...

THE HAREM ON THE HILL (PART XXXV)

 

"Honey, don't tell me you're brewing these nice officers Folgers!"

The oversized white cotton bathrobe that once swallowed Tina barely keeps her modest as she shuffles over to you.

"Sorry, dear," you say.  "They were in a hurry."

"Nobody's in that big a hurry".   Tina gives you a quick kiss.  "You'll have to excuse him.  He's not very adept at this domestic stuff."

Officer Petty's gaze bounces between Tina and the photo on the counter like a tennis match.  He's clearly having difficulty reconciling the sexy spitfire in the picture and the matronly woman on your arm.  "Tina?  Tina Jordon?"

"In the flesh," Tina responds.

Morgan stares like she's memorizing Tina for a test.  "Please don't take this the wrong way, but we'll need to see some ID."

"Just being thorough," Petty apologizes.  "I'm sure you understand."

"You're just doing your job."  Tina looks to you and cocks her head.  "Would you be a dear and grab it for me?"

"Of course."  You're not keen on leaving Tina alone with the police, but don't see an alternative.  

Once you're out of the officers' sight, you sprint up the stairs two at a time and race to your study.  You open the bottom drawer of your desk to its full extension, revealing a myriad of hanging files from business deals past and present.  Then you lift slightly and pull again, allowing the drawer to slide a few inches further.  Beyond the drawer's false back is a cavity containing wallets, keys, credit cards, and keepsake photos of loved ones you've never seen and hopefully never will.  You fish Tina's license from the pile and hustle back downstairs.

"You should thank your girlfriend for rescuing you," Officer Petty announces upon your return.

"Oh?" you say.  "Why is that?"

Petty holds up a steaming cup of coffee.  "This is delicious!"

"It really is," Morgan adds.  "What did you do to it?" 

"Just a pinch of salt to cut the bitterness and a dash of cinnamon for sweetness," Tina says.  "It's better than cream and sugar and doesn't have the fat and calories.  Though I don't have to worry about that anymore.  Right, dear?"

"Right," you say, hoping your smile isn't as uneasy as you feel.  Tina located the salt and cinnamon far quicker than you could have.  As the officers sip their brew, you can't help wonder whether she added anything else.

Tina takes her license and hands it to Petty who in turn hands it to Morgan.  Morgan's eyes widen as she studies Tina's vitals.

"What can I say?"  Tina says, patting her stomach.  "My man keeps me fat and happy."

Morgan places the license alongside the photo.  "Why did you lie about the last time you saw Tina?"

"I didn't," you say.  "I merely asked when her last day at work was."  You pull Tina close.  "That's when we got serious."

"And I went into early retirement," Tina adds.

Morgan smiles and sets her empty cup on the counter.  "How 'bout you tell us how you really got that scratch on your chin?"

"Honey!"  Tina exclaims, playfully smacking your chest.  "Did you fib about your gardening accident?"

"I think we're done here," Petty says, polishing off his coffee.

Morgan looks panicked.  "Don't you think--"

"That we've wasted enough of these folks' time?  Yes, I do."  Petty doffs his cap at Tina.  "Thank you kindly for the coffee, ma'am."

"You're certainly welcome.  If you ever come back I'll brew up something truly special for you."

"I'd like that."

You open the door for the officers.  Petty nods as he exits, but Morgan keeps her rigid face forward.

After shutting the door behind them, you go to a side window and peek through the curtains.  Petty and Morgan are having an animated discussion outside their squad car.   After a few seconds, Petty throws his hands up and gets in the vehicle, ending the conversation with a slam of his door.  Morgan lingers for a moment then huffs to the passenger side.

"We haven't seen the last of her,"  Tina says over your shoulder as you watch the cruiser descend the hill.

How do you respond?
 

A.) "What do you suggest we do about it?"

B.) "We'll be ready if we do."

C.) "It may be time to lay low for a while."

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  • 3 weeks later...

You decide to lay low for a while.  Locating your harem adjacent to such a small city was a thoughtful decision; however, it means dealing with low crime rates and an overeager police department.  Any infraction worse than jaywalking gets news coverage and, although many officers are as sleepy as the town itself, there are a few, like Officer Morgan, itching for any opportunity to prove their mettle.

Ironically, "laying low" means being more visible than usual.  You travel to town almost every day, making sure each visit is captured for posterity on security cameras, through transactions at local shops (for innocuous goods), or by the occasional autograph seeker.  Your one true haunt, however, remains Cornicupia, where your returns to the scene of the crime are greeted warmly by the owner, Paul, who even joins you for the occasional game of chess.

Happily, he replaced Marge, the gum-smacking diner dame who filled-in for Tina, with a pleasingly plump Latino teen named Ella.  She's too young for your harem and you would never risk taking a second girl from the same location, but she's quick with a warm smile and a hot coffee cup.  That alone would keep you coming back, but what really compels you is the way her apron digs into the baby fat along her sides.  If Paul's pastries added pounds to a willowy waif like Tina, you can't wait to see what they'll do to Ella.

While you divert attention from your harem by being a well-respected man about town, Tina directs its day-to-day with ruthless efficiency.  She provides you spreadsheets and progress reports that would shame many Fortune 500 companies while working overtime to add to her own bottom line.  After gaining the ten pounds in a week you commanded (she gained 12 by consuming protein shakes every hour like clockwork), her ascent to 250 has slowed, but her impact on the other girls can't be understated.

You don't ask many questions.  "Ignorance is bliss" may be a sucker's proverb, but "don't mess with success" is one you subscribe to.  It goes deeper than that, however.  Neither you nor Tina have said much to each other since the police incident.  It isn't an awkward silence, per se, but a whiff of distrust still hangs in the air.  That may be why Tina threw herself into her assumed role as the harem's ersatz "valide sultan" with such gusto.  As long as affairs are in order and arrows pointing upwards, she suspects you're unlikely to probe what's going on beneath her well-padded surface.  She isn't wrong.  Why rock the slave boat?

"What do you want for your Birthday?" Tina asks you one afternoon.  You don't recall ever mentioning your birth date to Tina, but with all the PI work she did on you it doesn't surprise you that she knows.  "Maybe I'll show you MY Birthday suit," she continues, twirling the nub of fabric leftover from the belt knotted around her waist.   The oversized bathrobe allowed plenty of room for growth, but it was nearing capacity.

You force your fingers between the robe's tasseled tie and the fluffy cotton that (barely) covers her **-belly, then pull her close.  "Let me guess--extra-large?"

She giggles and gives you a quick kiss.  "Extra, EXTRA!"

"Can I read all about it?"

"You can do more than that."

Tina kisses you again.  Her body spreads against your torso like white chocolate melting in its wrapper.  Soon, your manhood is peeking between the gap in her terrycloth curtain and probing the fleshy folds beneath.

Apparently, not all blood abandons your brain, however, because that's when an idea for your Birthday hits you--
 

A.) "Drill sergeant, I'd like to inspect my troops in their Birthday suits. They'd better be in tip-top shape!"
B.) "How about a contest? Let's see who can eat the most Birthday cake."
C.) "I'd like a talent show. Whichever girl pleases me the most, wins."

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