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Hello and welcome! Here's my hub for all the weight gain story requests and commissions I've satisfied on other sites. I'm stacking them all in this one topic, so feel free to drop back in if ever you're looking for another fresh fiction adventure! Comments are always appreciated; and if you've got a story idea of your own, your best bet is to go via my Tumblr!


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“Customer on Table Thirteen – thought I’d do the bad news first,” Naomi launched her dishcloth at the washbin. “I’m out of here anyway, see you at the bar.”  

“That’s my line,” groaned Sarah, straightening her hairnet. “We’re closing for food in five – who’s gonna let her know?”  

“That’s the good news. If your name’s Kiara with a ‘K’.”  

"I haven’t finished my break!” Kiara called from the backroom, feet up on the cushy chairs. She took a long sip from her bottle of water, flicking through her phone.  

“Get your ass outside. It’s your girl crush.”

Kiara gagged. The water went straight to her lungs. She went into a coughing fit, diving for her money belt on the hanger.  

“Geez – she looks hungry too,” Naomi peered through the crack in the door.  

“She’s alone, right?” said Kiara, tightening the strap, pinning back her flurry of golden-brown hair.  

“Yeah. Still eating for a group booking though. Oooh – oh my goodness – you've gotta see this!”


The waitress waved her over, crouching low, her skirt brushing the linoleum floor. Kiara skipped across the kitchen on her tiptoes, ducking to scoop up a plastic bucket. She set it upside down beside her taller friend, and jumped up to get her glimpse of the action. Naomi steadied her. Her bracelets jangled as she set her fingers on Kiara’s bony hips.  

“Sshhh... look at the shirt she’s wearing.”  

Kiara swallowed. The woman was perusing the menu, her heels crossed under the table, her elbows peaked, adjusting her hair. Her nails were ruby red, like the lines on her flowing gypsy skirt. Turning a page, she licked her lips. Kiara’s eyes were rooted on her blouse – white, lacey, and ludicrously distended, especially around the middle. She was thickset, meaty, utterly voluptuous. Her greedy curves shimmied as she crossed her legs, blue eyes centering on the burger specials with a sweet, wicked smile.

“I’ll light up the grill, she’s all yours,” Sarah gave her shivering workmate a pat on the shoulder. Kiara’s heart was racing. She felt the thuds down to the tips of her toes as Naomi gently helped her down.  

“I can’t do this,” Kiara gasped, her voice a whimper.  

“You said that last week.”

“I know.”

“You let her go last week.”

“I know!”

“And here she is again. Ever wonder she might be waiting for you?”  

Naomi returned with her handbag. Prying it open, she produced a glossy bottle of perfume. She sprayed it on Kiara’s boyish chest, twice for luck. The petite server breathed in the scent of red roses, the hint of dripping candle wax.        

“Promise you’ll ask her name this time, okay?” she urged her best friend. Squeezing her shoulder, she gave her a bright smile, then whisked open the door with the back of her high heel.  

Kiara froze like a deer in the headlights. Her feet shuffled, separate from the rest of her body. Slowly, pen in hand, she carted her quivering frame over to her deepest desire. The woman had settled the menu on its side, nursing the cherry in her lemonade cocktail. The longest walk. Kiara parted her lips, her throat dry.

“Was...was everything okay with your meal?”

Shit. Kiara blanched, head spinning. Shit, no! Wrong line!

“Err... I mean,” she flapped. “Ermm... are you ready to... ready to ord –”

“It was heavenly,” the woman grinned, her words slow, lacquered in forbidden things. “I ate before I arrived, in fact... I’m getting full – I just need something to hit the spot...”

She gave her belly a loving, friendly pat. Kiara stared at the ripple of flesh, the slightest wave running under the stitches of her blouse. She couldn’t blink.

“Can you bring me a triple bacon cheeseburger?” the woman asked, running fingers through her hair. It was a curtain of dark red, her heavy fringe helping frame a rounded, beaming face. “With fries? And a side of chicken wings, I think would be lovely.”  

“S-sure,” Kiara stammered, curling her toes. “Would you like to supersize?”

The customer’s tongue danced between her pearly white teeth.  

“Ask me that one more time...” she smiled, serenely. “My name is Violette, by the way.”

Kiara found herself turning crimson. Could she hear her? She felt her thoughts swirl, careening.  

“W-would you like to supersize, Violette?” she replied, barely audible.  

Her smile was infectious. Her eyebrow was inviting. Her gaze was knowing, temperate and telling.

Kiara backtracked, heels clipping the floorboards in reverse gear. Stomach in knots, heart on her sleeve, she steered straight for the kitchen.

The door flung open with a smack. Kiara barreled through the blanket of steam.  

“S’cuse me!”  

She bumped past Naomi, seized a dishcloth from the radiator. The grill was running hot. She twisted the thermostat all the way up. Sarah let go of the nuggets over the fryer.  

“Whoah, whoah, wait – what are you d –?!”

“She wants a burger. Get me four patties in the oven!” Kiara yelled. “Naomi – lettuce, tomatoes. I’ll handle the sauce.”  

Sliding a knife through the packet, she slapped four rashers of bacon down on the pan, thrusting it over the white-hot heat of the stove. Without a moment’s hesitation, she snared the nearby tub of butter and upended it, the golden pat slapping on the warming metal with a gluttonous hiss.  

“Jesus!” Naomi watched the yellowy streams melt into the sizzling bacon fat. “Was this what she asked for?”  

Kiara bent low. Her hands probed the cupboards, searching for bread.


She set the freshest, biggest white buns on the counter.

“...is what she’s getting.”

On the cusp of the hour, Kiara watched her wipe her lips. If it had taken mere minutes to deliver her meal, Violette had polished it off within seconds. Her first mouthful was a plunging thrust, laden with desire. Kiara never left. She watched above the table as her crush ploughed through bite after bite, pushing more and more down her wanting mouth, cheeks persistently puffed out wide, eyes rolling in a valley of exquisiteness. Moaning and chowing down, she paused only to stop the sauce dripping, keen to cram every calorie down into her bodacious, prospering largesse. Finally her plate was clear, clean as the cutlery she had not been troubled to make use of.    

“That was sooo good,” she moaned, blinking slowly. “You're – ughh...” She let slip a low, grumbling burp. “You’re making me lose control of myself... hehe...”

Kiara felt nerves, watering her resolve. Now or never. She gulped. She scraped the courage, deep within her soul...

“My name’s Kiara,” the waitress stuttered. “If you wanted to...err....wanted to leave a review...”

“Kiara, huh? Hold out your hand. I’m gonna leave you a tip...”

Kiara shivered. She held out an arm toward her, and uncurled a tense palm, senses mystified. Violette’s chubby fingers sealed around her skinny wrist. She pulled her closer. Kiara felt her warm scent on her trembling cheek, her lips pursed to whisper.

“Don’t ever settle... for less than excess.”  

The big woman let go. Kiara trembled, feeling a twinge from her fingers - her rings, growing tight around the flesh. The bands she built up from a summer of festivals began to bite into her wrists. She retracted her hand - for Violette to swipe it into her control, her whispers soothing and warm.  

“Be still...”

The big woman placed Kiara’s palm on her belly. At once, it began to grow, grumbling, groaning as it stretched, taking on mass as it pushed out the band of her straining belt. Fear melted into arousal. Kiara clapped her other hand to her mouth, feeling the chub along her cheeks, her pleas sinking into electric pleasure as her rear started to surge against the seat of her jeans. She felt her panties tighten, the leg holes tautening round the growing thickness of her thighs. Kiara railed on her lungs, breaths crimped by the tightness in her bosom. Reaching to her collar, she felt her shirt button cling to its threads for dear life.  

“More?” cooed Violette, her tone silken and honeyed. Kiara felt stripped of the choice. She nodded, eyes closed in ecstasy, face soft on the curve of a nascent double chin, her belly bursting inch after inch out from her waist, glowing skin free for the whole restaurant to see. The redhead settled her hands on her server’s hips, stripping her belt away with a flash of her crimson fingernails, tilting, turning her as love handles poured from her sides, doughy and wide.  

Turbulent moans. Kiara snapped her eyes open, red in the face. She saw a wide, weighty girl in the glow of the polished mirror behind the bar. Bottom heavy. Her pants struggling to hold her in. Yes – her. So much more of her. Hundreds of pounds, forcing their way through the gaps between the buttons of her shirt. She felt them primed to give - and one by one, they burst off her blossoming, turgid figure, like struck coins as they bounced off the floor. Kiara felt herself fall into Violette’s waiting grasp, fatty folds flopping into the freedom of the ethereal atmosphere.

“P-please,” Kiara mewled, meek, her plump pout wobbling. “Please... m-make me...”

A finger to her lips. Violette gave her a knowing wink. Most had dropped their knives and forks, enraptured, enchanted, staring. The big woman inhaled, an ancient allurement scattered in her every scintilla. She breathed out, pulsing, perspiring, skin glistening as she took her charge by the cusp of her hefty waist. Kiara saw stars, streaming and merging as she grew, and grew, wider and wider...

Then they kissed. The server’s knees grew weak. Hundreds of pounds thrust down on her faltering stance, her body struggling for support amidst her fascination. But her mind was called elsewhere. She heard tepid cries, yelps of bemusement, devolving into sighs, silent, pensive stares, and choked, desperate breathing. Her own was rhythmic as she took in the scene. The restaurant, and everyone in it. They were beginning to feel what she felt.  

They were fattening up. Kiara saw tables clatter, shocked dates clutching sweltering new curves, balancing swollen bellies under the pinch of their dresses, picking down the zippers of their jeans. Everyone in the room was glued to the spot, huffing and puffing as they piled on the pounds, thick thighs tugging the seams of their bottoms, soft arms quaking while they flailed, falling into their places, stuck fast and flourishing even faster, bellies bulging between thighs, rear ends testing the spread of their creaking metal seats. Piggish faces reddened as realisation set in, every scratch seam adding to the orchestra of lusty shifts, tremoring limbs spreading over gorged, tender tummies.


The door shrieked on its hinges. Naomi lay up against the wall, breathless, heaving... and fat. So very fat. Kiara watched her best friend struggle to slide her jeans past her knees. Creamy flesh shuddered as she wiggle and wobbled, desperate to peel her clothes away...

“Oh god! Oh my goodness!”

Sarah’s stifled murmurs, her head bowed, hair a mess, her body bent before the weight of her massive gut. It was bare, globular and growing, preceding her jostling strides. The stricken chef waddled for the cloakroom, the inch wide tear expanding larger and larger down the side of her jumper...

Kiara drank in the shock – sweet nectar down her pulpy throat, deep down to the rolls of her enormous, petrified frame. She was Violette’s size at last – bigger, in places. She gave her breasts a shuffle, startled by how they swayed. Her bosom was ramping her bra to the max, delicate flesh wobbling in the cups. Everything else was bust, blown apart, burgeoning flab hanging in inches over muscles stymied from bewilderment. Kiara’s open mouth slowly closed as the last pounds gravitated towards her hips, her thundering thighs, the creases under her arms.  

Violette leaned in. Another nibble of her ear. Another kiss.

“It’s okay, gorgeous. You can borrow some of my clothes,” she whispered, giving Kiara’s ass a squeeze. “In the morning...”

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Big Game

Fiona counted the stars in the warm night’s sky. Sleep wasn’t calling her – she had too much to think about. Abby down with laryngitis. Mikayla on vacation in Europe. Fiona crossed her fingers, willing, hoping. The morning was the best chance she’d get of kissing the bench goodbye.  

Maybe her last.  

Edmonton. The curly-haired student swallowed. Number one in the league. Undefeated all season. They didn’t just look good – they had a nasty streak of making other teams look terrible. Maybe a couple more girls might duck away out of fear. That’d bump her up in the pecking order. She thought about her last practice, toes curling in shame. Every set had fallen short. Every spike had gone awry. Even the coach had looked floored, utterly despondent.

“Should’ve picked soccer, the number of times you’ve hit the net,” she’d groaned, picking her up off the floor. Salt in the wound. Fiona had tried to put on a brave face. But inside, her spirits were haemorrhaging.  

Her room lit up – a sparkle, a twinkling. Fiona peered out of her dorm room window. A shooting star with tails of gold, streaming across the sky.  

“Make me the best player on court tomorrow,” she prayed. She shut her eyes, drawing the covers up to her chest, heart softly beating...  

The locker rooms were clear. Fiona hung up her bag in awkward, unnerving silence. No snide asides. No quips on how knobbly her knees were. No jokes about how long it took her to tie her laces. She slipped off her dull blouse and skinny jeans, and donned her volleyball apparel, straightening her long-sleeve jersey. She checked the door. No-one else had arrived. Fiona pinned back the last unruly strands of her hair, giving herself a once over in the long bathroom mirror.  

Yup. Still the same gangly misfit she always was.  

She checked her watch. Ten minutes to first whistle. Fiona looked over her shoulder.

It was today, right?  

She peered beyond the door to the auditorium. The scoreboard was on the blink. Marlboro in crimson ciphers. Edmonton in yellow. 0-0. A referee was pacing the lines. Chattering crowds were forming up on the bleachers. She heard the crack of a can of soda, laughter, the squeak of the fold-up chairs rising and lowering. Of course it was today. Fiona found herself tiptoeing toward the backcourt, the bench in her sights. Somewhere to hunker down, dodge the attention. Already someone had seen her bright red shorts cross the floor. She heard cheers. Stamping feet. A wave of applause.

And... her name?  

Fiona froze her shoulders. She pivoted her pinkening face. Banners. Streamers. Rows on rows of beaming smiles. A great red wall of beaming adoration – for her. All for her. She counted her surname in twelve, twenty different places. Cameras were flashing. They – they loved her.    

“And please, give a warm welcome to... the Edmonton Annihilators!”  

The announcer sent a shiver up her spine. Fiona’s mind whirled in a cacophony. She’d never seen so much support in one of her games before. Not for her – not for anybody. There had to be hundreds of people piled up on the stands. And all had fallen into excited whispers. The lights dimmed. The folks on the front row were on the edges of their seats. The sound of thunder rose from the tunnel adjacent, building, growing and...    

Edmonton. Elephantine. They were six of the fattest girls Fiona had ever seen. The lone baller blinked, watching their captain greet the ref, gesture to the crowd, then lead the stretches. Booty shorts strained over wobbling buns as she attempted a squat – the rest slowly following on, bellies folding over quaking, struggling thighs. Two was enough, it seemed, before they moved on to shoulders – tops digging under their soft arms, around their toneless waists and over mountainous, jostling cleavage, rippling while they worked the knots out of their fat-swaddled muscles. Already they were breaking a sweat - damp patches marring they boards as the biggest eased herself down to the floor, landing with a delicate oompphh, sharing a joke whilst trying – vainly – to touch the toes of her shiny sneakers.  

Fiona had gone pale. It had to be a mistake. This wasn’t them. Where was the real team? Where was her team?  

Before she could pinch herself, she saw a wide shadow settling over her own. Footsteps. Fiona turned around.  

“Fifi! Thank god!”  

A splodge of sauce dropped off the fistful of fries Kimberly shook in lieu of a wave, disappearing in a salty glimmer as she chowed down. Fiona took stock of the libero with a hollow wail.  Her chiselled form was gone, swallowed in a blanket of raucous flab, bursting out of her jacket, pressing the tortured zipper to the max. Her lips smacked as she chewed, gulping with a grin.  

“Mmpphh - we were so worried! Didn’t you get my messages? I sent like, twenty while we were waiting in line at the buffet.”

“I...” Fiona blathered. “We?”

“Pre-game snacks!” Ashlee piped up from her left. “Why d’you never come to those? Coach says carb loading is super important.”  

Fiona took her proffered bag of chips with a limp hand, eyes rooted to the swell of her hanging stomach. Taut and humongous, she couldn’t suss the hour the stuffing had started. The rest of the team sidled in, fresh off the bus, huffing and puffing, sipping and munching. Bloated belches filled the air as the girls ditched their kit and their half-time smorgasbords by the bleachers, the cheers steadily building up around them.  

“Okay girls! Everyone makes sure they’ve had a drink this time, okay?” Fiona’s coach called, clapping her hands together. “We don’t want anyone going man down like last time, Hydration and nutrition are two sides of the same coin!”  

Fiona ditched the potato chips, skirting past heaving bellies and feeble limbs, following the sound of her voice. Coach Marilyn stood in the centre, five feet of bared teeth and biting ripostes. The student found herself thankful for the first time that she hadn’t changed at all.  

“Coach, something’s wrong,” She breathed out, and in. “Why’s everyone so...so...”  

“Hyped!” Shauna squealed, jumping up and down. Watching her breasts jiggle, Fiona’s train of thought crashed. Their star player looked positively voluptuous. Her boobs were so vast they threatened to split her pitiful sports bra in half.  

“I mean...” she mumbled, whitening. “I meant...”  

“Can it, Captain, you had your chance at breakfast,” Marilyn snapped. “Granted you didn’t show up, but we can’t all be blessed with such a meagre appetite.”  

“D-did you just call me Captain?”  

“Whaddya prefer? Commodore? Get a grip. You’re the skipper - we’re on in ten!Girls, get in position!”  

The girls cut their limbering and lumbered into place, filling up from the back, squeezing out all the available space on the bench. Fiona found herself front and centre. The opposing captain gave her a smouldering glare, knees bent, flicking back her brown hair, dagger eyes over chubby cheeks. Fiona froze. Everything she knew had blown up out of proportion. And only she knew it. She’d forgotten how to close her mouth.  

Edmonton won the toss and in seconds the first serve came flying her way. The brunette hoisted her arms, anticipating the spike. Fiona watched her sides wobble, spellbound, until the ball came soaring down toward her.  

“Pass!” Marilyn shouted.  

Fiona threw out a flailing fist. The ball bounced off, rocketing to the rafters.  

“Now set!”

The backs bunched up to one another, tracing the path of the pass, reaching its apex then falling, falling...

Flesh rippled as Ashlee thudded into Kaitlin, eyes on the prize. She stumbled, and the bigger girl got her fingers there first, pushing the ball to the front, to Kimberley, the bottom-heavy blonde on the left, and to...

“SHOOT!” the coach screamed, directly at Fiona. She almost jumped out of her skin. This was it. This was everything. Had her wildest dreams come true? Was this the moment? Would she finally scrub her name off the knackered old tape of mediocrity?  

Fiona leapt up and smacked the ball with all the force she could muster. A thunderclap sent it surging through the air, straight for...

The net. She felt her sails flop as the shot sunk into the gauze, and ricocheted harmlessly off the floor with a mocking bounce. She landed on her toes, feet catching her ankles, throwing her arms out to stop herself clattering down on her knees. Fiona bit her lip.  

She...she hadn’t improved at all. Not one iota. Clumsy as anything. But soon she could steel herself – quick to learn that it didn’t matter any more. As the game ground into the double digits, sure-fire spikes were replaced by sweaty fumbles, easy blocks by breathless misses. Fiona’s stature rose and rose, her confidence with it as her rivals fell into jaded disarray, too fat to keep pace. Soon her catchment zone had spread to half her side of the court. The rest of her team were too big, too bulky, too worn down to cover anything more than a step past their wheezing, whalelike frames. Fiona glanced at the crowd. No-one cared half her kills weren’t landing. They were cheering for the half that did.  

Because she was the best player on court.

Between botched sets and half-assed blocks, the match descended into who could build the longest streak of points out of service. It was potluck whether someone was standing in the way or not – winded and whimpering, neither side had strength to shift a fattened inch of themselves any further. Fiona saw sportswear darken with sweat – yellow to ochre, Marlboro’s angel white to a busted, listless grey. The scores were tied 1-1 in games, with the sides level on fourteen points apiece, in the fifth and final set.  

Coach Marilyn called a timeout. The girls gathered in a huddle, arms linked over widened shoulders. Fiona strained for fresh air, sandwiched between a stretchmarked love handle and Caitlin’s soft, weighty hip.  

“Two more points. That’s the difference between glory and failure. Their serve – if they miss, that’s one our way. When we land the ace, game over. You’ve given me one hundred and ten percent – I need you to give me just that little bit more! Now hands in!”  

Fiona stretched out her splayed palm, feeling it pancake under a tower of puffy fingers. The players sauntered off to their formation. The subs waddled back to the bench. Fiona breathed in. She hadn’t graced the sidelines since the start of the match. Too big a key player. The rest?  

Simply too big.

The Edmonton serve glanced off the pole and out of play. Fiona felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She stayed rooted to the spot – middle block, while Shauna lined up their reply, underarm. The crowd had silenced. One more point. Fiona curled her toes.  

Just one more point.

The ball arced up and over, a diving bomb – parried by the outside hitter, dug up by the opposite, into a set. The captain charged up to spike it, hips undulating, thighs shaking as she jumped, her bunched fist aiming straight at –  


Fiona threw out her arms, covering her face, crouching, protecting. The bullet hit whipped off her elbow, glancing off her forearm, snagging the nylon fibres of the headband as it zoomed high, tumbled down to the same edge, teetering, and dropping down on the opponent’s half of the court. Fiona saw the thump of the ball, in sync with her pulse, hearing neither.  

The winning point. She’d scored it. The whistle blew and the crowd went ballistic. Everyone was up on their feet. In seconds Fiona was carted off in a rapturous triumph, whisked to the stands by her joyous supporters, high up on their shoulders. Edmonton had collapsed. Their reign was over. Marlboro was ecstatic. Even Marilyn had managed to put on a smile.  

“Fifi!” the stunned student heard Kimberley yell. “Fiona! You were amazing!”  

“T-this is amazing!” Fiona stammered, flabbergasted. “Like, everything - it’s just, I don’t know what to say, I...”  

Kimberley held onto her arm. Fiona eased herself down from the lofty heights, slipping into the slender space beside her.

“Let me rephrase what I said.” The big girl gave her hand a tender squeeze. “You’re amazing.”  

“Thanks... Kim... I still don’t know what to say, um...”  

A tug of gentle passion brought Fiona’s chest to her teammate’s bosom. A warm hand snaked around her waist. They kissed. Kimberley plunged in her tongue, her curves quivering, her brown eyes demanding – every inch, every roll, there to be explored, hefted, stroked and cherished. She pulled Fiona closer, deeper into her. The skinny girl groaned, enveloped in pillowy flesh, feeling her weight, her wills, her wicked ways. She closed her eyes, and...

They opened. Sunlight on the pillows. Hazy dust in holes of light, cast from the battered window shade. It was morning. And Fiona had just woken up.  

Her tongue tasted bitter. She felt thirsty, woozy, lost and disappointed all at once. She wafted the covers. Yup. Still the same...whatever. Her brow was bunched, her lips pouted, knuckles hard on the mattress. Just a couple more seconds. Why couldn’t she have just had a couple more seconds?  

Her phone broke her frustrations. It buzzed from her bedside shelf. She yanked it down by the charger cord, and flipped the screen.  

A text. It was from Kimberley.

‘Hey, we’re meeting up at the buffet before the game. Wanna join us?’  

Fiona read it, nails deep in her leg. She tweezed her skin. Nope. She wasn’t waking up from this one.  

‘Sure!’ she texted back. She made her mind up on the shower. Freezing cold water. Just to be certain.

‘Great x’

Fiona blinked.  

Maybe not such a bad morning after all...  

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License to Overspill

“Jane Bonde, what a pleasant surprise...”

The tethered spy blinked at the laboratory light, stomach lurching as she felt her feet lower. Her head lay cushioned between two thick leather straps, binding her down while her body angled, tilting her toward her captor.  

“Leadbottom,” Jane came to a halt. “I knew you were behind this.”

“Yeah. The bruise on my assistant’s face told me as much...”  

“Shouldn’t that be henchman?” Bonde flexed her knuckles. Her fists were clenched proud at the ends of her lithe arms – quite useless the way she was; five foot nine of trained, rigid muscle, lassoed onto a metal table.  

“Shouldn’t you have done some research before you broke into my office?” the petite scientist snapped. “For crying out loud, you didn’t have to abseil through the ceiling. I have a front door. It’s got my name on.”

“Professor Jocasta Leadbottom, FRS.”

“Whatever. I’m just a geneticist.”  She straightened her glasses.

“One who’s surprisingly well funded.

“Rich parents are a thing.”  

“And with a secret lair.”

“It’s on Google Streetview.”

“And a giant laser.”

“Oh fine. Lay it on me why don’t you,” Leadbottom groaned, glaring up at the roof. “Took you long enough to notice. For a moment I was nearly doubting your credentials.”

She thumbed her handheld remote, enlightening the enormous machine above. Cogs whirred as she initiated the hulking cogs, causing it to descend. A shadow loomed over Bonde’s crisp shirt, dark as her dinner suit trousers.    

“But you beat me at golf, destroyed me in fencing and humiliated me at the casino – I mean, how else was I to know you were special?”  

She jabbed a switch. The laser roared into life. Orange beans pulsed in crackling arcs around the central core. Jane closed her eyes, shimmering in the rays.  

“Aren’t I allowed to be fashionably late when my reputation precedes me?”

For the first time, Leadbottom let slip a smirk. She tucked back a strand of her jet-black hair, clipboard close to her bony chest.

“The thing is, that’s the problem,” she leered. “The words ‘renowned spy’ – when you think about it, they really don’t go well together at all...”  

The sliders clicked. The glowing tip of the weapon honed in on her chest. Bonde shifted against her restraints.  

“Stop squirming. This’ll be over soon.” Leadbottom barked.

“Aren’t you going to tell me your evil plan first?” Bonde strained her muscles. “I mean, I’m stuck here aren’t I? Your little test subject. You’ve got nothing to lose.” She winked.  

“Wrong, wrong and wrong. It’s not evil and it’s not a plan,” the scientist said. “It’s a pitch. I’ve built the greatest molecular reconstructor in the world. I just need to get a word out so that a nice, friendly government might think about buying one.”  

“What about the people? Surely someone would object to having their biology rearranged?”  

“Fine. Nice, friendly dictatorship. Whatever pays the bills.”  

An alien hum grew louder and louder.  

“You see, all you’ve done is blow this way out of proportion,” she went on, rolling her eyes. “Time you got your just desserts. And I suppose you think you were oh-so-clever, activating that GPS mayday signal stuffed in your shoe.”  

Bonde nudged her heels. The knife release was in there too, somewhere.

“Not long...” the spy grunted, trying to keep her attention. “Not long before my people will be swarming this place...”  

“Great. Between them I’m sure they can figure out a new job for you to do.”  

She hit a red button. The laser ignited, shooting into her torso. Jane felt herself tense up. The light pierced her shirt, seeping into her skin. It was a painless, buzzing warmth, almost soothing. The spy breathed in, eyes wide, and out, exhaling in deep, lingering draws.

“Because, your days of sneaking around... are over.”

Her stomach began to expand. Jane felt it swell to fullness, then inch out, hard flesh pressing on her belt buckle. She shunted, the pressure causing her sides to crease, new softness unfolding from under her dress shirt.

“What did you do?!” the spy hissed, baring teeth as she heard her zipper creak.  

“I told you, I don’t need test subjects. I need examples.”  

The tingling surged. Her bosom took the brunt of a burst of growth, her hips and shoulders broadening to balance her new assets. Jane felt her bra straps tighten as she shifted upward in size.

“I don’t – I don’t want – nngghh, let me go!” Bonde cursed, writhing.  

“Run out of witticisms already? Guess it must be time for me to leave.”

“Make it stop!” she yelled, cheeks quivering. Her face was rounding out gently, her waist growing thicker and thicker, yielding into a soft, smooth curve. Jane swore. She clenched her teeth, knowledge cutting in as deep as her undergarments. The light. It was fattening her up.

“I wonder what they’ll call your next adventure?” Leadbottom chuckled. “Thunderthighs? Pie Another Day?”

A button burst off Jane’s shirt. Turgid flesh pushed out of the gap, folding into her lap. She let out a startled groan, bemused at the sight of a jiggling belly, wibbling where her abs used to be. She wrenched and thrusted, desperately, making her midriff shake. It continued to grow before her eyes, taking on more girth, more heft, more of her fleeting focus.  

“Your next arch nemesis is probably going to be a flight of stairs,” Leadbottom gathered her clipboard and notes. “I’m sure you’ll sell it somehow.”

The light blazed. The zipper on her trousers was splayed and fraying. Jane cringed as the threads gave way, snapping one by one as more weight, more bulk rounded out her midsection. Delicate and voluptuous, she was beginning to resemble a ripe, plump pear.  

“Goes without saying your exercise routine’s about to drop off a plane without a parachute. Might be difficult to pull off all those stunts now you’re a tub of lard.”

Leadbottom kept her finger compressed on the remote. The warmth intensified. Jane yelped, feeling her biceps retreat under casings of fat, graced with rolls on her arms. Her shoulders morphed to suit, stretching her bra until it split, the black band zipping free from her softening back folds.

“Once you’ve brought down a global terror ring, I suppose battling a seatbelt really doesn’t have the same elan,” said Leadbottom. “The way you are, it’ll take years to undo what’s been done.”  

Jane held her tongue, helpless to stop her body being enveloped. A long, jagged tear shot down the inside leg of her trousers, her thighs trembling as they touched, growing in unison with her gut. The spy felt her binds loosen around her wrists and calves, and renewed her struggles – only to feel the leather go taut again. Her widening fingers flexed as Leadbottom commanded the restraints to loosen more, accommodating her ceaseless growth.  

“Presuming again you’d have the maximum capacity to lose weight. Another falsehood.”

The laser’s luminosity strengthened. Bonde watched her shirt burst, a flood of jelly rolls pulling against her. She could do little but stare, open mouthed, as her bosom lolled lazily to her sides, her lung aching for a single, sweltering breath, skin flushed while her body continued to balloon, naked and sensitive. A hand latched upon her massive stomach. She squealed.

“What a porker,” the scientist whispered, giving it a shake for good measure. “Maybe I lied about the test. I want to see how bad this boy can be.”  

The remote cracked under her iron grip. Jane breathed in, grimacing. Her belly wobbled in waves, each surge swelling it larger. Stripped to rags, her clothes dangled over the table, trapped under her bloblike form. She felt her back arch, her bubble butt pushing her up from below, spilling out to find space. The laser flickered, spat a coil of fractal electricity, then abated. Leadbottom pocketed the remote. The spy tried to find her words. The shirt collar constricted her neck, her digits scrabbling, pudgy and useless, as the metal bed hauled her with a hydraulic hiss to a standing position.

“Good work, 0-0-7.” Leadbottom tugged a lever, unhitching the restraints. “Or should I say, 7-0-0 ...”  

Jane wheezed and tumbled, her legs giving way, seven hundred pounds of shaking, stirred blubber pooling over the floor. Her thighs were stretching, struggling to stop the muscles cramping on each side of her voluminous stomach, flowing past her knees. Wincing, she tried to roll to her right, forcing her weight onto a palm, an elbow when her wrist gave out, a spongy shoulder when her arm could no longer hold her. Her naked butt rose into the air, wobbling and inviting, while her curves spread out underneath her, carpeting the cold tiles in weak, pliable fat.  

“You know this place has a pool next door,” Leadbottom went on. “No sharks, I promise. Just figured a whale like you would want somewhere more environmentally friendly to pass the time, before your people arrive. It’s across the street.”  

Every choked breath sent a shudder through Jane’s body. She opened her mouth, jiggling her jowly chins. There wasn’t an ounce of strength left in her. Her words were laboured. Even her tongue felt flabby.  

“Do you expect me to walk?” she puffed.  

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Ham Sandwich

“Come out.”

“No, it’s embarrassing.”  

“We’re losing time,” tutted Gracie. “Our slot starts in two minutes!”  

“I know.”

Julia leant up against the door, phone in hand, swiping. There had to be an excuse in there somewhere. She scrolled through her messages. Your delivery has arrived. Your driver will be here soon. Thanks for ordering via the app. Did you know you could get another two for one meal deal by filing out this survey?  

“Hurry up! How long does it take you to put on a pair of leggings?” her flatmate quipped, twirling her blonde highlights.  

“I’m wearing them! They just...” Julia sighed, glaring down below. “They look like shit. I look terrible. I don’t wanna do this.”  

“Too late. I paid for it.”  

“With the twenty quid you owe me.”  

“Yeah? Well it was your idea anyway.”

“No it wasn’t!”  

“You told me you wanted tough love!” Gracie retorted. “This is what you’re getting. You’ll thank me when we’re on the beach in Ayia Napa. Now get a move on.”  

Julia grit her teeth, cringing. She pawed at the softness surrounding her middle, her heartbeat stepping up a notch. Her sports bra clenched her bosom with malice, the pressure on her ribs the relentless reminder.

“Can’t we get our money back and go for a run or something? Like in the dark?”

“What’s wrong with yoga in an actual studio?” Gracie took a swig from her sports bottle. “Give it a try. Maybe you’ll enjoy getting in touch with yourself. Discover the new you.”  

“You mean discover all the positions I can’t accomplish in front of a crowd of people skinnier than me?” Julia quipped.

“First, you don’t know until you try. Second, it’s only thirty-five pounds.”  

Forty-one,” the brunette corrected her with a huff. “Weighed myself this morning.”

“Hey, everyone let themselves go a little over quarantine.”  

“You didn’t. You didn’t gain an ounce.”  

“‘Cause I started doing yoga. Seriously, it works. There’s no crowd anyway. Covid regulations –  there’ll only be a few of us.”

“A few of us, and her?”  

“Electra’s super chill. I’ve seen her YouTube videos,” Gracie insisted. “She’s like the spiritual guru type. She’ll be way too deep in the zone to notice your love handles.”  

Julia let the comment slide. Her gaze was rooted on the woman on her phone, fronting the gym profile page: an ethereal European – her body carved from a lightning bolt, her cheekbones angled over an icy smile, framed by a wicked shock of silvery hair. Her eyes were a dark, mystic blue, matching her shining activewear. Julia felt herself flinch. Even the way she tied her shoelaces looked perfect.  

“If you want to get on her good side, best not arrive late. It’ll be the best twenty quid you’ve ever spent. Promise. ”  

“Fine.” Julia shunted open the cubicle door, revealing herself. Her purple tee bunched over her breasts, biting into her arms. She tugged at her leggings, the waistband slung high, shrouding her gut. “You’ll call her out if she makes me uncomfortable, right?”  

“Sure I will.”  

“Thank you.”  

“Now don’t move, let me get some grease from the store cupboard.”  

Julia curled her lip, then lunged for her bottle. Gracie dodged the spray of water, sidestepping out the changing rooms, then sprinting down the corridor. Julia tailed her upstairs with a curse, feet stomping, shooting a jet that splattered on the glassy door the blonde ducked behind. Darting leftward and charging, she barrelled her way through.  

“Stop. Stop! You’re here,” Gracie breathed, holding out her hands in surrender. “I think.”  

Julia panted, releasing her grip on the water, fanning her face. She looked around the room. A wall length mirror, a fan in the corner, a row of candles, incense and oils lined the scene. They were alone. A pallid dust hung amongst the dharmachakras, tethered to the ceiling.  

“Huh, we’re early,” said Gracie. “Guess you had time after all.”

“Yeah,” Julia puffed, wiping her brow. “And I’m already warmed up. Where is she?”  

Gracie scouted behind the bamboo room divider, shrugged, and turned to pick up a pair of mats from the racks. The twosome took off their shoes and socks, and placed them by the sound system.

“Nah. She’ll be around somewhere. She never leaves the gym,” said Gracie. “I mean, not before it closed for lockdown. Obviously.”  

A muffled thumping reverberated through the wooden floor. They heard footsteps. Someone was coming. She heard grating fabrics, and irritated breaths. A shadow formed behind the crystal glass. The flatmates watched the instructor smooth back her tresses, then enter.

It was another student who held open the door. Julia went from flustered red to a hollow, straining white. She turned to Gracie, equally stunned. A faint wheezing filled the air, a gasp on repeat, as Petra ‘Electra’ Pavlovich swivelled her swollen hips, carting her bloated belly from side to side. Half a dozen drifting regulars filed in behind her, one clutching a jug of ice water, another a spongy yoga mat. Someone stroked a match along the candles. Electra struggled for balance, waddling ponderously toward the centre space, her navy leggings stretched to a shining cyan, drum tight over her massive rear end, shortening her steps while she huffed and puffed, shirking off the fluffy towel on her shoulder. She used it to dab her sweat, sponging her eyes, regaining her breath in long, embittered sighs. Her mat was laid before her, and she nodded her thanks. It was another strained, painful few seconds before she spoke.  

Namaste, welcome one and all. I see we have new devotees,” she exhaled, hovering a hand, giving a weak wave, still breathing heavily. “My name is Electra, your yoginī. You are?”

Julia turned to her flatmate. Gracie’s eyebrows had yet to fall. She was trapped in stunned, numbed silence. An age passed as a slender, willowy lady in white placed the ice water beside her teacher’s foam floor covering, sweeping back her crimson ringlets.  

“Her name’s Grace,” Julia said hurriedly. “I’m Julia...hi...err...yeah, I think we might be... this might not be our – ”

“Grace Withers, I remember,” Electra smiled, softly. “You booked on the app. If you would be so kind as to start the CD, then we’ll begin.”

Gracie took a long second to respond, peeling her soles off the mat, backtracking to the black box, flabbergasted. The others found their mats, arranging them in a wide circle around their heaving host. Julia tried to read their placid faces. Her throat had run dry.

“I apologise for arriving late. If you were not with us last week, as you may be able to tell, I have encountered new horizons during our time apart,” the instructor slowly explained. “The loss of the positive energy I drew from these sessions opened up a great void within me. I allowed temptation to fill that void. Now, as I return to the road I once travelled on, I find many bumps that were not there before.”  

“Bulges, more like,” Gracie smirked over Julia’s shoulder, returning to her spot. Julia shot her a fierce glance.  

“My journey will continue to transform me in my search for inner solitude.” Electra regaled, softly pacing as the sound of a gentle waterway took precedence from the creak of the floorboards. “As we explore ourselves together, I want you to think about the destination you want to reach, and how the mightiest of rivers start from the smallest streams. Let us begin with Sukhasana, a grounding pose.”  

“A.k.a, the excuse to sit down.” Gracie chuckled under her breath.  

“Ssshhh,” Julia hushed, squatting down. They watched their instructor drop to one knee, then both, every movement encumbered, plopping down on her butt with a whoomph. Her thighs were inflated, her calves puffy, and she grunted to get them crossed, too heavy for her to shift under their own power. The class dimly followed, turning out their forearms. Most closed their eyes. But Julia couldn’t help but stare.  

“Breathe in...” Electra whispered. “Breathe out...”

Smoothing her rolls, she straightened her back, allowing her flesh to spill from under her vice-like shirt. The pair watched her pale flub jockey for space in her lap, enraptured. Julia frowned. Every trace of the sinewy gymgoer she’d seen was swaddled in blubber, thick, like frosting on a cake. Even her fingers were fatter.   

“Letting it flow, sure,” Gracie whispered.

“Keep it down, she’ll hear you,” Julia hissed out the corner of her mouth.

“And now, we perform our salutation to the sun,” Electra announced, rolling to one side, supporting herself with a ham hock arm. “Rise...and...”

She screwed up her face, grunting, flopping on to her front.  

“...exhale, from the ground... **anga...”

The class copied, bound in a collective, tacit patience to watch their instructor struggle with the most basic movements, her shoulders bent under the weight of her colossal cleavage as she flattened her palms, straightened her arms – the rest following, mindful of the pace. Julia arched her back into an upward facing dog stretch, her timid lip wobbling as Electra thrusted her legs, her haunches quaking. Her sweaty locks made spiralling patterns on the mat in front of her, before she steadied herself on her heels, awkwardly edging her knee and thigh through her hanging rolls and folds. Julia glimpsed at hints of stretchmarks, soldered through layers of skin-tight lycra in the glow of the candlelight.      

“Hold your hands to the sides, taking a deep breath, all the... nghhh... all the way up...”

Julia curled her toes. Electra stretched her palms overhead, closing her eyes, bending her spine, her bulbous paunch thrusting outward, the small of her back quivering, her lower belly brushing along her thighs.

“She’s gooonnna blooow...”  mocked Gracie, mouthing the words out.  

“Zip it!” Julia stuck a finger to her lips.

“I’m just trying to make you feel better!” she whispered back. The music rose into rustling leaves, birdsong, the sway of branches on a willow tree, wrapped in a whistling zephyr.  

“Not like this!” Julia hissed in staccato. “Stop laughing, this isn’t fair. You need to focus!”  

“And now as we shift into a swan dive forward, we flow into full bakasana, or ‘Crane’ pose, slowly lifting ourselves...”

Gracie snorted, breaking into full-blown cackles. She lurched into a fake cough, masking her mouth with a hand, her eyes almost wet with tears. Spluttering, she composed herself as the instructor paused, dead on the spot. The class had stopped. They were glaring at her.   

“Actually I’ve changed my mind,” said Electra, folding her arms. “Let’s do something else. Shall we?”

The flatmates stood still, paling. Julia was petrified.

“I call this one poraka rolala,” Electra blinked, her voice dropping an octave. “You will require... a partner.”  

Her eyes were rooted on Julia. She trembled.

“Julia. Lie down on your front and be still.”

The brunette winced, slowly obeying. She dipped to her knees, then her bottom, sliding her legs along the floor, her chest facing downward.    

“Like... this?” she asked, faintly.    

“Turn your body so that your temple points toward the sky.”

Julia felt her hairs stand on end as she turned onto her back.  

“Good. Remain calm and control your breathing. Dhanvi, I want you to lie over her. Face to face.”

The willowy redhead strode toward her, crouched, and gradually extended her limbs over the top of Julia’s motionless form. Trying not to appear startled, Julia stiffened what little muscle she had in her abs as the young woman linked her arms under her shoulders, and lowered her chest on top of her own. Julia swallowed as their breasts touched, then felt a calming sense of peace. She was lighter than a feather. Her tensions began to ebb as they breathed in tandem. Julia rested her head, her arms, then her eyelids, a warmth growing deep within her, mollifying and soulful.  

“Rise,” Electra beamed. Dhanvi lifted a leg upward and gingerly swept herself up again. Julia pouted, the comfort subsiding. It was if the bedcovers had been ripped away.  

“Now, the rest of you will follow.”

The others split off in their pairs, one resting, the other descending, the atmosphere serene as their forms mingled, the stronger supporting themselves on their elbows, their partners relaxing beneath smooth curves and solid pectorals, basking in the heat of each other’s bodies.

“Grace. You appear to be without a spirit to share in your own.”

The blonde snapped out of her daydream.  

“I’m...alright, I think... I can wait...” she mumbled.

“Lie down.”  

Her tone was firm. Gracie settled her body on her mat, her brow etched with concern.  

“Now don’t move.”

The sound of her gulp disappeared under the clump of the teacher’s measured footsteps. Soon she was in the shadow of her bulk. 

“Prepare yourself, and breathe, letting the negativity leave the place from whence it came.”

Julia watched her frenemy disappear under a sea of jiggling teal, barely the shadows of her feet and the splay of her raking fingers left to be seen. Electra rested her doughy midsection over Gracie’s own, her breasts squashing over her biceps, her four more inches of favour in height as apparent as the manifold in width, spreading and settling, lavishly pooling over her stricken charge.    

Poraka rolala,” she whispered, tongue on the edges of her teeth.

Smothered in shuddering bulk, Gracie could barely get out another word. Electra adjusted her knees, letting her bear more of her weight while she slid lower, flinging her hair, her rounded visage slipping into a sly little simper, perturbed not in the slightest. Gracie squirmed underneath her, gasping, blood rushing to her sweltering face, her muscles faltering one by one. The big woman breathed out further, the smaller imprinted in swathes of fat, powerless to dissent. She counted down the seconds. Buried in softness, Gracie twisted her neck. She peered beyond the curtain of her compressor’s hair. Her eyes screamed for mercy.

Help me, she mouthed, whimpering.  

Julia stood tall above her. The big brunette found herself grinning.  

She was right. Maybe it was the best twenty quid she'd ever spent.

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Not So Smallville

“It’s a tragedy! There I was, just about to slip the next tray of steak bakes on the oven, and the next thing I know, there’s someone in the cellar. Heels, clip-clopping on the floor. Well, I know very well the apostrophe goes before the ‘S’ in my grocer’s, so I tiptoed downstairs and flicked on the light to see who the trespasser was.”

Clara Kent nodded her head, her notebook swarming with lines of testimony. The big Southern belle took a long drink of water, smearing her lipstick.  

“I looked, and I darn near fell to the ground. My storeroom stripped bare, clean to the last little crumb. Not yesterday afternoon the shelves were fully loaded. I even took stock - here, look at my figures.”  

“Forty cream cakes, a hundred loaves of cornbread... seventy eclairs...” Clara cast her wide eyes over the hand-drawn table. “You’re saying it all just disappeared?”  

“Heck, that’s not all! Once I’d done pinchin’ myself I made my way back up to the front of house. Granted it takes me a lil’ more time than it used to. But I wasn’t gone more than a coupla’ minutes. I reach the top and - nothin’. Nothin’! Some light-footed, light-fingered vagabond lifted my whole window dressin’!”  

“Goodness, that sounds terrible!” Clara exclaimed. “Have the police been in touch?”  

“You kiddin’ me? Haven’t seen top nor tail of a boy in blue since the blowouts started. That newspaper of yours better get on their case, you hear? Between this and that robbery at Diana’s Diner yesterday this town’s just one missed meal away from anarchy!”  

“I’ll get on with an article right away, Mrs. Green. Rest assured we won’t allow this to be forgotten.”  

“Bless you, darlin’. How about an ice cream for the journey home?”   “Oh, I’m staying in town an extra night,” said Clara. “The Daily Planet covers my expenses besides - I couldn’t possibly accept a gift when you’ve suffered so much already.”  

“Nonsense. Here!” The wide woman tottered to the soft scoop machine. “The one thing those cowards couldn’t take from me. Nothin’ like a triple salted dark chocolate cone to show Green’s Grocer’s ain’t goin’ down without a fight!”  

Clara left balancing the lavish treat in her tentative fingers, licking quickly to counter the heat of the midday sun. It sure was bright in Smallville. She tugged at the zipper of her trench coat, letting some cool air in. The whole town was outside, soaking in the rays, getting some exercise. To Clara’s eyes, it looked like there were plenty in need of it. The reporter saw no shortage of swinging midriffs, flesh fully bared in shrinking shorts, jeans strained tight over softened waists of men and women alike. Clara took another creamy bite. With desserts like these at a dollar a pop, she didn’t have to ponder why for long.  

Maybe Superwoman could make an appearance, she daydreamed. Do a public workout. Promote some healthy eating.  

The sprinkles began to slough off the edge. Clara lapped up the irony. But something sure was needed to whip the proud farming town into shape again. It had been many months since she’d been dispatched home - a welcome break from nonstop charades in Metropolis, a three hour drive away. Or a thirty second leg-stretch, if she fancied the scenic route.

Elsewise, all her mind could recall were strong shoulders and tanned arms, skinny wrists and strong jawlines. Clara couldn’t see a slither of sinew in the pod of twentysomethings passing her by. Wide waists supported big bellies, and bulbous rear ends, quivering on every hefty footfall. She heard snippets of stilted conversation, broken by how out of breath each of them was. Something about food. Or more likely, where to find more of it.  

Clara took focus of the task in hand. She had errands to run in between sourcing her next big scoop. Fixing the tear in one of her super suits from her latest battle with Braniac was the last thing left on her to-do list. To that end she crossed the street, heading for Harmon’s Haberdashery. The kindly owners wouldn’t ask too many questions, she hoped.   She straightened her hat and made her entrance, striding her way to the golden service bell on the counter. A delicate ting brought the noise of huffing and puffing. Clara watched a curtain rustle in front of the break room. A whalelike figure laboured through, her warm smile plastered over her chins.  

“Taylor?” Clara murmured, aghast. She expected the voice to belong to the waif-like assistant she remembered from her days at Smallville High. The young woman had ballooned. The hero took in the sight of her dungarees rankling, nearly creaking with pressure as she rolled her hips, turning away from the mannequins.  

“Sure is,” the dressmaker sighed, tossing her blonde plaits. “Nice to see you too, Miss Kent. I can tell you ain’t been back in a while...”  

“I’m sorry, I... I hardly recognised you!” Clara blazed crimson.  

“Yeah, been getting that a lot lately. I’m one of the lucky ones. I can still tie my own shoes – just about.”  

“I had no idea. What on earth’s happened to this place?”  

“It started last week,” muttered Taylor. “People swelling up out of nowhere. Boys, girls, men - women especially. My friends, my family... then me. You’d do yourself a service high-tailing it home if you want your costume to fit in the morning.”  

“Wait - everyone? Even the skinny folks?”  

“Even the fittest. I remember right after the Crows game. The players called it early – they were too bloated to finish the quarter. Then it got the cheerleaders during the break. Then the crowd. If it didn’t get you in the stadium it got you in your sleep. People were breaking their beds in the night. I literally woke up feeling like I was wrapped in a weighty blanket – then I found the mirror, and...”  

She gave her stomach a slap. The doughy softness rippled and puckered under her shirt. Clara stared, open mouthed.  “It’s become an epidemic,” Taylor mumbled, morose. “Somebody has to help us.”   “Gosh. Sounds like a job for Superwoman...”   “Huh. That her outfit in your bag?”  

“Oh! Err... yeah, funny you should say! Um - I’ve been invited to a... convention... thing, to cover you know, as a reporter? I thought, well, I can’t go to a con without dressing up!”   Clara tried not to cringe. Lying was always more her the talent of her enemies. She adjusted her glasses with a nervous smile.  

“But I... err... ripped it, accidentally. I was wondering if you could help me out?”  

Taylor was motionless.  

“... if that’s okay with you.” Clara added, her voice hardly a whisper.  

“Oh yeah, sure!” Taylor blinked, approaching the front desk. “Sorry, I was trying to remember my other orders. You won’t believe how many people we’ve had in requesting alterations. Hopefully I’ll get it fixed today. How long will you be sticking around for?”  


Clara left with a grateful smile and a load off her mind. All she needed now was somewhere to pass the time, and examine her notebook. She licked some more of her ice cream.  

Disappearing food, and a rapidly growing populace? What an unusual sequence of events, she wondered to herself. The day grew curiouser still, as the hero felt a gust of wind whizz past her shoulder. The ice cream flew out her grasp, landing on the tarmac with a splat. A cyclist on the sidewalk powered past her, barrelling down the hill, their fully laden backpack bulging high and wide. Clara gave a stern tut. A rounded couple wobbled their way out of the salon by the diner, and the slender rider swept into the road, dodging them by a fraction of an inch. Barely swerving away, a plastic tub slipped free from their load, clattering with a bounce into the gutter. Clara hurried, eager to see what the rush was all about. She picked up the tub, wiped it clean, and inspected the contents.  

It was crammed full of Girl Scout cookies. The hero furrowed her brow. Her near miss hadn’t looked so young. Or so tubby – judging by the standards of the rest of the community. Something was afoot. With a quick look over her shoulder, Clara levitated off the ground and swiftly set off in pursuit. The rider swung a wild left, leaving the highway, wheels slickening with wet mud as they beat it through an alleyway. She tailed them past the boarded-up storefronts, the chatter from afar dying down until the sound of shifting gears and baited breath was all she could hear. They sure were in a hurry. Approaching an old, abandoned warehouse, the mysterious courier planted a boot on the ground. Ditching the bike, they heaved their pack toward the decrepit shutter, crouching low to slip past the rusting frame. Clara could hear someone else inside.  

She heard footsteps. Slipping into the shadows, Clara watched the cyclist return; a young man, with a ponytail dangling free from his helmet. His backpack was emptied, but he was clutching a thick wad of banknotes. Clara used her super-sight to study the insignia of the band holding the green stack together. Commerce Bank of Metropolis.  

Stolen, no doubt.  

She waited until the guy had left the scene – pedalling off as fast as he could muster – then made her way to the shutter. Scooting underneath, Clara breathed in and out. She was astounded. The warehouse was piled high with all manner of delicacies. It smelt delicious. Between the stacks of baked goods and the boxloads of snacks pilfered from the local movie theatre, a metal machine lay draped in a white sheet, dominating the middle of the room. High above, suspended on a walkway, a woman in a white coat crouched on one knee, lacing up her sneakers. She descended down a metal stairwell, stretching her calves and thighs. Her body was lithe, slender and toned.  

“Going somewhere?” Clara called out.  

“Sure am!” the woman grinned, spinning to face her. Clara took note of her hair – jet black like her own, styled messily over her lab attire. “Always got something to do, somewhere to be, I sure do get around a lot,” she went on. “It’s a running joke. Heh... get it?”  

“Not really,” the hero replied, folding her arms.  

“Hmm. No. You wouldn’t.”  

With a devilish fling, the stranger reached over the barrier and whipped away the sheet, unveiling a hulking laser. Her handheld remote stirred the mechanics into action, locking the fist-sized tip on its stunned target. Before she could blink, Clara was engulfed in fizzling orange light. The rays permeated her trench coat, her skirt, her shoes, the tickle of static crackling up and down her skin. She closed her eyes and absorbed the heat, barely a trickle of sweat travelling down her brow. The scientist’s eyes widened in surprise, and she released her grip along button. The laser sputtered with a metallic whine, the light shrinking away to the haze offered by the broken skylights above.    

“Maybe that would have worked on human physiology,” said Clara, dusting herself off unharmed. “Unfortunately for you, I’m made of steel.”  

“Holy shit!” The scientist clapped a hand to her mouth. “Finally, at last! You’re here! It’s Superwoman! I’ve been waiting, like, five whole panels for this moment.”  

“And you are?”  

“Professor Jocasta Leadbottom.”

“Oh,” Clara blinked. “That’s new. What’s your real name?”  

The hero received a weary glare in return.  

“Look, you don’t have to be a dick about it. Okay?” Leadbottom muttered. “We weren’t all adopted into perfectly normal sounding families.”    

“Is that your evil origin?”  

“For the last time – not evil,” she groaned, a hand massaging her temple. “Just insanely repressed...”    

“Well, now you’re caught, that’s going to be for the police to decide.”

“Oh. The pigs?” Leadbottom found room to smirk. “The guys too fat to fit in their own patrol cars? They’re gonna bust in any second now, you’re saying? Are you sure?”  

“Fine. Then I guess I’ll have to bring you in myself.”    

Clara whipped off her glasses, and pulled the tie out of her hair. Her ebony waves rested on her shoulders. She shed her trench coat, the glowing gold and crimson emblem revealed as she parted her shirt.  

“Der der derrrr, der der der der der-derrr...” .  

“What are you doing?”  

“The tune..." Leadbottom shrugged. "You know... the trumpet thing – isn't that what usually...usually happens... hey wait, hold up! Aren’t you supposed to dive into a phone box or something?”  

“Everybody’s got a cellphone these days,” Clara shrugged. “And I've always worn underneath.” "Same suit every day? Doesn't sound hygienic."   "I have a spare. Who needs more?"

“Does your cape get caught in your underwear when you tuck it down your trousers?" she asked. "Because you wear those on the outside, right? Which leg does it go down? I’ve always wanted to know.”    

Superwoman rolled her eyes. With a leading fist she leapt into the air, seizing the scientist by the lapels. Soaring, they slamming down on the walkway above. The metal reverberated. Leadbottom whistled, reaching into her pocket. In the blink of an eye she was pinned against the railing, one arm behind her back, bent over the laser below.  

“Professor Leadbottom, you’re under arrest,” said Superwoman, her cape rushing with a fiery flourish. “Fattening up a whole town, hoarding the food to charge premium prices? You should be ashamed of yourself.”  

“Actually, that’s not quite what I had in mind,” said Leadbottom. “But... thanks for the idea, I’ll write it down... if you’d just give me my arm back a moment...”  

“Nice try.”  

“No, seriously. I wasn’t targeting Smallville. I was targeting you.”  


“There really is something in the water,” Leadbottom smiled. “I’ve been firing my laser at the treatment plant. Everyone who drinks, bathes or showers gets fat. Like, super-fat. Molecular sequencing – it's my specialty. Although this time, I had a little help from my handy dandy little particle accelerator.”  

With a zap, she vanished in an instant from Superwoman’s restraint. The hero spun round, scanning the empty warehouse. Her X-ray vision yielded nothing. Clenching her fists, she slowly twisted, until a second zap brought Leadbottom back, beaming at her from on top of a forklift.  

“Pretty cool, eh? Payment in advance, from whomever wants you out of the way. Lets me leap tall buildings in a single bound. And break into the odd bakery...”  

Another zap. She reappeared again on the walkway, behind Clara’s shoulder, her scent warm on the nape of her neck.  

“I can travel between universes too. There’s one where you don’t have daddy issues. There’s one where your dog’s more popular than you. There’s even one where you’re a guy. Like, can you imagine? Eww.”      

Clara shot around in a burst of super-speed. She seized the scientist by the wrist, pinning her to the wall. The particle accelerator dropped to the floor with a smack. Clara kicked it away.

“Why steal the food then?” she questioned, tightening her fingers. An ominous red glow radiated from her eyes.  

“Ooh. Wish I’d had time to lay the table for dinner, we could’ve been having such a different conversation,” Leadbottom winked. “The food’s for you, silly. All of it.”  


“I’m not joking. That was my scheme all along. Softening you up for the real supervillain. Hope you’re packing a super-appetite under that super-suit of yours.”

 “You...you’re not making sense. I’m putting you in jail, then I’m putting all this back where it belongs. Starting with those Girl Scout cookies.”  

“Noooo. You’re gonna sit here and stuff your pretty little face.” Leadbottom booped her on the nose. “Let’s review what’s happening, shall we? Little Miss Clara Kent lives in Smallville, works for the Ham Planet...”  

“Daily Planet.”

“Whatever. But suddenly – ohhh nooo – everybody starts to put weight on. The town today, the city tomorrow, the whole world by this time next week. Not lucky little Clara though, with her super genetics. She’s the only one not waddling around, bent over, bursting out of their cheap-ass clothes. Well... neither her nor Superwoman, funnily enough...”  

A very human chill crept up Clara’s spine. Her face had gone pale.  

“How soon do you think they’ll figure out it’s not a coincidence?” Leadbottom smiled, tracing the letter on her chest. “People talk. And everybody’s got a cellphone these days, right? Haha.”  

“I’m s-sure I could lay low somewhere.”  

“And leave the poor, plumped-up people of Planet Earth at fate’s mercy? Heaven forbid...”  

The professor stroked her fingers along the hero’s hip.   “Your waistline or your secret identity, Supes. One of them’s got to go.”  

Clara gulped. The shiver of her jaw did nothing to belie her fears. “I’m still...still locking you up,” she stammered.  

“Oh, give it a moment’s thought, will you?” Leadbottom licked her lips. “There’s so much food here.”  

She gestured below, to the towering heaps of boxes, packets, and bags. Clara traced the silhouette of the hillock of muffins – chocolate, double chocolate, triple chocolate and more.

“I’m sure with your super-speed you could munch it all up in a snap, but let’s not be too hasty. Somebody’s gotta help cook it for you, right?”  

Leadbottom unbuttoned her lab coat. A chef’s apron was revealed, fringed with dark lace. Sweeping up the accelerator, she zapped away, returning with a cutesy lounge chair, the leather a pale red. Clara watched her add a side table with the sales tag still attached, a mini-fridge for drinks, and finally, a sumptuous, three-tiered lemon drizzle cake.  

“Relax. Let me whet your appetite. You’re gonna be here a while, you might as well enjoy it, right?”  

Powerless, the hero found herself sitting down, perched on the edge of the upholstery. Her stony frame sank into the cushions, muscles tensed. Leadbottom closed in on her, wielding a silvery spoon. She dipped it into the creamy caramel centerpiece, and floated the luscious mouthful over Superwoman’s wobbling lip.  

“Oooh. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Let’s open up and see, shall we?”  

She grinned, feeding Clara the first bite. The hero groaned as she swallowed. Already, she felt the foreboding push of her gut against her clothing; a stomach in protest, demanding more room. And more cake – it was clearly one of a kind. Leadbottom readied the second spoonful. A can of whipped cream appeared on the table. The laser was set to simmer, for when the time to switch to savouries came. Clara felt another surge of tightness – her bosom. Her logo was beginning to stretch.  

“So, if Wonder Woman wears a Wonderbra... what does Superwoman wear?” Leadbottom bit her lip.  

Clara groaned. It was going to be an indulgent afternoon.  


The sun was dipping under the Kansas sky by the time Superwoman made her tender tracks from the warehouse. Glutted and woozy, she was simply too swollen on receipt of her final slice of pizza to stop her new nemesis snatching up the particle accelerator, and spiriting herself away. Clara could do little but rest her head, bloated and beaten. At least she could count the blessing the professor had taken the giant laser with her. A couple more days, she hoped, and the water supply would return to normal. Thanks to her efforts, the citizens of Smallville were once again safe from harm – if not from sore knees, chub rub and underboob perspiration.  

Clara was suffering from all three as she staggered into Harmon’s Haberdashery. It took all her super-strength to stay sucked in, her voluminous belly a thread’s breadth from causing the ties of the apron to burst within her back rolls. Leadbottom had left the sugar-dusted satin behind; it was all Superwoman was wearing save her red underwear, smothered under folds of swaying fat. Her suit was an early casualty – hardly designed to withstand a barrage from within, it had ripped apart around her bulging backside. Clara’s shock had been eclipsed a troughload of puddings later, in seeing her sacred symbol split wide enough to allow her massive new breasts to tumble free. They pulled the shoulder straps to stringy twine, wiggling while reporter wiped her warming brow, nudging the door closed with a swing from her ginormous butt. Her godly Kryptonian physique still packed enough of a punch to keep her from getting too out of breath. But it was swaddled in flab, and slick with sweat. Clara rung the bell, her stomach slapping the front desk. She groaned, stroking her softened expanses. Her new dimensions needed a lot of getting used to.  

“Clara, holy moley,” Taylor wheezed, shunting her hefty hips through the side-flap. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you. At least those city slickers are gonna believe us when you tell them what’s happening here.”  

“If I even make it upstairs to the office.” Clara managed an awkward smile, her chubby cheeks heating up fast. “I think the worst is over though... I’ve got a hunch.”  

She looked down, her belly rolls bunching up against each other. She dreaded the thought of hauling herself up on the scale. Four hundred pounds was her withering best guess. She’d never seen a superhero so obese.  

“Think you could err... cover me in the meantime?” she pleaded. “Just so I can catch a ride home. I need to report back as soon as possible.”  

“You’re in luck. I had a funny feeling this would happen,” the blonde announced. “I took the liberty of letting out your suit an inch... or a dozen. It’s such a great material. So stretchy.”

“Oooh, err... thanks!”  

“Perfect for that con you’re going to. You know, I was thinking of going myself, but I couldn’t find any details. I hope they haven’t cancelled. Everyone getting too large to dress up and everything.”  

“Err, yeah... that sure would be a pity...”  

An unearthly roar rumbled the windows, echoing through the streets outside. Clara blinked.  

“Whoah. Sounds like we’re in danger, again,” whistled Taylor. “Hope Superwoman’s out there somewhere.”  

“Yeah, err... have you got a changing room, please?” Clara said quickly. “Umm...I need a quiet place to go hide...”  

“The basement’s roomier,” Taylor shrugged. “But I guess it isn’t big enough for the both of us. Second on the left, you might need to open the door all the way...”  

Another earth-shaking roar. Stomping footsteps rattled the lampshades. Clara clasped her quaking belly, trying to stop her wobbles snapping her last shreds of dignity. Whatever it was, it was big. It was bad. And it was coming right for them.   Clara grabbed the proffered suit off the countertop and darted for the backrooms, as quick as her blubbery body could carry her. Her thighs thundered with jiggles. She took stock of the narrow cubicle, the miniscule armchair within, the professionalism in the stitching of her suit – along the bustline, especially. Superwoman winced.  

She was in for a tight squeeze...

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Wibbly-Wobbly Timey Wimey

“Wow. Love the new look.” 

The Doctor jumped, shunting the lever, spinning around for the source of the foreign voice. She ran her fingers through her brown curls, uncovering her ear. Echoing, the engine of the TARDIS gave a disconcerted rumble.  

“Ooh. And you’re not too bad yourself!” a woman in a white lab coat sang, behind her. “What regeneration are we on? Thirty? Or thirty-one? I love a good happy prime!”  

The Time Lady pivoted on a heel. Fresh from Queen Victoria’s wedding, she was resplendent in her dinner jacket and formal trousers – no dress might’ve allowed her to run half so fast. The top hat lay smoking on the side panel; embers aflame. Her companion assistant hadn’t been so lucky. 

“Oh,” she quipped, her eyes narrowing. “Erm. Don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Am I meant to say I’m the Doctor?”  

“I know. I’m the Professor.”  

The Doctor blinked.  

“Professor Who?” 

Leadbottom, actually,” the scientist sighed. “And before you tell me you’re sorry, I’m going to need you to land your ship.”  

The Doctor cocked a hip.  

“Really?” she asked, eyebrow raised. “Tell me why would I do that?” 

So you can get off. In ordinary circumstances I’d throw the captain overboard, but honestly...” Leadbottom clapped her hands together. “I’m a huge fan. I’d really appreciate it if we skipped the fighting bit and came to some sort of agreement. I don’t want to hurt you.”  

“Right.” the Doctor hummed, nonchalantly. “Okay. Let’s hear it again. So you want to steal the TARDIS?” 

“Not steal it!” Leadbottom protested. “Borrow it. It’s a time machine, correct? Once I’ve had my fun, all I have to do is send it back to now and you’ll never notice it’s gone.”  

“But you’ve just told me you’re taking it away.”  

“Yeah, well - it’s not a problem. Let me find somewhere for you to chill for... let’s see... August fifth... 1970... better note that down... and it’s quarter to twelve. Ooh! How about I bring it back after lunch?”  

“Okay. Forgive me. But between me being on the way to the Andromeda system, and you hijacking my home, could I ask  what?”  

“I’ve got a particle accelerator. I can already travel through space,” said Leadbottom. “Even to a police box flying for another galaxy - it only took me a couple of goes. But I can’t travel in time - or rather, not yet, so I’m here because I’m here, I suppose. Hello.”  

She dipped a hand into her lab coat, and removed a long tube from her inside pocket. The Doctor whipped out her sonic screwdriver, aiming it at the plastic object. Her stance was combative, her slender frame poised to pounce.  

“Calm down, it’s not a gun,” the professor explained. “It’s my Lightweight All-Seasons Regeneration Disrupting Initial Sequencer.” She smiled. “L.A.R.D.I.S., for short. Isn’t it cool?”  

She gave the tube a twirl in her fingers.  

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” the Doctor adjusted her glasses. “But isn’t that a toy blowgun from a twenty-first century tat shop?”  

“Ooh, bravo!” Leadbottom applauded. “You’re right. But it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”  

She snapped the weapon to her ruby-red lips. In a split second she blew a dart, shooting it straight at her target’s chest. It landed with a squelch. The Doctor pawed at her jacket, teasing the feathered shaft free. The tip was not barbed, but coated in a yellow, syrupy adhesive. She spread the residue along her fingers, wiping it along the console with a grimace.  

“Thanks for that,” the Doctor muttered. “You know, I’m used to being shot at, but this is  

Her eyes bulged. She couldn’t breathe. She pressed against her throat, unravelling her bow tie, yearning for fresh air. The toxin worked ruthlessly. In seconds she was down on her knees. The professor strode toward her, lording over her shivering form.  

Raxacoricofallapatorian poison,” she grinned. “Works quicker than you can say... well...” 

The Doctor gasped. Her lungs were weakening. A burning glow radiated from her fingertips. Wisps of golden light streamed from the cuffs of her dress shirt. One heart had stopped. The other was still beating. She was regenerating. Bent double, she hastened to stand up - until a wicked blaze whipped up her collar, engulfing her head and hair. The coil around her lungs released. She sealed her eyes, steeling the soles of her feet, as her every fibre shimmied and shifted, morphing and changing. 

“I added a little something of my own. Nothing personal, it was a request. Do your thing, I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Leadbottom. “Now let’s see, flying one-oh-one... was it this lever or that one you pulled...” 

The TARDIS lurched. The golden lightbeams began to flicker. The pressure returned. Quickly, the Doctor felt the buttons on her shirt begin to strain. The threads pulled tight around her back. Her arms were splayed, still emanating luminescence. She couldn’t reach. But she could feel them change. They felt thicker. Heavier, almost. An unfamiliar warmth began to grow from her middle - the flesh softer, padding out under her trouser zip. A deep wince settled on her plumpening lips as she felt her thighs touch. Slender she was no longer - her new body was larger, for sure. She felt soft curves wobble over her once-bony hips, a pleasant flush radiating from her chest. The new Doctor became weak at the knees. She was chubby - buxom and chubby.  

But still the light shone. Her stomach swelled out in smooth, lazy rolls, hanging free from her shirt, flowing over her belt buckle. With a groan, she felt her buttons give way - first her trousers, then her shirt, one by one, riding up her gentle belly, enlarging by the second. The changes centered on her bottom, taxing her pants until the seams split, soft grunts mixing in with snapping stitches. The Doctor’s waist rolled, flexing with an added ooomphh, sucking in her leather belt, discomfort edging on her glowing features.  

 Leadbottom turned her face, watching clothes shrink, bewitched while she fumbled with the controls. Stirring, her fingers slid over a bright pink button. She jabbed it. The TARDIS rumbled, alive and kicking.  

“Oh my,” she murmured. “That’s something. Doing alright down there?” 

The Doctor tried to yell. Her words were stifled, light leaking free; the flow of her growing unabated. She segued into fatness, then increasing stages of obesity, her figure filling out at breakneck speed. Bursting her belt, her belly sunk toward her knees. Her rear end grew heavier and heavier. Pudgy cheeks pushed on curtains of strawberry blonde hair, stretching past her collar to rest on a generous bosom, quivering with every new pound. More weight rounded her shoulders and back rolls. Then the light cut.  

The Doctor trembled. She greeted her surroundings with a frazzled stare. The floor returned the salutation - a jarring kiss to her arse as her legs crumbled, body giving out under her stupefied bulk. The thud sent a shudder up Leadbottom’s spine. Burnishing red, she left the console, snaking her arm around her target’s softened haunches.  

Sshh...shh, it’s fine. Heh. Knew ginger would suit you,” she smirked, hoisting her from above. “Come on, let’s get you up, I’ve parked us next to a chippy.”  

With a weary groan the Doctor found her feet, and thrusted. She wavered on unsteady legs - a tub of lard, her flab jostling to and fro. The Time Lady swayed in disbelief. She had lost an inch in height - but had gained an unprecedented amount in girth. Her breaths were raggedy. Leadbottom set her straight, hands on her shoulders, tensing gently.  

“Any first words?” she chuckled, stroking her delicate cheek.  

The Doctor hiccuped with a squeak. Her voice was higher. She stared at her midriff, making it wobble. Her bare belly shadowed her pudgy feet, naked and reverberating.  

Oooh...” she moaned, looking down at herself. “O-Ooohhh!”  

“Gosh, we’ve got to get you a costume, haven’t we?” Leadbottom cooed. “Better choose wisely, it’s all you’ll get to wear the next one to three series’...” 

Oooh... I’m famished,” the Doctor declared. “We can do something about clothes after breakfast, can’t we?”  

Leadbottom’s mouth fell open.  

“Um... repeat that again?”  

“Food! Mankind’s neverending quest. I think I fancy a bowl of cereal. And some jelly b**s. And fish fingers. And custard!”  

“This... isn’t what I expected... I...” 

“What was that you said about a chippy?”  

“Err... we’re by one in Aberdeen - but it’s ten to twelve, I don’t think they’re serving breakfast.”  

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already. You’re in a time machine. Nnghh!” 

Wafting her hips, the Doctor took her first steps. She approached the central panels, the grills groaning beneath her weight. She looked over her shoulder, tossing her new hair, grinning.  

“Means you can it steal later too, can’t you?”  

“I... think...” blathered Leadbottom. “Sorry  what?!”  

“Or borrow, whichever. I don’t see a real need for either, to be honest. You’re here, I’m here. New you, new me. And I’m definitely in need of a new assistant. You fancy it?” 

The Professor pinkened. The Doctor waddled topless to the console, spinning the dials, twisting the levers. The machine began its brief journey backwards in time. Her breasts rolled as she leaned over, weighty and enormous. Her thighs bunched and chafed. Her stomach moved to the beat of a drum - equally tight, sticking out nearly half a yard on front of her, nudging the rivets. She gave the flesh a quick, friendly slap.  

“Well, come on then, chop-chop. Fish and chips twice, please. And ask if they do it in newspaper.”  

Leadbottom twitched. Her petite figure had calcified. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Her mind had gone blank. Her eyes were like saucers. A whole future lay ahead of her, dripping in oil and grease... 

“If you want something for yourself, see what you can get with the psychic paper,” the Doctor said with a wink, flinging her wallet. “You’ll have to bring it in though. I’m not sure I’ll fit through the door.”  

Leadbottom missed the catch. She crouched down, hands tremoring as she took hold of the leather-bound card. The ink twisted and reshaped itself. Prof. J. LEADBOTTOM, FRS, it read. CATERING ASSISTANT IN CHIEF. 

The Doctor smoothed a hand over her belly, giving it a pat and a squeeze. 

“Mmm. Thank goodness this thing’s bigger on the inside, eh?” 

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