Quarantine Quadrupling

[Guest denbu]

1: The Artery Attacker

 

      “Oh gosh. I just can’t decide,” the mammoth man shuffled in what Henry surmised was a blood-sugar crash fueled anxiety.

     “Yeah, we get that a lot,” Henry said leaning on the counter, his gaze settling on a stretch of mismatched tiles on the far wall. One errant vertical tile disrupted the horizontal pattern lining the seating area. Why have a zig where it should zag?

     The man rotated toward his wife. “What do you think, honey?”

     She turned up to the billboard-sized neon menu, its radiating glow lit the creases along her jowls. Her tongue flicked as she mouthed off each item, as if she could sample the foods by listing them.

     His mouth twisted as he watched her. Bet she tastes the grease in the air too.

     She gnawed away on her thumb like a stray chicken tender and studied the menu with the fear of a woman confronted with a life-or-death decision. He tapped on the counter, keeping tempo with every clench of her jaw as she chomped down.

     It just might be with how much they’ve already ordered.

     The woman shook herself awake, forgetting she wasn’t dreaming, and yes, everything on the menu was equally available and delicious.“How about four Big’ol Buckets of your Southern baked mac? Oh!” She palmed the side of her Husband’s battleship-gut, “And definitely a few of those aorta clogger sliders, babe.”

     Shocked by his oversight, the man thwapped his forehead, forearm wobbling from the impact. “Good call. Alright, we’ll add that onto the rest of our order.”

     Henry straightened with a sigh and looked down at the tablet displaying their litany of an order. With a few deft flicks of his thumb, he scrolled through the pages, his eyes glazing over as the items flew by. “Is that all, folks?” Just as he was about to finalize, Riley trotted out from the kitchen with a mischievous look, and made him regret his droll rhetorical.

     She pressed up against him, leaning on the counter toward the couple. “Are you guys sure that’s all you want? We have a great buy-two-get-three deal.”

     “Bitch,” he hissed.

     She smiled, as doe-eyed a manifestation from the dregs of Hell could manage.

     “Let’s look one more time, babe,” the man said without a hint of shame. His wife’s chins wobbled with enthusiasm.

     After another grueling stretch of ordering he sent the couple waddling to their bench in the feeding pen to await their delivery as he wiped the sugar-stuck counter down with a damp rag.

     Working at the Artery Attacker was one of his deepest shames. He’d gotten his business degree so that he wouldn’t have to work a food service job ever again, but as luck would have it, only a few months after finishing his business classes the world was upended when the virus hit the states, quarantine was enacted in short order, and the job market plummeted as unemployment soared. Everything was out of commission aside from what the government, in their wisdom, decreed as “essential businesses and workers.” So it was either working the graveyard at a hospital, or a greasy-spoon fast-food ** like this. He never did hear back from the local hospital, but on days like this he fantasized about changing bedpans and mopping floors with a wistful longing.

     The Artery Attacker was awful. Shoveling literal gallon-buckets of battered and fried garbage into grease stained sacks, and then hearing a room full of hogs snarfing and moaning at the trough as they vacuumed it in.

     It made him sick. All of it

     Almost the worst thing about working here.

     He glared through the kitchen service window, watching Riley dunk a row of rotisserie chickens into the frier which erupted in a crackling sizzle. Catching his eye she raised her hand, covered in a yellow rubber safety glove, and gestured to let him know she felt much the same about working with him.

     The door chimed and he slumped. Another slate of customers stomped in and queued up. But he perked once he spied among them was the only silver-lining of the job—the Blue-Pantsed Girl.

     She was gorgeous, everything he liked—fit, stylish, blonde. Hell, even her mask is form fitting. The contours of her cheeks and nose when she smiled behind it made him pant. She was a rare appearance in the store, but he liked to think they had a spark. Despite not having the gall to ask for her name, let alone number.

     He processed the customers ahead of her with supernatural diligence and courtesy, eager to move them along with as much haste as they could lumber. Finally she was before him, a peach nail tapping on her mask as she eyed the menu.

     She giggled. “Sorry! I just can’t decide.”

     His heart fluttered, and he laughed in response. “Take all the time you want. Please.” He rung his cleaning rag behind the counter and shuffled his feet. “Maybe you’d know the menu better if you came more often?”

     Two pots smashing together plucked him from his dream haze. “Christ’s Cross,” Riley shouted the kitchen, “get it moving up front, Henry!”

     The woman held her hand to her chest, fingers splayed like a fan across her breasts. He could see her smiling even behind the mask. “I couldn’t possibly! I’m trying to watch my weight during quarantine. They say people are eating out more now, and it’s so bad of me to come here already. But when I’m jogging by in the morning, sometimes I just can’t resist the smell. I feel so naughty coming here.”

     “Everyone loves the food here. No reason to feel…naughty.”

     Something small pelted him on the back of his head and landed on the floor next to his foot. He looked down and saw a fry still glistening with frier oil. Another hit the back of his neck and tumbled down the back of his shirt. He cocked his head around and mouthed a few words at Riley.

     She swatted at him. “You’re so bad. The last thing I need is an enabler. I really don’t know how you manage to stay so fit working here.”  She reached across the counter to feel his arm. He flexed just as she squeezed his bicep. Her eyebrow quirked in appreciation. “They’d have to wheel me out on a cart after a year here.”

     “Still just might if you keep it up,” Riley muttered over her breath.

     “What was that, sweetheart?”

     “She said you should try our signature sliders and a side of the fried honey balls,” Henry interjected. “And I couldn’t agree more. Thanks for the input, Riley.”

     “Sure, you guys are the experts.”

     “We sure are. And how about this—it’s on the house."

     “Really? Is there a special?”

     Another singing fry smacked the back of his head. “Yeah, Henry. Is there a special today?”

     “Y-yes! It’s three-for-free today.”

     She pouted. “But I only got the two things.”

     “Right, of course. Uh, here, have one of our big’ol buckets of Southern Mac to go with that.” He scrambled behind the counter and popped up with a four gallon bucket. He cocked it back and launched it through the window at Riley’s head. “Catch!’ Her yelp was masked among the clatter of kitchen appliances.

     “You guys are so fun and friendly! I’m sold. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me.” She winked and sauntered off to the pick-up area.

     He leaned over the counter, mesmerized by sashaying hips roll like a gentle ocean wave.

     A sharp pinch broke the trance.

     “Ouch!” He rubbed his tender flank.

     “Yeah, Henry. How do you stay so fit working here?” Riley asked. Her mouth was a harsh sloped slash.

     He turned his heat-flushed face away and wrapped an arm around his stomach, swatting at her probing fingers.

     He’d gained some weight working here, and more than he cared to admit, but how could he be blamed for it? Gym’s were closed, grocery stores were running dry, and the only alternatives were fast-food and takeout delivery. Besides, he was too exhausted to workout or cook when he got home anyway. And so he’d taken to just grabbing something for home from the store during closing shifts. Still, Riley’s words got under his skin as much as her nails just had.

     “Yeah, well I’ve seen how your pants’re fitting lately. You might want to let someone else take on frier duty soon or we’ll have to demo the back wall to crane your ass out.”

     Her green bulged, then narrowed to hateful slits. “You been looking at my ass, pervert?”

     “N-no,” he stammered. “I mean, not on purpose. Sorry?”

     “You better just hope you get the jogger’s number before your tits get bigger than hers.” She shoved past him, storming toward the kitchen followed by a cacophony of slamming appliances and half-shouted curses.

     He slapped his forehead and groaned. How did I lose that argument?

     Riley infuriated him, but he felt guilty nonetheless. She was a glass bull, imposing yet fragile, and all the more prone to cutting once it had already been broken. She wasn’t wrong either, which only added to his frustration. Only here for a few weeks and already feeling the need to upsize his pants was humiliating. He rubbed his stomach and made a resolution that when quarantine was over he’d leave the Artery Attacker the same day.

     It shouldn’t be more than another month, at worst, before they figure this all out. Surely not.

[Pawgman]

Love this story read it before and am hoping for the next chapter 

[Guest denbu]

2: Growing Upwards and Outwards

 

   Despite best-laid plans and resolutions, working at the Artery Attacker blurred days into weeks, making a smeared montage of clocking-in, arguing with Riley, snacking on shift, and falling asleep uncomfortably full only to repeat it all the next day. Over a year since Henry plotted his escape, evidently he, along with the rest of the world, had underestimated circumstances. As much as nothing changed, so much else had.

     When he arrived at the Artery Attacker for his shift a crisp copy of the morning paper sat beside the register. The headline was circled a dozen times with red marker: Job Market Starver; Slim Pickings. Scrawled over the article in block letters: Good luck, fat boy.

     The vein on his forehead twitched as he crumpled the paper and threw it into a trash bin.

     “Just thought you should keep a leg up!” Riley sing-sang from the depths of the kitchen.

     The door chimed and a woman in activewear that might have fit over a hundred pounds ago waddled up to the counter. She stared at the menu in silence, rubbing her hand over her jacket, every rotation left a trail of neon cheese dust like the fading tails of comets arcing across the night.

     “I just can’t decide. Everything on your menu sounds soo good.”

     He could hear the drool overflow behind her sauce-smeared mask, and by the waft of their signature Heart Clogger sauce on her, this wasn’t her first visit today.

     “Yeah,” he huffed, “we get that a lot.” He poured sweat as he tried to find relief swaying his weight to each foot like an oil rig leaking oil waiting to dock. Why do they always take so long to order? Not like they haven’t seen the menu a hundred times over at this point.

     She leaned against the counter for leverage, making a befuddled grunt when the bounce of her stomach sprang her back. She pressed until her sneakers squeaked on the tile, and realizing she couldn’t get closer, hefted her gut up for room. Closer by a few inches, she reached toward the menu, desperate to touch it like a sacred idol. The fresh peach color on the nail she used to read the menu caught his attention, stirring something in his chest. The closer she leaned the more familiar she seemed, until an errant echo of appeal reverberated in his mind, but she was unrecognizable behind a mask, and her body was indistinguishable from the other cattle who fed here.

     “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked.

     Before she could respond her stomach slipped over the elastic band of her pants and under her shirt, releasing a mudslide of liquefied gelatin pouring toward him. He lumbered back until he banged against the shelves, desperate not to let it reach him.

     “You say something, honey?” she asked without looking away from the menu.

     Probably just a regular by the look of her.

     He felt a sudden relief on his aching back and knees, would have been grateful for it, were it not Riley, who somehow managed to slither behind the counter, and was craning his belly-apron from behind. From the periphery he saw the glint of her nose piercing sandwiched between bulging cheeks as she juggled his belly, gauging its heft. She rolled her fingers on the underside of his overhang and whistled, low and slow in his ear.

     He stared forward, struggling to ignore her. As well as the hot flush crawling from beneath his collar and across his cheeks. “No, Ma’m. I didn’t say anything.”

     “Henry here,” Riley shook him left to right, “knows how good our menu is as much as anyone. Might I recommend a hidden-menu special?”

     The woman’s pebble eyes bulged, catching the light to reveal brilliant and blue gems floating to the surface from within the wad of dough. “You say hidden menu?”

     “Yes’m. It’s Henry’s usual lunch order.” Riley grunted and dumped his stomach, letting it slap against his belt with a thud. “It’s four orders of our Aorta Clogger sliders, but replace the buns with our fried Bypass Biscuits and a Doughy Donut between each of the patties. Little sweet, lotta meat, and plenty delicious.”

     The woman tilted her head back, eyes closed, and quivered. “Oh that sounds like heaven. But,” she rubbed the topmost rim of her exposed stomach, “maybe too much for a girl watching her figure.” Her frowning eyes fell on the foot of exposed fat as if only now aware she was a donut away from a mobility scooter.

     In a double-dipped saccharine tone Riley pounced, “It’s deep-fried divinity, Ma’am.” She shuffled behind him, wedging him against the register until the counter jammed into his gut, matching the woman across from him. “Only a big-boy like this,” she kneaded and knuckled the draping slabs of his lovehandles, “could’ve concocted something so sinful. And why worry about your weight? There’s plenty enough to get stressed over this past year. I say we all deserve a treat. Isn’t that why you came in today?”

     He long suspected Riley got some thrill peddling sweets to the sugar-slurpers like this woman, and she was good at eroding people’s self-control. She pinched and shook his flank. And getting better all the time.

     What little room the woman had before reaching the cliff’s edge of unrepentant gluttony was lost after Riley’s goading. He watched her eyes slide from blue to black, dimming as cheek fat swallowed them with a smile. Riley hooked another, and was reeling her tumbling into the proverbial depths of saturated fats.

     “You’re absolutely right.” She hefted her arm, holding the underside up for support, and posed in what he guessed was a flex. “I was jogging earlier, so I already got my steps in.”

     He rolled his eyes. From the car to the counter? “Alright, miss. Let me ring you up. Please maneuver yourself to the pick-up bay.”

     With a grunt she pushed off from the load-bearing counter and waddled away. “It’s impossible to resist the smells when you guys start the friers so early.”

     He stopped midway through her order and stared at the woman as she trotted away. An ass poured into exercise spandex that may have fit over a hundred pounds ago and stretched to near transparency jostled without control as she swung her hips. Acid singed his throat from the sight of her cellulite speckled thighs and cratered cheeks wobble away

     Who was that?

     “Warms my heart to serve our customers,” Riley said.

     “Probably just your acid reflux from lunch.” He resumed punching in the woman’s custom order, muttering curses as the touchscreen kept giving him mis-inputs.

     “Your fingers get too fat for register duty?” She snickered. “Maybe you’ll have to join me in the kitchen?” She mashed against him until their rolls interlocked in a stack of sliding blubber.

     He pushed back against her while he fussed with the pad. “Just some grease on my fingers,” he mumbled. “And speaking of, would you get your fat ass back in the kitchen?” He tried to twist toward her, only managing to jostle them both.

     “Someone’s testy today. Is fat-boy already hungry again? If you ask nice I’ll whip you up something special.” She stroked a finger from his ear along the crease of his chins and gave him a little tickle.

     He flailed at her. “Get! Just finish this order so we can get out of here at a normal time today.”

     “Hmph. I don’t like your tone, Hoggy. Don’t forget who’s the manager.” She slid her nail-point between his folds until she reached his ribs and twisted it like a ground cigarette until he winced “And who’s the big fat bottom of the pyramid.”

     Even worse than being stuck with his minimum-wage service job was that in the interim year Riley had been promoted. He very nearly quit the day she announced it with a sneer, instead he bit his tongue, along with a couple sliders. They helped ease the sting.

     “…Sorry,” he said through clenched teeth, trying to focus on the order.

     “Sorry what?” She thrust her gut against him for emphasis.

     “Sorry, Miz Turner.”

     “Better.” She slapped his cheek then pinched and wobbled it, leaving it stinging and red. On her way back to the kitchen she cocked a hip and launched it, knocking over the storage bins under the counter, leaving a path of loose cups, utensils, and sauce packets clattering to the floor behind her.

     He groaned. “Mind your ass, Godzilla.”

     She peered through the kitchen window. “Getting tight back there. Be a sweetheart, Henry, and grab whatever fell? You might be a pig, but I can’t let you make this place a farm.”

     He held his breath and bent down to tidy her mess.

     “I meant to tell you this morning, but we’re short-staffed today, so you’re gonna need to stay late and close with me tonight,” she called from the kitchen.

     He threw down his armful of ketchup packs and gripped the counter with both hands and jumped up. Although to any observers on the other side, it was more akin to an enormous loaf rising in the oven. “What are you talking about? I’ve already been here since the morning. I’m not pulling a whole day. Especially not alone with you.”

     She swung her cleaver with a crunch as she minced a pork haunch without looking at him “Tough titties, Henry.”

     “Can’t you call someone else in?” He hated how desperate he sounded to plead with her, but damn if he didn’t need a break.

     “I get it, Henry.”

     “Thank you, Riley. I’m just exhausted today.”

     “You’re saying you can’t hack it here, and that’s fine.”

     “What? No! It’s just—“

     She gripped the handle dual-handed and swung it overhead, biting it into the crosshatched butcher block with a thock, creating a new notch among the hundred others. “It’s understandable. You must have some kind of medical condition, otherwise, how else would you explain how big you’ve gotten these past few months? It’d be a damn shame to hear you’re so fat, and so tired, only because you’ve been stealing food on the job. It would hurt my heart,” she pressed her hand to a flabby breast, “to have to let you go under those circumstances. You saw the article right? Dunno if you can read, but jobs aren’t easy to come by lately.”

     He sputtered and slammed his hands on the serving window between them.

     “Me? Have you seen a mirror? Customers are complaining about their orders. Someone—you!” She pointed to herself with mock shock Me? “Keeps eating half their food before it gets bagged. You can’t even walk through the door head-on cause your ass is wider than the stove.  I can’t say what’s wrong with you, but I do know you’re a sadistic fucking glutton.” His chest heaved as he mopped his face with a nearby rag.

     “Are you done?” She asked as she tipped a carton of fries back into her mouth.

     He jabbed a wobbling arm through the window at her. “You’re eating her order right now, you tub!” She slid chicken strips into a cheek pouch as she churned the rest with mechanical endurance. “Stop eating when I’m talking to you and listen. I said I’m done with your shit.”

     She popped the lid off a gallon-guzzler and quaffed it in a few swigs. The fizz sent her eyes rolling as she smacked her lips with satisfaction, then looked at him, challenging him to respond. After a beat, her glare bore through his defenses and excavated his lack of resolve beneath the petulant display. She pulled her cleaver free. “I’ll see you tonight.” She pointed through him with the blade’s edge, making him wince. “You have customers.”

     Arguing with Riley was like trying to shove an elephant up a hill—exhausting, pointless, and dangerous if it decided to throw it’s weight back. Fighting her just fueled her targeted cruelty, and yet he couldn’t help railing against the injustice of his situation. The Artery Attacker was quicksand, the harder he tried to pull away the deeper he was sucked in, and Riley knew he had no other options as well as he did. So petulant outbursts were ignored and tempered by new ways to punish and humiliate him. She’d already threatened him with mascot duty during promotions, his only saving grace being he outgrew their Oinker the Hog costume recently.

     He perched a hand on his stomach, frowning at the risk of being stuck here even longer. Turning to his customer with a slump he resumed his duties. “How may I help you, sir?” The man fumbled in his breast pocket and presented a legal pad filled to the margins with chicken scratch. Henry snatched the paper and puzzled it over.  “And this is?”

     “My order,” the man jiggled in the affirmative. “I figured after last time it’d be easier to just have it written down beforehand.”

     Henry squinted at the page, flipping the pages. Each line was crammed with a litany of orders in exact quantities and various custom requests.

     “Oh, and there’s a few more pages behind that too,” the man said.

     “Siirrr!” Riley sang. Henry scrambled for something at hand to pelt her fat head through the window. “Are you sure that list is up to date, sir? We try to update our menus at least once every few days.”

     “Thank you, Riley! I’ll see you tonight. Please, sir, just head over to the pick-up area. We’ll get right on this.”

[Luverof]

Great story so far. It's a fun setting and the  characters have a  unique voice.

[Guest denbu]

** I'm conflicted about some of the elements in this chapter. Originally I had an idea about Henry embodying a Jekyll/Hyde dichotomy of sorts. When he gets pushed past a certain level of being full, a dark, almost supernatural entity, would overtake him. I liked the idea of him battling for control with his appetite personified; a more hedonistic, domineering, and confident splinter personality. I guess it was also almost like a Werewolf story in that sense. I had some ideas about how that dynamic could play out, but I wasn't totally sold on the idea, so I only half-committed. If anyone has any thoughts about that, I'd love to hear them. **

 

***

 

Lights out, doors locked, and no double-wide asses overflowing the booths. Henry never saw the restaurant so empty. It was almost peaceful.

He relished the tranquility as he steered the rough pole of the push broom, plowing through the garbage in the feeding pen. Back aching, knees numb, and yet he still managed to fall into a methodical process. He gave his face a quick smack. Exactly that kind of complacency that kept me here.

He forced himself to focus on the grotesque reality of his duty: melted cheese globs congealed into neon-yellow stalactites beneath the tables that needed to be scrapped with a putty knife, puddles of tacky soda which sucked at his shoes, ketchup drenched pickle chips frozen halfway in their sliding descent on every vertical surface, and half eaten fries, nuggets, buns, and other crumbs covered the rest. Grimacing at the growing collection of debris at the end of the broom, he was certain there were tidier demolition sites. He was more surprised than anything at how much remained uneaten.

But most surprising was that Riley left him to his task unharassed tonight. After shoving a broom into his hands and directing him to the floor, she tucked the register drawer under her arm and sequestered herself in the manager’s office. Glancing at the clock above the door he felt a rise of excitement. Nearly Midnight. If he could make it through the night without having to see her it would be the saving grace for his day.

“Henry!” His heart lurched. “Pull the chicken strips out of your ears and get your chunky tits back here, porky!”

He hoisted the broom, held it with both hands like a spear, and approached the kitchen. When he pushed through the double-doors Riley’s back was to him, bent and fussing over a table.

Because of the enormous spike in demand, she was in the kitchen more often than not lately, and so he rarely saw her on the floor or behind the counter. Most of their bickering was done through the tiny window separating their workspaces. Now, exposed in full view, he was taken aback to witness her in full. Bent at the waist, and splay-legged, she blocked the entirety of the table. Her calves were barrels with no clear segmentation of where her ankles should have tapered in. Cankles they call those. How does she even fit on socks?

Further up were those pancake stacked thighs, which despite her stance, still leaned against one another, mashed from the knee up. Hips swaying as she worked, made her pants swish with friction. The industrial grade leggings she wore did nothing to obscure the calamitous expanse of ass, which quivered and shook in various directions and tempos, each section moving independent of its neighbor, like plates of jelly, jam, and jello all placed next to another. The display mesmerized and terrified, the dance of a viper before it strikes.

A year ago even his most hellacious nightmares could never have conjured such an abominable parody of a woman’s body with which to torment him, but now, after a year at the grotesquerie of the Artery Attacker, he’d been exposed to the replete and loathsome exhibits it could produce.

To see her like this, he reflected on the wasted potential. She was an affliction since the day he met her, a modern pox, but at least early quarantine she wasn’t…this. At one time she’d been slim—fit even. And he wasn’t one to complain whenever she reached for something on a high shelf and exposed a firm mid-drift, or strutted around the floor in those tight black jeans she used to wear all the time. The ones that really hugged the hang of her cheeks… And sure, she didn’t have much for a chest, but they still had a nice perk to them. Plus, it usually meant she went braless most days, and that made Winter a great time to work.

“Aaaand done,” she said.

She sunk her hands into the plush of her lower back and straightened with an unladylike grunt. He didn’t think it possible, but somehow she metamorphosed into something even more monstrous. Leaning over, the backs of her legs had been smoothed by the stretch, but now upright, the full extent of her weight pressed down, sagging over, and became an undulating flesh ocean, textured by a pastiche of isolated dimples and divots interspersed across a sea of creases and ridges like an archipelago. The transition from placid lake to rollicking ocean brought him from flaccid to inverted. Her cheeks sagged, forming a ridge until they rested against the back of her thighs, and the canyon of her crack vacuumed the fabric into its depth, presenting him with a true Schrodinger’s ass. She was either wearing a thong, or nothing at all, but rather than life-or-death, it was a question between which option would deliver him quicker relief: dunking his head in the hot fry oil, or jabbing his eyes out with the broom’s handle.

He thumbed the blunted end of the wood in his hand.

She shimmied. “Is my ass perking your prick, perv?”

He held the broom across his chest. “If there were anywhere I could look and not see it, believe me I would.”

“I get it must be hard to find any woman who compares to your mother, but I’m sure you’ll find her.”

He threw the broom down. “What do you want, Riley? I’m just about done on the floor and ready to punch out.”

“Relax, Henry,” she giggled.

Henry? Her demeanor disturbed him. She turned to face him and what he saw only elevated his distress.

“Why’re you smiling? Stealing more food?”

She waddled up to him, the swells of their guts brushed. “How long you been here now?”

He took a step back but her girth still bared upon him. “I dunno, like a year?”

“Fifteen months, Henry.” She stroked the side of his belly, slid her palm to the underhang where his shirt couldn’t cover, and tickled him with gentle scratches. “And how much did you weigh when you started?”

He pawed at her hand, blushing. “I don’t know! What’s it matter to you?”

“Are you hungry?”

Despite being easily a foot shorter than him he blanched at the authority she commanded.

“Wh—no, I’m fine.”

“I made you something. Look.”

Her saddlebag cleared from his view like a waning eclipse to reveal a table overflowing end-to-end with a deep-fried banquet. Goblets of mozzarella sticks bursting with pearly molten cheese, multi-tiered burgers with sauce waterfalls flowing between the patties, an avalanching bowl of chips, a rainbow spread of dips, crimson sauce smattered wings, catering trays of pasta with crumbled cheese-baked crusts. The rest went on, every color, texture, shape, and temptation imaginable. Despite the dingy kitchen lighting, the golden crisped crusts glistened with fresh frier oil like diamonds. Their whole menu stretched before him, a halcyon vision of indulgent paradise.

Her smile was duplicitous as the serpent hanging from the branch beckoning him to taste the sweetest fruit in the garden—if the apple were a deepfried macaroni ball.

The sight of it all turned his mouth into a river. “What is all this?” His stomach rumbled as his eyes feasted on the display, betraying him, but that was nothing new.

Earlier in quarantine he’d been frustrated with himself over his lack of willpower at his swelling weight, and soon enough he understood, and externalized that anger toward the entity that occupied his body: his appetite. It was a willful thing, prone to fits of unreasonable compulsions, and indifferent to his pleadings for decorum in public when it called upon him to shovel fistfuls of slop at his face. It didn’t negotiate, because it controlled him. This body wasn’t a temple, it was a cell that shrank upon him as it continued to grow.

“Go,” she said.

“I’m punching out. Fuck this.” He turned to leave, but her hand flashed and clamped onto his arm, nails sinking into pliable flesh like talons into prey. “Ow! What the fuck, Riley.” He tried to shake her off, but her physique belied her determined strength.

“I said eat it, you fat fucker.” Gone was the saccharine tone, a mask discarded. Twisting her grip, she forced his wincing face lower until he was looking up at her. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re on a diet, are you?” She flicked his sagging tit. “I’ve heard lots of people are trying to be more health-conscious these days. Something about an obesity epidemic.”

He rubbed his stinging nipple, baffled. Shame, exhaustion, and anger were the kindling that set his flushed face alight. She was malicious, he knew it, but that she’d lost her fucking mind, he should have known.  “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m calling HR. I’ll get transferred. I’ll quit. Just let go, you demented bitch.”

Her laughter jellied his spine.

“You won’t, Hoggy. I already have an open-file typed up for review. Apparently you’ve been a very bad employee. Such unsavory conduct. Stealing from the kitchen and the register? The company does more than frown on that behavior. They squash it.” She clucked her tongue. “And such a shame about the sexual misconduct allegations. With everyone stuck inside, Twitter is absolutely starved for a story about a desperate little morsel like you to tear apart. So choose your fate: the court of public opinion, or you and a public defender versus corporate's team of lawyers. Either way, you’re a wad of fat waiting to get chewed up. So do as you’re told, and mama will keep you safe,” she licked her lips, “and fed.”    

“That—none of that is true!”

“You’re just so naive,” she cupped his cheek, then slapped it. “The truth is relative, Hoggy. Alternative facts and all that. Very in vogue right now. Besides, I have the ledgers and testimonials to prove it.”

His arm flopped to his side. “This’s some kinda conspiracy.”

“You could call it a kind of blackmail.” She tapped a thoughtful finger on the crease of her double chin theatrically before smirking, “Fat-mail even. Go and eat, unless you want me to send that HR file out. Besides, it’s rude to leave a hostesses’ table without cleaning your plate.”

He peered over his shoulder, but Riley’s leer sent his head snapping back like it was spring-loaded. The glint in her eyes disquieted him. Excitement? Anticipation? He couldn’t tell, but the way she watched made him feel bare as a babe. He squirmed his arms beneath the sagging perch of his breasts, desperate to feel covered. Just give her what she wants and she’ll leave me alone.

Standing at the table’s edge, gaping in awe at the spread, he scarcely noticed the steel lip bisect his belly as he leaned further in. He was hateful over how hungry the frier oil and sugar made him. He plucked a mozzarella log, thick as a cigar, and brought it to his mouth, the breading scraped his lips, tickled them, the caress left them tingling. In a snap he sliced through and the end tumbled, landing on his tongue. Smoky flavor and cheese filled his mouth. The back of his neck tingled in ecstasy as he chewed. He reached for another without hesitation.

“Don’t forget the marinara, Henry,” she said, her heavy breaths dampening the back of his neck.

As he chewed he heaved a silver serving spoon and sliced into the crust of the baked pasta. The shell cracked beneath the force, issuing forth a bubbling geyser of molten cheese and macaroni elbows. He sawed the spoon through the layers and lifted a slice to his mouth. The ambrosial mingling of texture, flavor, and heat was an orchestra that consumed him. With each chew he felt his conscious mind, the caged sensible portion of himself locked away in the fat swaddled prison fade further into the recesses. He saw himself, from a distance, sliding the metal edge of the spoon back into the half-finished tray of pasta whilst the other hand gripped a fistful of potato wedges drowned in a sluice of sour cream.

Stop! What are you doing? He shouted as he sunk into that faraway place, the warden now the prisoner. He recognized the futility. That part of himself, indulging with abandon, was ancient. Primal. Something people kept shackled in the darkness, but nonetheless dwelled, pacing its cage, never resting, waiting for the moments when control slipped. And he knew, always had, that when the door slipped open it wasn’t a thing to be placed back.

Overbearing weight pressed on his back. Arms snaked around his middle, one clamping on a drooping breast while the other hooked a thumb in his bellybutton and shook his stomach with violence. Damp rasps and gasps blasted against his neck, a morse code transmitted in primal pants. Nails raked along his shoulders, slipped between the fleshy rolls sloping off his sides, piercing him, threatening, promising, to ravage him. The gusts hastened on his neck.

“Goddamn, Henry,” her breath moistened the rim of his ear as she leaned onto him. “You’re a bull. A hog! If you could see yourself right now.”   

“Mmph.” Was the most articulation his body could muster, but from the deep dregs where his conscious mind dwelled, he screamed his disdain for her.

“You’re going to eat yourself to death. Did you ever think you’d be so fat in your whole life? Could you imagine it?” She gripped the sides of his gut and shook it to the point he needed to grip the table for support.

Her rough clawing at his hips jostled his fat, each shake transmitted through fat lead to his crotch. His loins stirred. The pressure mounted at his fly. A horde at the gate, battering it down. The spoon fell forgotten with a clank in the empty pan.

She gripped his love handles and steered him back toward the table. “I didn’t say stop, lard barrel! Keep eat—“

He swung about, breaking her grip. Stumbling back in a quake, her tempestuous face was colored by shock, and then sudden fury.

The unbound primordial within yearned for simple things.

Fight. Feast. Fuck.

He watched his body move from that distant place, saw himself lift a burger and wave it at her face. Her chin creases doubled, tripled as she angled her head down and away from his offering.

Then in a thick voice not wholly his own, “You like this. Food and fat. Don’t you?” His hand lurched, slow yet confident, and clasped her dense hip. Her brow knotted, mouth twisted in objection, but he didn’t falter. Suddenly, she pressed against him and took an impressive chomp of the dripping burger. Her moaning resonated within the acoustics of his broad chest. He could read the desire from the frequency emitted.

Behind his own eyes he was awestruck by the sight of Riley literally eating out of his hand. She had been cowed by the entity—his, will. Was this who he truly was? Or had something been stirred loose by these strange circumstances?

Riley’s dextrous tongue lapping at the sauce on his palm dismissed the thought altogether. The burger had been devoured, but her expression told him she was hungry for something else.

She nibbled her lip, scraped it against her teeth and flicked her tongue at him. “Fuck me, you grease bucket.”

Hooking her thumbs into the straining waistband of her leggings she pushed them down as she shimmied. Her hips rolled over the top as she unleashed her fat from it’s constraints. Cellulite speckled thighs as wide as his waist wobbled as they smushed against one another. She grunted with lust and exhaustion until she managed to kick the crumpled material into a pool around her ankles. Her belly sagged and swayed, a wobbling pendulum settling into a droop. She ran her hands through her hair and shook it out over her shoulders. The look on her face was invitation enough.

He swept the table clear, smashing the plates to the floor, and pushed her back against the surface. She hopped up, her aqueous hips spreading like encroaching armies seizing lands for their empress. Then she spread her thighs as far as she could manage, hoisting her gut from between her lap, exposing the castle gate.

“Prove you can use that mouth for something other than crushing burgers,” she purred, leaning back as her eyes drooping in an anticipatory haze.

The question of what she wore under those leggings revealed itself at that moment. He moistened his lips, pleased by the result.

Despite his gut churning the remnants of his conquest within its coffers, he found his hunger unabated. He kneeled, shrugging each mammoth thigh over his shoulders, and burrowed his face between the suffocating embrace of her thighs, grateful to use his jaw for something other than chewing.

He didn’t each much fruit these days, but as the sweet secretions of her juices dribbled down his chin as he worked her, he thought he might consider the addition to his diet.

Dessert is served.

[executiverogue]

On 5/27/2022 at 7:26 PM, denbu said:

** I'm conflicted about some of the elements in this chapter. Originally I had an idea about Henry embodying a Jekyll/Hyde dichotomy of sorts. When he gets pushed past a certain level of being full, a dark, almost supernatural entity, would overtake him. I liked the idea of him battling for control with his appetite personified; a more hedonistic, domineering, and confident splinter personality. I guess it was also almost like a Werewolf story in that sense. I had some ideas about how that dynamic could play out, but I wasn't totally sold on the idea, so I only half-committed. If anyone has any thoughts about that, I'd love to hear them. **

 

***

 

Lights out, doors locked, and no double-wide asses overflowing the booths. Henry never saw the restaurant so empty. It was almost peaceful.

He relished the tranquility as he steered the rough pole of the push broom, plowing through the garbage in the feeding pen. Back aching, knees numb, and yet he still managed to fall into a methodical process. He gave his face a quick smack. Exactly that kind of complacency that kept me here.

He forced himself to focus on the grotesque reality of his duty: melted cheese globs congealed into neon-yellow stalactites beneath the tables that needed to be scrapped with a putty knife, puddles of tacky soda which sucked at his shoes, ketchup drenched pickle chips frozen halfway in their sliding descent on every vertical surface, and half eaten fries, nuggets, buns, and other crumbs covered the rest. Grimacing at the growing collection of debris at the end of the broom, he was certain there were tidier demolition sites. He was more surprised than anything at how much remained uneaten.

But most surprising was that Riley left him to his task unharassed tonight. After shoving a broom into his hands and directing him to the floor, she tucked the register drawer under her arm and sequestered herself in the manager’s office. Glancing at the clock above the door he felt a rise of excitement. Nearly Midnight. If he could make it through the night without having to see her it would be the saving grace for his day.

“Henry!” His heart lurched. “Pull the chicken strips out of your ears and get your chunky tits back here, porky!”

He hoisted the broom, held it with both hands like a spear, and approached the kitchen. When he pushed through the double-doors Riley’s back was to him, bent and fussing over a table.

Because of the enormous spike in demand, she was in the kitchen more often than not lately, and so he rarely saw her on the floor or behind the counter. Most of their bickering was done through the tiny window separating their workspaces. Now, exposed in full view, he was taken aback to witness her in full. Bent at the waist, and splay-legged, she blocked the entirety of the table. Her calves were barrels with no clear segmentation of where her ankles should have tapered in. Cankles they call those. How does she even fit on socks?

Further up were those pancake stacked thighs, which despite her stance, still leaned against one another, mashed from the knee up. Hips swaying as she worked, made her pants swish with friction. The industrial grade leggings she wore did nothing to obscure the calamitous expanse of ass, which quivered and shook in various directions and tempos, each section moving independent of its neighbor, like plates of jelly, jam, and jello all placed next to another. The display mesmerized and terrified, the dance of a viper before it strikes.

A year ago even his most hellacious nightmares could never have conjured such an abominable parody of a woman’s body with which to torment him, but now, after a year at the grotesquerie of the Artery Attacker, he’d been exposed to the replete and loathsome exhibits it could produce.

To see her like this, he reflected on the wasted potential. She was an affliction since the day he met her, a modern pox, but at least early quarantine she wasn’t…this. At one time she’d been slim—fit even. And he wasn’t one to complain whenever she reached for something on a high shelf and exposed a firm mid-drift, or strutted around the floor in those tight black jeans she used to wear all the time. The ones that really hugged the hang of her cheeks… And sure, she didn’t have much for a chest, but they still had a nice perk to them. Plus, it usually meant she went braless most days, and that made Winter a great time to work.

“Aaaand done,” she said.

She sunk her hands into the plush of her lower back and straightened with an unladylike grunt. He didn’t think it possible, but somehow she metamorphosed into something even more monstrous. Leaning over, the backs of her legs had been smoothed by the stretch, but now upright, the full extent of her weight pressed down, sagging over, and became an undulating flesh ocean, textured by a pastiche of isolated dimples and divots interspersed across a sea of creases and ridges like an archipelago. The transition from placid lake to rollicking ocean brought him from flaccid to inverted. Her cheeks sagged, forming a ridge until they rested against the back of her thighs, and the canyon of her crack vacuumed the fabric into its depth, presenting him with a true Schrodinger’s ass. She was either wearing a thong, or nothing at all, but rather than life-or-death, it was a question between which option would deliver him quicker relief: dunking his head in the hot fry oil, or jabbing his eyes out with the broom’s handle.

He thumbed the blunted end of the wood in his hand.

She shimmied. “Is my ass perking your prick, perv?”

He held the broom across his chest. “If there were anywhere I could look and not see it, believe me I would.”

“I get it must be hard to find any woman who compares to your mother, but I’m sure you’ll find her.”

He threw the broom down. “What do you want, Riley? I’m just about done on the floor and ready to punch out.”

“Relax, Henry,” she giggled.

Henry? Her demeanor disturbed him. She turned to face him and what he saw only elevated his distress.

“Why’re you smiling? Stealing more food?”

She waddled up to him, the swells of their guts brushed. “How long you been here now?”

He took a step back but her girth still bared upon him. “I dunno, like a year?”

“Fifteen months, Henry.” She stroked the side of his belly, slid her palm to the underhang where his shirt couldn’t cover, and tickled him with gentle scratches. “And how much did you weigh when you started?”

He pawed at her hand, blushing. “I don’t know! What’s it matter to you?”

“Are you hungry?”

Despite being easily a foot shorter than him he blanched at the authority she commanded.

“Wh—no, I’m fine.”

“I made you something. Look.”

Her saddlebag cleared from his view like a waning eclipse to reveal a table overflowing end-to-end with a deep-fried banquet. Goblets of mozzarella sticks bursting with pearly molten cheese, multi-tiered burgers with sauce waterfalls flowing between the patties, an avalanching bowl of chips, a rainbow spread of dips, crimson sauce smattered wings, catering trays of pasta with crumbled cheese-baked crusts. The rest went on, every color, texture, shape, and temptation imaginable. Despite the dingy kitchen lighting, the golden crisped crusts glistened with fresh frier oil like diamonds. Their whole menu stretched before him, a halcyon vision of indulgent paradise.

Her smile was duplicitous as the serpent hanging from the branch beckoning him to taste the sweetest fruit in the garden—if the apple were a deepfried macaroni ball.

The sight of it all turned his mouth into a river. “What is all this?” His stomach rumbled as his eyes feasted on the display, betraying him, but that was nothing new.

Earlier in quarantine he’d been frustrated with himself over his lack of willpower at his swelling weight, and soon enough he understood, and externalized that anger toward the entity that occupied his body: his appetite. It was a willful thing, prone to fits of unreasonable compulsions, and indifferent to his pleadings for decorum in public when it called upon him to shovel fistfuls of slop at his face. It didn’t negotiate, because it controlled him. This body wasn’t a temple, it was a cell that shrank upon him as it continued to grow.

“Go,” she said.

“I’m punching out. Fuck this.” He turned to leave, but her hand flashed and clamped onto his arm, nails sinking into pliable flesh like talons into prey. “Ow! What the fuck, Riley.” He tried to shake her off, but her physique belied her determined strength.

“I said eat it, you fat fucker.” Gone was the saccharine tone, a mask discarded. Twisting her grip, she forced his wincing face lower until he was looking up at her. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re on a diet, are you?” She flicked his sagging tit. “I’ve heard lots of people are trying to be more health-conscious these days. Something about an obesity epidemic.”

He rubbed his stinging nipple, baffled. Shame, exhaustion, and anger were the kindling that set his flushed face alight. She was malicious, he knew it, but that she’d lost her fucking mind, he should have known.  “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m calling HR. I’ll get transferred. I’ll quit. Just let go, you demented bitch.”

Her laughter jellied his spine.

“You won’t, Hoggy. I already have an open-file typed up for review. Apparently you’ve been a very bad employee. Such unsavory conduct. Stealing from the kitchen and the register? The company does more than frown on that behavior. They squash it.” She clucked her tongue. “And such a shame about the sexual misconduct allegations. With everyone stuck inside, Twitter is absolutely starved for a story about a desperate little morsel like you to tear apart. So choose your fate: the court of public opinion, or you and a public defender versus corporate's team of lawyers. Either way, you’re a wad of fat waiting to get chewed up. So do as you’re told, and mama will keep you safe,” she licked her lips, “and fed.”    

“That—none of that is true!”

“You’re just so naive,” she cupped his cheek, then slapped it. “The truth is relative, Hoggy. Alternative facts and all that. Very in vogue right now. Besides, I have the ledgers and testimonials to prove it.”

His arm flopped to his side. “This’s some kinda conspiracy.”

“You could call it a kind of blackmail.” She tapped a thoughtful finger on the crease of her double chin theatrically before smirking, “Fat-mail even. Go and eat, unless you want me to send that HR file out. Besides, it’s rude to leave a hostesses’ table without cleaning your plate.”

He peered over his shoulder, but Riley’s leer sent his head snapping back like it was spring-loaded. The glint in her eyes disquieted him. Excitement? Anticipation? He couldn’t tell, but the way she watched made him feel bare as a babe. He squirmed his arms beneath the sagging perch of his breasts, desperate to feel covered. Just give her what she wants and she’ll leave me alone.

Standing at the table’s edge, gaping in awe at the spread, he scarcely noticed the steel lip bisect his belly as he leaned further in. He was hateful over how hungry the frier oil and sugar made him. He plucked a mozzarella log, thick as a cigar, and brought it to his mouth, the breading scraped his lips, tickled them, the caress left them tingling. In a snap he sliced through and the end tumbled, landing on his tongue. Smoky flavor and cheese filled his mouth. The back of his neck tingled in ecstasy as he chewed. He reached for another without hesitation.

“Don’t forget the marinara, Henry,” she said, her heavy breaths dampening the back of his neck.

As he chewed he heaved a silver serving spoon and sliced into the crust of the baked pasta. The shell cracked beneath the force, issuing forth a bubbling geyser of molten cheese and macaroni elbows. He sawed the spoon through the layers and lifted a slice to his mouth. The ambrosial mingling of texture, flavor, and heat was an orchestra that consumed him. With each chew he felt his conscious mind, the caged sensible portion of himself locked away in the fat swaddled prison fade further into the recesses. He saw himself, from a distance, sliding the metal edge of the spoon back into the half-finished tray of pasta whilst the other hand gripped a fistful of potato wedges drowned in a sluice of sour cream.

Stop! What are you doing? He shouted as he sunk into that faraway place, the warden now the prisoner. He recognized the futility. That part of himself, indulging with abandon, was ancient. Primal. Something people kept shackled in the darkness, but nonetheless dwelled, pacing its cage, never resting, waiting for the moments when control slipped. And he knew, always had, that when the door slipped open it wasn’t a thing to be placed back.

Overbearing weight pressed on his back. Arms snaked around his middle, one clamping on a drooping breast while the other hooked a thumb in his bellybutton and shook his stomach with violence. Damp rasps and gasps blasted against his neck, a morse code transmitted in primal pants. Nails raked along his shoulders, slipped between the fleshy rolls sloping off his sides, piercing him, threatening, promising, to ravage him. The gusts hastened on his neck.

“Goddamn, Henry,” her breath moistened the rim of his ear as she leaned onto him. “You’re a bull. A hog! If you could see yourself right now.”   

“Mmph.” Was the most articulation his body could muster, but from the deep dregs where his conscious mind dwelled, he screamed his disdain for her.

“You’re going to eat yourself to death. Did you ever think you’d be so fat in your whole life? Could you imagine it?” She gripped the sides of his gut and shook it to the point he needed to grip the table for support.

Her rough clawing at his hips jostled his fat, each shake transmitted through fat lead to his crotch. His loins stirred. The pressure mounted at his fly. A horde at the gate, battering it down. The spoon fell forgotten with a clank in the empty pan.

She gripped his love handles and steered him back toward the table. “I didn’t say stop, lard barrel! Keep eat—“

He swung about, breaking her grip. Stumbling back in a quake, her tempestuous face was colored by shock, and then sudden fury.

The unbound primordial within yearned for simple things.

Fight. Feast. Fuck.

He watched his body move from that distant place, saw himself lift a burger and wave it at her face. Her chin creases doubled, tripled as she angled her head down and away from his offering.

Then in a thick voice not wholly his own, “You like this. Food and fat. Don’t you?” His hand lurched, slow yet confident, and clasped her dense hip. Her brow knotted, mouth twisted in objection, but he didn’t falter. Suddenly, she pressed against him and took an impressive chomp of the dripping burger. Her moaning resonated within the acoustics of his broad chest. He could read the desire from the frequency emitted.

Behind his own eyes he was awestruck by the sight of Riley literally eating out of his hand. She had been cowed by the entity—his, will. Was this who he truly was? Or had something been stirred loose by these strange circumstances?

Riley’s dextrous tongue lapping at the sauce on his palm dismissed the thought altogether. The burger had been devoured, but her expression told him she was hungry for something else.

She nibbled her lip, scraped it against her teeth and flicked her tongue at him. “Fuck me, you grease bucket.”

Hooking her thumbs into the straining waistband of her leggings she pushed them down as she shimmied. Her hips rolled over the top as she unleashed her fat from it’s constraints. Cellulite speckled thighs as wide as his waist wobbled as they smushed against one another. She grunted with lust and exhaustion until she managed to kick the crumpled material into a pool around her ankles. Her belly sagged and swayed, a wobbling pendulum settling into a droop. She ran her hands through her hair and shook it out over her shoulders. The look on her face was invitation enough.

He swept the table clear, smashing the plates to the floor, and pushed her back against the surface. She hopped up, her aqueous hips spreading like encroaching armies seizing lands for their empress. Then she spread her thighs as far as she could manage, hoisting her gut from between her lap, exposing the castle gate.

“Prove you can use that mouth for something other than crushing burgers,” she purred, leaning back as her eyes drooping in an anticipatory haze.

The question of what she wore under those leggings revealed itself at that moment. He moistened his lips, pleased by the result.

Despite his gut churning the remnants of his conquest within its coffers, he found his hunger unabated. He kneeled, shrugging each mammoth thigh over his shoulders, and burrowed his face between the suffocating embrace of her thighs, grateful to use his jaw for something other than chewing.

He didn’t each much fruit these days, but as the sweet secretions of her juices dribbled down his chin as he worked her, he thought he might consider the addition to his diet.

Dessert is served.

I personally don't like the Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde thing. But I do love Riley domineering Henry until he dominates her back, exploring gluttony and lust. Very hot. 

[Guest denbu]

1 hour ago, executiverogue said:

I personally don't like the Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde thing. But I do love Riley domineering Henry until he dominates her back, exploring gluttony and lust. Very hot. 

Thanks for the feedback. I guess we're of a like-mind, because I wasn't totally sold on the idea either. Glad you are enjoying Riley. A somewhat sadistic, antagonistic feeder is something I also enjoy.