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Hi all, My second story, hope you enjoy. Fair warning - this story contains brother-sister elements throughout. Chapter 1: The Storm ‘Escape to Jamaica, the Heartbeat of the World...’. Tom regarded the colourful billboard across the street with silent distain. A suspiciously attractive couple smile back at him through two sets of perfect white teeth. Overflowing glasses of what appeared to be fruit punch chink together merrily in the foreground, whilst behind a tropical paradise of sun, sand, and sea faded into the horizon. He’d not managed a foreign holiday in three long years. Money had been unpleasantly tight ever since his dad had left home. The revelation of his father’s longstanding affair had rocked the previously strong family unit, and in a matter of days Tom had been unwillingly promoted from firstborn son to ‘man of the house’. With that came a burden to support his stay-at-home mother, and now the majority of his meagre pay-packet was spent simply keeping the lights on in their grim South London council house. His mum was a kind but simple woman. A dazzling beauty in her day, she’d been swept off her feet by his wheeler-dealer dad and settled down by the tender age of 20. Lacking any useful qualifications she’d focused instead on making a home for her family whilst her husband worked a local market stall. Tom came first, then his sister Penelope two years later. Their childhood, at least what he could remember of it, had been perfectly happy. Then his dad left and everything changed. His mother had turned to the fridge for comfort, and grown fat as she consoled herself with cake. More often than not he would come home from a long and tiring shift at the local fast food establishment to find her plopped on the couch waiting expectantly for him to present her with the day’s leftover food, which they ate together for dinner most nights. Her good looks had quickly been swallowed up by the encroaching blubber. His sister had taken a different approach, becoming ever more distant and sullen through her formative teenage years. Now aged 18 she had all of mother’s former beauty but none of her kindness, and was generally a dark cloud over the household whenever she was home. A crash of thunder rumbles high above. Tom looks up just in time for the first fat rain drop to land squarely between his eyes. He blinks stupidly and curses under his breath, “brilliant, bloody brilliant...”. If he hadn’t stopped to stare at that damn poster he’d be sheltering at the bus stop by now. He sets off hurriedly, arriving two minutes later drenched through from head to toe. His trainers squelch awkwardly underfoot as he finally steps out of the rain, which even now appeared to be turning to hail. The thin grey hoodie he’d donned that morning clung to his body, accentuating the generous curve of his potbelly. The storm had come out of nowhere, and he certainly wasn’t dressed for the occasion. Tom pants to catch his breath. He knew he was out of shape, but even so was surprised at quite how much of a struggle that short jog had been. Perhaps a few too many greasy leftovers taken home following his shifts at the local McDonalds? He resolved to eat better in the future. Tom hated being overweight, but lacked the willpower to do anything about it. He’d resigned himself to always being a hopeless fatty, Open on three sides and covered above by a thin plastic roof, the bus stop certainly wasn’t a perfect protection from the elements. The howling winds stung as they whipped across his face. Tom shrugged off his backpack and settled himself on one of two small plastic seats against the shelter’s single wall. ‘125 to Southfields - 7 minutes’ confirmed the digital display affixed to the roof. A small mercy, he thought, at least he hadn’t missed his ride home. ‘Thud’, ‘thud’, ‘thud’. The pounding on the roof intensifies, interspersed with deep rumbles of thunder. Hail stones as large as marbles smash into the pavement all around. What was going on with this weather? A shadow looms to his left. Squinting through the haze he sees a figure approaching. A large black umbrella quivers in the wind, obscuring its holder from view. As the new arrival reaches the threshold of the bus stop a particularly fierce gust rips the umbrella from their grasp and carries it off into the distance. The umbrella’s former owner is a young woman, in her late 20s if Tom had to guess. A cascade of wavy red hair frames a pretty face. Or, he reconsiders, what would have probably been a pretty face were it not for the thick layer of chub surrounding it. This girl was chunky. Very chunky. A generous pair of tits rest atop a wobbly belly, poorly contained beneath a strained and sodden jumper. A greedy gut bulges over the waistband of her jeans, into which are packed two thunderous legs. Lumps and bumps of cellulite are visible through the tightly stretched fabric, like overstuffed sausages close to bursting their casing. Tom had never been into fatties, and if he had to guess this newcomer was at least 150 pounds north of good-looking. She catches his eye and breathes a heavy sigh of relief. “I thought for a minute I’d get blown away too!”. It would take gale force winds to lift that fat arse off the ground, Tom thinks, but he keeps this to himself and murmurs in agreement. The beached whale waddles towards the spare seat beside him. Tom’s eyes dart nervously to her bulbous thighs. He wonders if the cheap plastic seat will support her considerable heft. The bolts attaching it to the wall creak and groan as she gingerly sits down, but mercifully hold. A fat cheek overflows from her seat and presses into his thigh, soft and warm. They sit in silence for a minute or two, watching the storm steadily worsen from their modest shelter. Another rumble of thunder, this time from right beside him. Turning, Tom catches the woman’s cheeks flush red with embarrassment. Her belly gurgles again, loud and angry. “Sorry”, she mumbled bashfully, “I’m so hungry. Didn’t manage to grab lunch today. I feel a little feint...”. Loathe as he was to enable her evidently poor diet in the same way that he did with his mother’s, the idea of this behemoth feinting and collapsing onto him wasn’t exactly appealing either. He reached into his backpack and procured a brown McDonald’s bag containing that day’s leftovers. “Please”, he insisted, pressing it into her hands, “rather you than me. I’m trying to watch my weight”. He patted his belly, feeling it jiggle awkwardly for a moment afterwards. Relief washed over the woman’s cherubic face. “Oh, you’re too kind!”, she called back over the ever worsening winds. They exchanged names - hers was Jennifer. She peered into the bag and licked her plump lips greedily. Clearly her lardy arse approved of his unhealthy offering. Sausages fingers descend into the bag and reappear with a greasy burger in their grip. As Jennifer’s mouth opened wide a thick double chin grows a temporary third companion. Tom watched, transfixed, as she gobbled down the burger and then set to work on a dozen McNuggets. He thought he’d established the source of her obvious weight problem. If only this piggy had been waiting at the bus stop to snuffle down all the fast food he’d previously brought home, Tom considered. The extra padding insulating his middle would be around her own instead. Would she even notice another 30 pounds spread over her vast wobbling body? Somehow he doubted it. ‘Crash!’. A hail stone the size of a grapefruit smashed to the ground directly ahead. Tom wrenched his attention away from his grazing companion and watched aghast as the storm intensifies. The skies darken suddenly, reducing visibility even further. The dim glow emitted from the small digital display above quickly becoming their best and only light source. ‘Crack!’, the bus stop’s Plexiglas roof begins to splinter under the strain. Tom stands, pressing his back into the shelter. He felt the structure quivering ominously in the wind and wonders how long it will hold. A pudgy hand grasps his own. Looking down he sees Jennifer’s frightened face staring back at him, wide-eyed and helpless. The remaining nuggets have dropped to the floor, bouncing around as they are picked up by the wind. He calls out to her, but can’t hear his own voice over the drumbeat of wind against his ears. The last thing Tom remembered was a brilliant flash of lighting striking the ground just ahead of them. The forked burst of energy blasted him off his feet, slamming back into the shelter with a sickening crunch as the world fades to darkness...

Hi all, This is a story that I have been working on for some time but had been waiting to post until complete. It's a tale of a young man whose lust for his mom sets him down a magical, time-bending, and fattening path. I hope you enjoy. Mom and the Magic Ring By Vigilante Prologue: The Lady and the Ring ‘Splash, splash, splash’. Prudence Pole was usually asleep at this hour, a quarter past two in the morning, but tonight her hurried footsteps through ankle-deep water echoed loudly off the sewer walls. Under ordinary circumstances a lady of her standing, the youngest of an old and noble family, wouldn’t have stepped foot in a place like this - where the filth of Plymouth City channelled into the sea - but desperate times called for desperate measures. - - - - Two years ago she had been the sole heiress to a sizeable estate and immeasurable fortune. Pole ancestry boasted some of the greatest explorers that the world had ever seen. Her family had discovered new lands, and grown enormously wealthy off the resources they had plundered. That had finished over three generations ago of course. Nowadays the Pole’s sat back and enjoyed the material riches that their forebears had acquired, an art which Prudence had refined to dizzying new heights. In-between the partying, socialising, and extravagant living, Prudence was patiently waiting for her parents to agree on an appropriate marriage. At least, that’s what she wanted them to think... Since the tender age of 16, she had been involved in a scandalous romance with Edward, one of the family’s stable boys. Though initially intending to spite her parents by choosing a poor (or perhaps the worst available) match, she was quickly swept off her feet by the young man’s kindness, sincerity, and host of other virtues in which Prudence herself was sorely lacking. With every passing month she fell deeper in love, and by 20 they were scheming their elopement and a new life far away from the city. That was, until his untimely death in a hunting accident. It plunged her into a deep depression that consumed her every waking moment, to the point that she couldn’t even bear to leave her room. Her parents, concerned that their only progeny was going to waste away in her ivory tower, sent for doctors and healers from across the land, with the promise of wealth and power for any that could bring their daughter back to them. Over the following years many came knocking on her bedroom door, but all left disappointed. That was, until an unexpected arrival one cool summer evening - an elderly woman, with skin as dark as the night sky - who spoke of arcane magic and voodoo restoration. Prudence’s parents might have turned her away at the beginning, but they were now so desperate to find an answer to their daughter’s strife that they welcomed her into their home with open arms. The voodoo healer had started much the same as her forbears, asking questions about Prudence’s life, deducing that her affliction was one of a broken heart. But as Prudence stared into the woman’s cold, black eyes, she found herself strangely entranced, unable to look away, and before she could stop herself was telling her about Edward, their undying love, his accident, and the empty void this had left in her life. Words tumbled out of her mouth like blood gushing from an open wound, and the woman listened silently. When finished, Prudence had slumped back in her chair, out of breath and out of sorts, while the woman had risen from her seat and moved over to the fire that was cracking softy in an impressive stone hearth. She began chanting in strange tongues and casting an odd collection of objects from her long, matted overcoat into the flames. They danced blue-green, and as Prudence stared she saw flickers of Edward’s face amongst the soot and smoke. The woman asked for a trinket of her lover’s, something touched by his own hands. To her dismay, Prudence had realised that she had only one such object in her possession, a black onyx ring that he had gifted her on her 18th birthday. It was a common gemstone in an ornate but cheap bronze setting, worth no more than a single silver shilling, but she treasured it far above the many other precious jewels that her name bequeathed. As much as it pained her, the brief glimpse of Edward’s face in the fire had given her a sense of hope, like there might be something to live for after all. After a moment’s hesitation, she tore the ring off her finger and, shaking, handed it to the woman. As the healer held it in her hands above the fire, she turned to Prudence and said in her deep, raspy voice, “my people lived a solitary and peaceful existence. I was a child when they arrived, your ancestors. We did not speak their language, but we understood their intentions soon enough. They took our land, our idols, our food. We were left with nothing and forced to flee - many never made it, starved to death as we sought out a new home. Such unimaginable hunger…”. Her beady black eyes narrowed. The hairs on the back of Prudence’s neck stood to attention. “The ring will grant you the power you seek, to bend history to your will. But at a price. You will atone for your crimes against my people. Rewrite your story, but beware the flap of the butterfly’s wings”. With that, the aged healer opened her palm towards the floor and let the ring tumble downwards. As it grazed the fire’s tallest flame there was a flash of light, an earth-shattering ‘bang’, and a blast that knocked Prudence of her feet. Darkness overcame her. She had awoken to the sound of panicked voices. Her young maid, Eugene, rushing across the room to sit down by her side, her mother’s cries of relief that her daughter was shaken but unharmed, and her father’s violent curses about the voodoo healer, who had slipped past his guards and out of the estate without being seen or heard by a soul. It was many hours later that Prudence had ushered the last of them out of her room, and rushed over to her fireplace. Plunging her hands into the sooty remains - the last of the embers had died some time ago - her hand closed around a warm metal object, and heart racing, she pulled out the blacked ring. Wasting no time at all, and all but disregarding the healer’s ominous threats, she had forced it back onto her bony finger and mustered all of her energy, thinking back to the day of Edward’s accident. And it had worked. She couldn’t explain how, but on opening her eyes Prudence was no longer stood in the middle of her sooted bedroom, but rather outside the aged Manor House gates. A horn sounded from behind them, and they creaked open, revealing a large hunting party headed-up by her father’s large grey destrier, and by its side... Edward. If he had been surprised by his secret lover’s appearance, dressed only in her nightgown, outside the gates, it was nothing compared to Prudence’s shock at seeing him standing before her. Thankfully she was accosted by her family’s guards before she could lunge herself at him, and thinking on her feet, span a hasty lie about wanting to go riding that morning and needing her horse to be attended to. It was not long before she was walking back towards the stables with Edward, as the hunting party rode-off deep into the forest. She took him there and then, amidst the muck and dirt of the stables. Purest pleasure pulsed through her veins as she rode back and forth atop him, and afterwards, they made plans to leave the house the very next day and start their new life together. As she lay down to rest that evening, Prudence closed her eyes and wished herself back to the present... - - - - Prudence splashed through the sewer, wheeling around a corner and coming to a fork in the tunnel. Curses! What had the city guard she bribed told her...? Left...? She dived down the leftmost passage, and as the long tunnel stretched out into the darkness ahead, she drifted back into her reverie... - - - - Prudence had opened her eyes to the drab interior of a bunkhouse room, the hustle and bustle of a busy market street audible through an open window. A baby cried from a raggedy old cot at the foot of her bed, and she sat up gingerly, getting out of bed to try and make sense of her surroundings. As she took her first step, Prudence felt an odd sensation around her midriff, and looked down to inspect herself. She was... fat! A pasty white belly bulged out from beneath her tits, and as her hands moved around her body she felt rolls where there had previously been curves, and pudge where there had previously been muscle. How could this have happened?! The baby cried again, louder this time, and Prudence moved over to the crib, picking it up and rocking it gently. It rested its head against her heavy breasts and dozed quietly, while Prudence’s mind whirled. She waited for hours, in the hope that Edward would walk through the door and help her piece together her missing memories. After what seemed like an age there was a scratching of keys at the door. Blackened and tired-looking, he trudged into the room, and after he had settled down on a threadbare armchair Prudence coaxed the truth out of him. They had arrived in London two weeks after having fled her parent’s estate. It was not long afterwards they discovered that two would become three – Prudence had fallen pregnant after their romp in the barn. Edward had taken the first job he could get, down at the wharf, while Prudence had put her feet up at home and... gorged herself. Going from pampered heiress to a lowly expectant mother was clearly quite a change of pace, and apparently, her willpower wasn’t as strong as she thought. By the time she was due the midwife thought she was expecting triplets. Instead, she delivered one healthy baby, and one obese mother, who was given a strict telling off for getting so plump. That hadn’t changed anything, however, and Edward noted bashfully that now Prudence was even larger than she was when she was ready to pop. She listened with increasing horror - how had this happened? The voodoo healer never warned her about such side effects. Or... had she? “The flap of the butterfly’s wing”... Atonement for the starvation of her people... Unimaginable hunger… Oh dear... As Prudence went to bed that evening, her belly full from the weight of the large dinner she had shovelled down - her new body was ravenous - she considered her next move. Perhaps she could make the best of this? Weight gain aside, she finally had what she wanted - Edward, freedom, a family - maybe she’d stay here and make this work. She rolled over to embrace him, but as the rolls of her stomach touched his back, he shuddered and grunted, “oh... not tonight darling... not since... well, you know I preferred your old body...”. No sex. Prudence closed her eyes and, in a flash, was standing back outside the Manor House gates. It was time for a re-write. As the hunting horn sounded she readied herself for a second encounter with Edward, but had been shocked to discover that her added girth had stayed with her for the return journey! Surely someone would notice that she’d put on 50lbs overnight?! But they did not. As the hunting party faced her through the open gates, no one looked surprised to see a plump Prudence standing in front of them. When she told her father that she wanted to go on a horse ride he had even clapped his hands together with glee, and boomed, “physical exercise? Well, I’m not going to stand in the way of that!”. A few minutes later she and Edward had re-tread their footsteps back to the stables, and making sure that a brief kiss on the cheek was as lucky as he was going to get today, Prudence said her goodbyes and skipped back up to the Manor House. When out of sight, she closed her eyes and wished herself back to the present. The smell of freshly baked bread stung her nostrils. Opening her eyes, Prudence was momentarily overwhelmed by the swarm of people in front of her, all pointing and chatting loudly. “Come on dear, we’ve got hungry customers to feed!”, a familiar voice called from behind her, and wheeling around she saw Edward wearing a large chef’s hat and standing in an impressive open kitchen. Moving effortlessly, he rolled a large slab of dough, took a tray of sizzling brownies from an oven, and put the finishing touches to a tray of red-velvet cupcakes. Tearing her eyes away from Edward’s newfound culinary prowess, she took a moment to inspect in her surroundings. She was standing in a bright and airy bakery, behind a counter that was chocked full of goodies which a hungry public was waiting impatiently on the other side to purchase. The queue stretched out of the door and around the corner - it must be quite popular! She caught the name etched into the other side of the storefront, and managed to translate it from back to front. “Princess to Pauper Bakery, London, est. 1621”. So, had she and Edward moved to London and started up a shop? Well, it seemed to be going rather well, this was much more like it! Remembering why she had travelled back in the first place, Prudence grimaced and looked down at her body. What she saw made her heart fall like a stone. She was still fat - fatter even - her little apron bulging outwards on all sides, as it struggled to contain the corpulence within. She caught a glimpse of her profile in the metal over to her left - her belly jutted out further than it ever had, giving her the appearance of a soft, fat, pregnant lady, whilst her backside had grown saggier, counterbalancing the new weight around her middle. She had to be at least 100 pounds larger than she’d been before. She was shaken from her shock by a middle-aged woman shouting from across the counter, “come on, I haven’t got all day. These cakes must be to die for, I mean look at what they’ve done to you!”. Before she could muster a response, Edward bounded up behind her and reached an arm around her front, cupping her flabby belly. He bounced it softly and laughed, “when we opened up shop two years ago this was as flat as a washboard, but after I started leaving the leftovers for Prudence to snack on during the day...”, he lifted her blouse to reveal her soft lower belly to the onlookers, “it started to grow!”. Prudence blushed as the crowd of women in front of her craned their necks to get a look at her bulging tummy. Some gasped and pointed, others giggled and whispered behind hands to their neighbours. Edward continued, “in these difficult times, what with the poor harvests last year, it’s truly the sign of a remarkable product that a woman can eat herself up to this size. And in honour of my wife’s weight gain...”, he squeezed her gut with both hands, emphasising to the onlookers just how much fatty flesh was hanging off her middle, “today if you buy a dozen products, you’ll get a half-dozen free!”. The crowd hummed with excitement and rushed forwards, money clenched in shaking fists, and he pulled away, but not before whispering, “excellent, this should create quite the buzz around town. Make sure to eat double helpings of leftovers from now on - I want them to see you bigger every time they step through the door”. So she was his fattened advertisement? A walking billboard for how good his cakes were, that he’d let even his wife double or triple in size? Prudence closed her eyes, and in an instant, the smell of baked bread was replaced by morning dew, as she found herself back outside the increasingly familiar Manor House gates. She waited patiently for the sound of the hunting horn, which, like clockwork, sounded a few moments later. Out strode the hunting party, her father and Edward leading the charge, and she spun her now well-rehearsed tale about wanting to go for a morning ride. Her father looked back, confusion etched into his face, and said uncertainly, “but... darling, surely you remember... your horse is still unwell… his poor back...”. His cheeks shone red underneath his bushy grey beard. “I’ve been trying to buy you another, but finding one that can handle a woman of your... well it’s proving difficult. Perhaps if you were to lose a bit of weight...”, he trailed-off, avoiding her gaze. Prudence was surprised, though glancing down at her new wider body, she supposed it wasn’t that hard to believe. Thinking on the spot, she corrected herself and requested instead an able-bodied young man to assist her with rearranging her furniture, knowing full well only one of the hunting party before her fit the bill. And so it was that a short while later she and Edward were making the familiar trip across the lawn towards the stables. All the while, Prudence considered her next use of the ring. Being poor hadn’t worked out very well, and being self-made had been even worse, but perhaps if she was able to retain some of her wealth rather than leave it all behind that would make all the difference? Once they reached the relative solitude of the stables, they schemed to steal from her family vaults, and after a few days of preparation, staged a successful heist. They only took a fraction of the contents of course - a bit of old silverware, some of the less impressive jewels, a few gold bullion - but it was more than enough for the two of them to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. Once safely in their carriage to London town Prudence closed her eyes and wished herself back to the present... - - - - Prudence stumbled as her foot caught an uneven stone on the sewer floor, and flung her arm out to stop herself from falling. Mercifully, her hand grasped around a rocky outcrop, and she was able to steady herself before she came crashing down into the disease-ridden waters below. That was close - a broken ankle down here and she might not have any choice but to use the ring again, and that wasn’t an option she wished to explore. Prudence took a moment to collect herself, and then continued her journey, taking additional care to watch her step. She thought back to that fateful third use of her new powers... - - - - A light breeze swept across her face, as the air turned hot and humid, stinging her nostrils. Prudence opened her eyes to see a young woman wearing a silk veil across her face, fanning her softly. “You’re awake my Lady, I thought perhaps we had lost you all afternoon to this heat. Hottest summer in a century they say”. She wasn’t kidding - Prudence could feel the sweat dripping down her back, and still slightly dazed, swung her legs off the chaise lounge she was sitting on and tried to stand. But... she couldn’t... The veiled woman stopped fanning immediately and rushed down to put an arm around her, crying, “you should have warned me, my Lady, you know I’m here to help with such matters”. Grunting, she pulled Prudence up off the seat and into a standing position. Prudence gingerly attempted to walk forwards, but her legs were still struggling to move. She looked down to see what was the matter, and to her horror realised that she couldn’t see her legs at all! They were obscured by the crest of an enormous belly, which was as round and flabby as it had ever been. She turned towards a tall free-standing mirror in the corner of the room, and saw that she was even larger than before - rolls of fat bulging out in all directions. A shadow of her former beauty. “What... how... so fat?”, Prudence mumbled, as the woman guided Prudence closer to the mirror, the true extent of her weight gain becoming clearer with every shuddering step. The woman supporting one of her flabby arms replied cautiously, “well... when you moved here you hired me and the other girls to help out with cooking and cleaning, and it wasn’t long before... we started feeding you too”. Her cheeks flushed red, and she continued, “‘the ultimate decadence’ you called it. Not having to lift a finger, even to feed yourself. And, well... it didn’t take long for you to start... growing”. She hastened to add, “but I think you look fabulous my Lady, a true picture of wealth and elegance”. In truth, as she stared at her reflection all Prudence could see was a gluttonous piggy staring back at her. ‘Rumble’, ‘rumble’. The ground had started to shake, as if struck by a series of increasingly strong earthquakes, as something heavy moved closer and closer towards the open door. As the thunderous footsteps reached their peak, in walked an enormously fat man that Prudence didn’t recognise, or... did she? Edward?! If Prudence had considered herself to have gained weight, it was nothing compared to what had happened to her fit young lover. Edward’s hips were four times as wide as they used to be - overflowing with milky white blubber that poured over the top of the towel that was draped around his thighs. His belly hung low over his crotch, and he was not wearing a top at all, which highlighted the two juicy melons hanging from his chest. They were each larger than her head and bounced satisfyingly with every step. Edward waddled into the room and took a seat in a heavy reclined arm-chair, his fat bulging up against the sides. Two veiled women followed him into the room, carrying an assortment of desserts. One settled to his left and started hand feeding him chocolates from a silver platter, whilst the other stood to his right, and gently caressed his belly. Now seated, Prudence could see up the small towel he was wearing, but there was no sign of his manhood. It appeared to have been lost to the blubber closing in on all sides. The sight of her feminised, fattened boyfriend etched into her retinas, Prudence considered her next move. She would simply have to use the ring once more, until she found a way to fix this mess. And she did. Again and again, each trip proving more disastrous, and fatter, than the last. She tried staying and home and giving up on her dream of eloping, only to find that she’d been fattened up by her parents for a marriage to a wealthy bachelor with a penchant for the larger lady. She tried telling her parents about Edward and pleading with them to let him live with her at the Manor House, only to find that she’d been banished to a monastery in Italy where the matronly nuns had fed her up to the point that no man would want to sully her good name. She tried pleading with Edward to make sure she stayed thin over the next couple of years, no matter what she said or did to the contrary, only to find that he had started to enjoy watching her eat and get fat, turning into her dedicated feeder. She even tried breaking it off with Edward, as much as it pained her, only to find that seeing him with other girls had sent her into an even bigger spiral of depression, and had her overeating more than ever before. After this last jump, Prudence couldn’t bring herself to try again, the emotional and physical toll was becoming too much to bear. So over 350lbs heavier than when the ring had first graced her finger, and surrounded by the empty dessert trays that she just gorged herself on, Prudence sat on her balcony and watched Edward chatting to a busty housemaid in the grounds below. So engrossed was she in their conversation, that she barely registered that her young maid Eugene had joined her on the balcony. Eugene frowned as she surveyed the empty plates surrounding Prudence, “I thought your mother gave you strict instructions that sweets were off-limits until you could fit into last year’s birthday gown?”. She followed Prudence’s gaze out across the grounds towards the stables, where Edward and the housemaid were now kissing passionately atop a hay bale. “Damn that Rosamond, her looks will get her in trouble one of these days”, she continued huffily, “but at least she’s out there having a bit of fun. Maybe if you were more inclined to put your mouth around men’s lips instead of cakes, you’d be a bit happier with your lot”. The old Eugene had been a pretty but shy girl, star-struck by her charge’s status and beauty. However as Prudence’s weight climbed so did Eugene’s confidence, and it had not escaped Prudence’s notice that whilst she was quick to tease, Eugene never failed to keep her well-fed. She had concluded that the maid rather enjoyed keeping her morbidly obese. “I’m trying”, she lied, shifting her weight nervously, “I might be able to fit back into it...”. Eugene snorted and stepped into the bedroom, returning a few moments later with a cream corset, the undergarment necessary to fit into the rest of the dress. She then knelt in front of Prudence and parted her nightgown, revealing her vast body underneath. Eugene giggled, “you’re crazy if you think that all of this”, she placed a hand on each of Prudence’s overflowing tits and gave them a hearty shake, “is going to fit into that”. The humiliation made Prudence’s cheeks flush red, but there was something oddly satisfying about having her body jiggled, so she let her maid have her fun. Once she was done, Prudence defiantly stood-up - the effort of which required a good deal of grunting and left her a little out of breath - and let the nightgown fall to the floor. Even Eugene looked shocked as she saw her huge naked body, wobbling gently in the early morning sunlight. Every cellulite-ridden roll, the product of years of over-eating, exposed for the world to see. Unsurprisingly, Prudence was only able to get the corset about two-thirds closed, her great belly bulging out so far in front of her that it made fastening the garment impossible. She hadn’t realised quite how fat she had gotten in just under a year... Eugene giggled and said smugly, “see, I knew you wouldn’t be able to fit into it! Your mother isn’t going to be happy at all. Her precious daughter needing another new wardrobe to contain her blubber!”. She walked around Prudence, inspecting her backside, giving the soft flesh a gentle stroke, her fingers bouncing in and out of her craterous cellulite, pausing briefly to bounce one heavy buttock in her hand. “I think one of these weighs as much as me!”, she giggled, tracing a finger along Prudence’s flabby flank as she walked back around to face her. Eugene was momentarily distracted by something over Prudence’s shoulder. Turning, she saw that things were steaming up down by the barn, where Rosamund was now topless, her bare, bony, back rising up and down against Edward, who was propped up against the stable wall. A sudden urge to use the ring washed over her like a hot shower. She could punish them - perhaps go back in time and find a way to get them fired, or fatten them up like she had been, or even... make it so that they were never born... A bright flash out of the corner of her eye snapped Prudence from her daydream, and looking down she saw that the ring was pulsating a fiery red, in time with her fast-beating heart. This is what it wanted... She knew what she needed to do. Closing her eyes in a now well-rehearsed routine, Prudence thought back to the day of the accident, and after a moment felt the ground shift under her feet. A familiar horn sounded nearby, and the hunting party emerged as the old gates creaked open. Perhaps it was the sight of him fondling another woman, or the fact that Prudence was jaded by his actions in alternate timelines, but her heart no longer skipped a beat when she saw him walking towards her. In fact, she felt nothing for him at all. Prudence watched as Edward rode off with the hunting party, to his death, and closed her eyes one last time. Open opening, she rushed across to her bedroom mirror to inspect herself. No thinner, but no fatter either. Waddling out onto her large balcony she gazed across towards the stables, and squinted as she looked for Edward’s familiar face. It was instead met by two boys that she didn’t recognise, presumably his replacements. Was it finally over? Cursing Edward, the voodoo healer, her greedy ancestors, and finally the ring itself, she cast it off her finger and tossed it from the balcony. She listened intently for the satisfying ‘splash’ a few seconds later as it landed in the lake below. She let out a sigh of relief and looked down at her now free hand... except... the ring was back on her finger! Prudence panicked, and repeated the action, throwing it further this time, and watching its descent into the glassy water below, but in the blink of an eye it was back on her finger, as if it had never left. She spent the rest of the day attempting to destroy the ring, but water, fire, brute force - nothing worked. It always found a way back onto her pudgy hand, and in doing so the lingering temptation to use it again hung over Prudence’s head like a guillotine, ready to fall. Tired and frustrated, she trudged down to dinner in one of her few dresses that still fit, and was greeted by her mother and father at their impressive oak dining table. The effort of attempting to rid herself of the ring had left Prudence ravenous, and her request for third helpings of potatoes had resulted in raised eyebrows from her parents, and a sly smirk from Eugene, who dutifully ferried the heaping mounds of carbohydrates to her willing feedee. When the final course arrived conversation turned to the elephant in the room. Eyeing the mound of profiteroles that Prudence had served herself, her mother snapped, “I hardly think you need any more food dear. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the seamstresses have had to let out your clothes again. I’m told they’re running out of fabric”. She leant across the table and gave her daughter’s ham-like arm a jiggle, the upper arm fat slapping gently against the excess flesh pouring over her bra from her side-boob. She sighed heavily. “At this rate, we’ll have to move your bedroom to the ground floor. I can’t listen to your wheezing as you walk up the stairs, it just breaks my heart...”. Prudence zoned out of the conversation after this, focusing instead on the plate of profiteroles in front of her, which seemed to miraculously refill itself whenever she turned away. She gorged herself greedily, cream smeared across her cheeks, focused entirely on the food that was slowly filling the pit in her stomach. It was her father’s booming voice that eventually brought her back to reality, “... now if I were younger I’d make the trip of course. The possibility to make a new name for yourself - a land of opportunity - who would pass up such an offer? It sets sail in thirty days, that... well, that might be enough time to get our affairs in order...”, he said hopefully, glancing nervously at his wife. She smiled back at him kindly, “it’s 1620 dear, and you’re not the young man you were when we first met - we should make the best of the life we’ve already built for ourselves, with what little time we have left. Leave the adventuring to the young”. She patted him gently on the hand, making it clear that the matter was not up for further discussion. Prudence was pensive. ‘Who would pass up such an offer?...’, perhaps her father was right - who indeed would turn their nose up at the opportunity to start again in a new land? Who... or what? The ring had already had its fun with her, and she sensed that its power was drawn from the impact it had on its bearer’s lives. Perhaps if she gave it an opportunity beyond the walls of Plymouth City...? Excusing herself from the table, she hurried back to her bedroom as fast as her tree-trunk legs would carry her and began her preparations for the night before the maiden voyage... - - - - Prudence waddled around a bend in the tunnel and saw the faint glimmer of moonlight far ahead through a sewer grate. She’d made it! As she reached the light at the end of the tunnel her destination came mercifully into view. ‘The Mayflower’ was an exquisite piece of nautical engineering. Over 100 feet long, with high sails and a tonnage that could support even her own corpulence, it alone looked capable of braving a trip to the New World. Under the cover of darkness, she slipped out of the tunnel and between cargo containers on the harbour beyond, stepping as gently as her enormous body would allow, and stifling her breathing as best she could. A guard strolled past, just metres away from her, and she rested her back against a barrel of wine and wheezed quietly, attempting to catch her breath after her intense physical exertion. She was so close - just a little further and it would all be over. After the footsteps of the guard had faded into the distance, and the only sounds to be heard were the splashing of waves against the harbour walls and the creaking of the wooden masts in the breeze, Prudence picked herself up and continued to weave through the cargo, until she reached her destination, the luggage rack. She pulled a parchment and quill from her pocket, scrawling a hurried note that she placed clumsily into a small leather ring-box she had borrowed from her mother’s overflowing dressing table. Tears streaming gently from her eyes, she took a final, longing, look at the ornate ring on her index finger. Tearing her gaze away, she ripped the ring from her person and threw it into the box, which she then stuffed unceremoniously into the nearest trunk. As the trunk snapped shut, she caught the name scrawled on its side - ‘T. Fairfax ‘. Thinking a silent prayer for the stranger whose life she may have just irrecoverably altered, she glanced nervously at her hand. It was as puffy as ever, but bare, with just the faintest band of white pale skin where the ring had sat for so long. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, and began the long trip back up to her family estate, feeling that the weight of the last few years might have finally been lifted from her shoulders. Figuratively, if not literally. - - - - The next morning Prudence Pole was to be found standing on her bedroom balcony, looking out across Plymouth Harbour. The cacophony below built to a crescendo, as The Mayflower cast off its moorings and set sail across the sea to claim new lands in the name of the British Empire. She followed the ship until its silhouette disappeared beyond the horizon, after which she finally allowed herself a heavy sigh of relief, plucking a freshly baked pastry from a nearby tray and taking a large bite. Crumbs tumbled down her nightgown and came to rest on the top of her great, wobbly belly, which she caressed gently. Prudence was feeling particularly peckish today. The ring, meanwhile, pulsated gently in approval, as it began its long voyage across the ocean, to new beginnings...

(Based on the original story ‘You’re Going To Get Fat’ by MaverickTheWriter, borrowing characters, themes, and text in some of the early chapters. Used with permission and thanks) -------- “You’re going to get fat!”. That’s what my plump sister would tell me over and over when we were growing up. We were fraternal twins, born just a few minutes apart. You wouldn’t have known it though - as kids, we couldn’t have been any more different. I felt sorry for her really. I had taken after our father - tall, lean, and athletic - while she had taken after our mother - short, fat, and deathly allergic to exercise. It didn't matter how hard we tried to alter our physiques, we seemed to be destined to grow into these predetermined physical moulds. A spin of the genetic wheel. It was hardly my fault that I came out on top. The differences first presented themselves during puberty. It wasn’t long before I was the tallest of my friends, a ranked junior tennis player competing at the state level. Meanwhile, my poor sister developed curves in all the wrong places as she gathered mass onto her stumpy body. This was despite our varied eating habits - her hyper-awareness of what she put into her mouth and my adherence to the Epicurean mantra of ‘if it feels good, do it’. I would puff my cheeks at her cajoling and make a spectacle of the brownies, cookies, French Fries, cupcakes, or whatever else I was enjoying at the time. She would smirk and shake her head. It had to be hard watching me devour doughnuts while she grew fatter eating apples - but at the end of the day, what’s sisterhood without some good-natured teasing? Nevertheless, she continued to heckle my eating habits, which only worsened the more time that I spent away from home. Whenever I returned with a post-tennis burger, she would greet me with the same refrain-- “You’re going to get fat!”. My mom - born and raised in the mountains of Hakone – and my dad – an American with a work visa and more confidence than he knew what to do with – had met and fallen in love during Japan’s Lost Decade. A match made in heaven, apparently. They’d moved back to Dad’s US hometown in the late ‘90s when we were still in diapers. Our upbringing had been a clash of these two opposing cultures. Deference on the one hand, egocentrism on the other. Our diet was no exception. At home, mom cooked the healthy meals of her childhood – fish, rice, noodles, and the like, but at school and in town I could eat whatever I wanted – and I did… liberally. Where my sister would dutifully eat the modest bento box lovingly prepared by mom the night before, I would ditch mine on the way to school and queue with my friends for the standard greasy cafeteria fare of pizza, fries, or whatever other quintessentially American fast food was on offer. During summer break, we would sneak ice cream from vans that served us through the school fence, and in winter, I was on first-name terms with the vending machine. But despite the indulgence of pizza-party sleepovers with my girlfriends and Olive Garden dinners with my boyfriends, my body remained as lean as ever. The same could not be said for my dear sister. By Sophomore year her poor hips were so wide that she had to get her clothes on special order – the normal stores simply didn’t stock them. The fat little thing just couldn’t catch a break. Still, whenever I’d get home late from a restaurant date she’d creep downstairs in her PJs, spy the leftovers from whichever late-night snack I’d been enjoying, and then, as she rubbed her eyes and doddered back to bed, she would call out-- “You’re going to get fat!”. I’d just chuckle and polish off the remains before heading to bed. And why wouldn’t I laugh? The whole thing was amusing. Me? Fat? Not with Dad’s genetics thank you very much. But perhaps if I’d been a little less complacent then I might have noticed the newfound jiggle in my step. It was about this time that Mom accidentally shrank my clothes. She said she didn’t think that she’d done it, but I knew better – everything was just a little… off. Still, there’s a reason they invented the elasticated waistband. And I couldn’t stay mad at Mom after all – I loved her, and, of course, there was a lot to love—all 400 pounds of her. She waddled and wheezed around the house, her vast buttocks wobbling with every laboured step. An impressionable and unprepared foreigner corrupted by America’s sugar fetish and super-sized fast food. A story as old as time. By Junior year students were trusted to leave the school campus during free periods, a privilege that I abused at every opportunity. I would head to the outlet mall a few blocks over and order my favourite – a chocolate shake and blueberry muffin. The fact that these were the most calorific items on their entire menu had, at the time, passed me by entirely. Sometimes as I left the school gate I would cross my sister and her nerdy friends on their way to play board games in the library. “MacDonalds here I come”, I’d brag, “shall I bring you back anything sis? You know you want me to…”. She’d simply squirm, always having denied herself the pleasures of fast food, and look what good it had done her. A wasted effort - larger now than she’d ever been. A short little pudding waddling down the hall, squirming uncomfortably at the sight of her thin, pretty twin sister. She never did accept my offers, leaving me only with the same parting thought-- “You’re going to get fat!”. Then I discovered alcohol. If Mom and Dad knew quite how much I could down of an evening they’d have lost their minds, but I was subtle enough that I just about got away with it. ‘Sleepovers’ became house parties, ‘tennis practice’ became beach bonfires – I’d skip out on my training and use the time to hang out with friends and enjoy the adrenaline-pumping thrill of secretive adolescent drinking. I tried wine first (too sour) then spirits (too messy) before finally settling on beer as my beverage of choice. The comforting ‘tssst’ of the can popping open signified the start of an entertaining, if hazy, night. That said, fun as it was, I was starting to think that it was more than just the washing machine to blame for my ill-fitting wardrobe. I noticed that my once-flat belly had developed a gentle curve, and the sore feeling between my thighs was a sign of my legs starting to chafe as I walked – a worrying new phenomenon. I remember asking Mom, but she’d said it was probably just my hormones kicking off. Period bloat – god’s gift to women. I felt a lot better after that – after all, if I was getting fat I’d expect my porky mother to be able to tell. She was somewhat of an expert on the topic. I did nothing to temper my diet of junk food and beer - satisfied it was simply a passing concern. Just whispers on the wind. Once, on a cold winter night following a particularly raucous party, I bumped into my sister on my way to bed. 1 am – I’d been out drinking and she’d been up late studying. A box of cheesy fries still in hand I remember stumbling over my words. “Shhhhhh, don’t mom and wake dad *hic*”. Her wide smirk had been clear as day despite my drink-induced double-vision. She promised not to tell on me, but couldn’t resist a little nod to the greasy Styrofoam container in my hand and a snide parting comment as she left-- “You’re going to get fat!”. At the start of our Senior year, my sister and I celebrated our 18th birthday. As early September b**s we were used to being the oldest among our peers, and this final year of high school was going to be no different. The party had been characteristically lame – a few of Dad’s extended family for drinks, a video call with Mom’s parents who were still living back in Japan, and that time honoured tradition of droning out ‘happy birthday’ whilst my sister and I blew out a ** birthday cake. To be honest I was glad to get it over with. The following week we were sat around the dining table once again. “Would you like dessert today dear?” Mom asked my sister kindly as she cleared away her dinner plate. It was Summer’s end – the cool Autumn winds had started blowing in, so naturally, Dad had insisted on dusting off his barbeque one last time and cooking up a selection of the local butcher’s finest cuts. Say what you want about the man, but he knew his way around a grill. A bacon cheeseburger, 8oz ribeye steak, and a healthy portion of fries later and I was about fit to burst. The buttons on my grey linen shorts pressed painfully into my distended gut, struggling to contain it. My sister had been remarkably restrained around such culinary delights, opting instead for a solitary marinated chicken breast and a modest side salad. She’d always denied herself the pleasures of a hearty meal but recently she’d turned the dial up to eleven, insisting on a strict calorie-controlled diet that left her eating an entirely different meal to the rest of the family more often than not. This, of course, offered an even greater opportunity than usual to showcase my impeccable metabolism and gorge myself silly in her presence. “No thanks mom”, she’d replied meekly, eyes downcast. It was desperately obvious that she, in fact, did want dessert. I could practically hear her stomach rumbling from across the table. Her fingers fidgeted with a paper napkin as she tried to resist the urge to reach for a dessert. “Oh, go on then Mom, you’ve twisted my arm”, I followed up with a sarcastic sigh and cheeky wink at my sister. She screwed up her face and stuck out her tongue in reply. Mom left the room carrying a stack of dirty dishes and returned a minute or so later with a steaming tray of gooey salted caramel brownies in one hand and an extra-large tub of clotted cream in the other. The brownies wafted a warm, comforting scent of chocolate and caramel around the room which made my mouth water. She served herself and Dad a modest portion and passed the tray, which was still well over half full, to me. I disregarded Mom’s offer of a bowl with a dismissive handwave and simply pulled the entire aluminium tray onto my place-setting and began eating directly from it. The brownies had been, in a word, orgasmic. Though my stomach was already fit to burst from the barbeque I couldn’t help but shovel in spoonful after spoonful. I’d unintentionally developed a rather worrying sweet tooth over the last couple of years. What had started as light-hearted teasing at my sister’s expense had developed into an ingrained habit that I couldn’t shake even when she wasn’t around to witness me eating. A guilty and fattening pleasure that lingered even in the absence of judgmental eyes. Today though, conscious of her longing eyes boring into me, I’d played up to the spectacle. A moan here, a smacking of the lips there. Anything to prompt a reaction. I recall being well past the point of ‘comfortably full’ and pushing dangerously close to ‘one more bite and I might just barf’ territory when my spoon mercifully scraped against the bottom of the empty tray. As a bead of sweat trickled down my brow I lazily pushed it aside and snatched up the clotted cream instead. Rich and indulgent, I embraced my inner glutton and gulped it down, allowing myself to fully experience the sinful delight. In that moment, nothing else existed except for the pure indulgence and satisfaction of this guilty pleasure. “Sure you… *uurrp*… don’t want… *uuuuurp*… any sis?”, I belched breathlessly as I held the final heaped spoonful of cream aloft. “Don’t tease your sister”, Mom snapped disapprovingly, “it’s good that she’s taking care of her diet. Which is more than I can say for you young lady. I thought we’d get at least two nights out of those brownies – the box said it was enough for 6 portions!”. Wilfully ignoring Mom I placed the cream-laden spoon in my mouth, turned it over, and licked it clean without breaking eye contact with my sullen-faced twin. I discarded it in the now empty tub and cradled my heavy, aching gut in both hands, massaging it tenderly. Mom shook her head with a thinly veiled ‘what am I going to do with you?’ expression fixed on her face and began clearing away the last of the meal. She then waddled into the kitchen with Dad in tow, leaving my sister and me alone in the room. “You know that clotted cream’s like 60% fat right?”, my sister had piped up with a sly grin, breaking her first smile of the meal so far. “Powerlifters chug it down when they’re trying to bulk up. I saw it in a documentary once. They gain all this weight and then work their butts off to lose it. They get big sis – like, really big. And you’ve been drinking down two tubs a week for… well, months. If you don’t do something quickly and start to work it all off yourself then…”. She’d been about to say her normal, infuriating phrase when I felt a sudden, unexpected release of pressure around my midriff. The top button had pinged off my shorts – hitting my water glass with a loud ‘ting!’ – and a generous ** belly spilt out onto my lap. “Oooof”, I panted, equal parts embarrassed and relieved. My hands cradled my gut tenderly. I’d expected it to be rock hard, but recall being surprised at just how soft and squishy it had felt despite my overfullness. It oozed through my fingers, spreading a distance across my upper thighs. Eyes closed I sat in my chair, spent, as my sister stood from the table and plodded towards me. She bent down, gave my rounded belly a patronising pat, and whispered the conclusion to her previously interrupted thought-- “You’re going to get fat!”. A couple of weeks later Mom and Dad had jetted off for a ‘parents-only’ fortnight of sun, sand, and sea in the Caribbean, hopeful that we weren’t going to burn the house down in their absence. This meant I’d effectively been gifted a carte blanche to re-do my, albeit now slightly late, 18th birthday properly and play hostess to that most American of high-school traditions – pool parties. Well, mostly free. My sister had skulked around the place, muttering to herself about the noise, the mess - something like that. Just being her normal annoying self. She was still on the heavier side, but if I'm being truthful, maybe... not as much. She’d been taken under the wing of one of the new sports coaches at school the previous year. Something about having a ‘good strong build that’s perfect for women’s football’. I remember the morning of the party. I’d prepared everything. Kegs cooled and chips bowled. Just enough time to crack a couple of pre-party beers and slip into my bikini before my friends arrived. I’d been sitting on the edge of my bed in my underwear and, as I bent to pull them down, a thick roll of flesh spilled over the band. As I’d hunched further, a smaller roll formed above the first. I’d sprung upright like I’d seen a snake beneath my bed and spent the next couple of minutes gingerly poking and prodding at my body. Pudge where there had once been muscle, cellulite where there had once been smooth skin. When had this happened?! I had been aware that my clothes were fitting tighter lately - but between washing machine mishaps, hormones, and humidity I thought I’d had it accounted for. Evidentially not. Slipping out of my now uncomfortably tight underwear, I reluctantly pulled on my bikini – taking a generous swig of beer in between to calm my nerves. And yet, even with the alcohol coursing through my veins, the bikini was plainly too small. Far too small. My breasts bulged out of the fabric, giving a generous flash of ‘side’- and ‘under’-boob, like two ripe fruits bursting from their delicate skin. The bottoms pinched in at my hips, accentuating their flab and barely managing to cover my wide backside. Despite my best efforts to squeeze into a size 6, my body had sagged and spread beyond its limitations. It was time to acknowledge the truth… I WAS getting fat. The anxiety I had been suppressing for weeks bubbled to the surface. Was I eating too much junk food? Should I really have just gone cold turkey on tennis practice? Was my metabolism starting to slow down? I resolved that I would simply cut back a little and the pudge would be gone before the end of the year. I had the willpower. Or at least, at the time I thought I did. Despite this party was still good fun. Booze quickly eased my nerves and a ferocious game of pool volleyball, a light sunburn, a greasy pizza, a game of truth or dare, and a sloppy kiss with the class heartthrob Josh O’Callahan later and I shut the door, breathing a sigh of relief that I could shortly hit my mattress and enjoy some well-earned rest. On the way, I’d bumped into my sister. She burst out of the kitchen and nearly crashed into me. Her lips were thin with annoyance as she shouted, "Josh O'Callahan? Seriously? Josh? You do realize I've been crushing on him since like, third grade, right?" I tried to recall if she had ever mentioned this before – perhaps, long forgotten though – and was it my fault Josh fancied me and not her? The beer had certainly taken its toll on my sluggish body – I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Before I could muster a response she continued, “there’s a whole tray of brownies in the fridge. Just like Mom makes them. I baked them earlier for everyone to enjoy as dessert - a surprise for our Birthday - but I didn’t fancy offering them after I saw you and Josh…”. She trailed off as her gaze shifted down to my bloated belly, and a mischievous smirk crossed her face. "But look, you've saved room for dessert”, she said, poking my stomach with her plump finger. It bullseyed my navel and was engulfed by my soft belly blubber, disappearing into the cavernous depths of my belly button. Full to the brim with pizza and beer I belched loudly. "They're all yours now," she smiled, "do whatever you want with them”. She then retrieved her buried finger, setting my belly jiggling, and added in a sarcastic tone, “but be careful about eating too many or—" “You’re going to get fat!”. I’d like to say that I went straight to bed after this – once my sister had huffed past and up the stairs. But instead, I’d turned into the kitchen and gorged until I fell asleep at the kitchen table. Over the next few months, I tried and failed to shift the weight. I picked up my racquet for the first time in years, challenging an old club rival that I’d once beaten in the state final to a re-match. But as I lumbered around the court– wheezing and drenched in sweat – it was clear that I had become far too large to complete at my best. My heavy chest heaved as I rushed around the court, leapt into shots, and missed them by several feet each time. After only a few games, it became obvious that she wasn’t even trying. She feinted and lunged and volleyed with ease, barely breaking a sweat. Down 8 straight games, I conceded defeat and retired the racquet to the back of my wardrobe where it belonged. My diet wasn’t much better. I wanted to eat well – to snack on celery sticks and fill up on vegetables – but my body craved the fats, carbs and sugars I had trained it to expect. All those times I’d teased my sister by gobbling down unhealthy treats in front of her were coming back to bite me – hard – and I was powerless to stop it. My sister was always watching and smiling. I made a point to suck in my stomach and mind what I ate when she was around, but too often she’d catch me with my belly in full bloated pooch whilst sucking Cheeto dust off my fingers. At least she’d temporarily stopped with the “you’re going to get fat” shit, but her sideway smirks at my unhealthy eating were almost as bad. To make matters worse, she looked like she had dropped a good 40 pounds since the football season had begun. She was still big, in a manner of speaking, but where once she’d just been a short, blubbery little pudding she now looked taller and stronger. A late teen growth spurt – where for so long I’d looked down on her it was quickly becoming the other way around. On the final day of Senior year’s Spring semester, a heatwave had struck our little corner of the country. It was so hot that the school relaxed its dress code, allowing us to be comfortable in our home clothes while the A/C struggled to keep up. I donned a forgiving pair of three-quarter-length linen shorts and paired them with a thin t-shirt tucked into the waistband. Beneath was a secret I had been hiding for some time from my girlfriends at school – the heavy-duty Spanx doing their best to keep my blubber at bay. I was miserably uncomfortable as I sat in Mrs. Johnson’s third-period Algebra class (by far my worst subject) and began taking my final. The thick shapewear had thoroughly insulated my body and left it no room to breathe. Heat and anxiety-fuelled sweat beads erupted across my brow as I tried desperately to answer the first question. As I nibbled my pencil’s eraser, my free hand moved unconsciously to the security blanket of flab covering my waist. My heart raced faster still. Despite weeks of watching my diet even through the Spanx, I could tell the roll was bigger than ever! I started to pant – quietly at first, but then in increasingly deep and laboured breaths. A heavy drop of perspiration plopped atop what few notes I’d managed to scribble. I wiped it away, blurring my scribblings in a soggy graphite smear. Jennifer, my friend and former tennis doubles companion, caught my eye, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. She mouthed the words silently - “Are you okay?” - I nodded to reassure her, sending even more droplets of sweat down onto my paper. My head pounded painfully. I was flush. I was dizzy. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe… I’d woken up in the nurse’s office 10 minutes later. Josh and Jenifer had helped the teacher carry me across the hall and were now standing over me along with the matronly school nurse, with concerned looks on all their faces. “Now dear”, nurse Smith started, her tone treading a careful line between strict and sympathetic, “I understand there’s a lot of pressure to look a certain way as a young woman, but really, was the shapewear a good idea on a day like this?”. I had the sudden realisation of a light breeze blowing across my upper thighs. I looked down in horror to see that my Spanx and shorts were hanging limply on a chair in the corner of the room beside two free-standing fans pointed in my direction. As my eyes fell to my body I saw that my tightly fitting lace panties were entirely obscured by the bulging belly that blocked them from view – a pale gelatinous crest that rippled as I strained to see over it, to no avail. I could feel my thick thighs pressed up against one another on the thin medical bed I was lying on, and, with nowhere left to spread, they oozed over the bed’s outer edges in an adipose avalanche. No longer contained, my cellulite-ridden buttocks spread like warm melted butter over hot toast – evidence of my uncontrolled gluttony over the last few years. I grabbed two handfuls of belly flab and realised, with increasing horror, that I could have grabbed plenty more if only my hands were larger. I looked up, mortified, and caught Josh’s eye just before his cheeks flushed red and he looked away in embarrassment. Jennifer maintained eye contact at least, but her face was half pity and half pleasure. A touch of schadenfreude at my unbridled fattened form. I’d been allowed home early that day. Mom collected me from school about 30 minutes later – wearing a spare pair of school shorts, Spanx resigned to the bottom of my handbag. The car’s suspension groaned as it took on our combined weight. Mom’s deep brown eyes were kind and sympathetic as she tried to console me, but it was no good. There was an empty pit in my stomach that her words were doing nothing to satiate. My belly rumbled ominously – my body reminding me that I could make the hurt and the pain go away, if only temporarily, with one simple act. “Can we pull in here?”, I asked, nodding to the KFC drive-through just off the freeway up ahead. Mom looked unsure - but pulled down on the wheel nonetheless. We drifted up to the first station, and a disembodied voice crackled into life through a rusting speaker grill. “Can I take your order please?”. Mom glanced at me, hesitant. “I want…”, I replied – pausing almost as soon as the words began forming on my lips – “I want… I want the 10-piece Bargain Bucket meal and two of the Fried Apple Pies”. I blurted out the request in one hurried breath – almost stumbling over the words in my excitement. It felt liberating just to utter them aloud. To be honest about what my stomach demanded, and my inability to tell it ‘no’. Mom brushed her jet-black hair from her cherubic face and sighed. I remember watching her lick her lips nervously as she considered her next words carefully – “are you sure sweetheart? It’s just… if you keep eating like this… well--”. “You’re going to get fat!”. I hadn’t stepped on the scales in… too long to remember. It hadn’t felt necessary when I was younger. I was thin, my sister was fat. The natural order of things – unquestioned, like grass being green. But the balance of power had shifted, and I hadn’t noticed until it was far too late. That Easter break was not like those that came before. No pool parties, no beach BBQs, and not even any trips to the local mall for a spot of retail therapy. After the unimaginable embarrassment that was my algebra final, my social status had taken a severe beating. The mockery on social media had been too much to handle, so I’d simply deleted the apps and folded inwards, spending 4 weeks safely tucked away in my room – extending the normal holidays by a fortnight by claiming I was ‘too sick’ to go to school. And I ate—a lot. My bedroom became a conveyor belt of food – fast and junk. I would sit on my bed from dawn till dusk, watching TV on my laptop as I gorged myself. My stomach capacity – already fairly impressive compared to the average girl – increased enormously as I forced myself to eat past the point of feeling full. It was easier to continue eating than it was to face the world outside. Compared to my younger self I’d ballooned – every part of me filled out, stretching my skin like an overstuffed sausage about to burst its casing. My once-toned arms were now wide and sagging, a teardrop of flesh forming at my elbow every time I straightened my arm. My tits had lost any semblance of their former ‘pertness’ and sat like too engorged water balloons on my chest, supported only by the vast gut which hung deep and gelatinous over my pussy – obscuring it from view. Around the back, my hips, ass and thighs had taken the brunt of my recent weight gain. Great globular moons cratered with cellulite supported by two giant tree trunks of blubber - fertility goddesses eat your heart out. To make matters worse, my sister spent her last couple of years of high school dropping every pound that I gained. Her aggressive football training regime saw her on the pitch or at the gym every single day – a workout schedule so rigorous you’d have thought she was auditioning for an all-female remake of the film ‘300’. She’d grown another few inches too – edging ever closer to Dad’s impressive 6’3” and leaving me a full head shorter at only 5’5” – the same as Mom. She looked the pillar of strength. A far cry from the fat little waddler she’d been growing up. The night before I was due to go back for my final semester of Senior year – having been unable to continue the ruse of my mystery bedridden illness for any longer – I made the fatal mistake of spotting the weighing scales poking out from underneath the bathroom sink. I’d known, naturally, that absolutely no good could come from finally seeing the extent of my weight gain laid bare. Still, the morbidly curious part of me that revelled in my self-hatred stepped on the scale nonetheless and peered over my belly at the damage. ‘236 lbs’, its response. I knew I was fat, but… that fat? It was a good few seconds before I could compose myself enough to get dressed. I didn’t enjoy being obese. On a miserable plod back to my room I paused outside my sister’s open door. She was on her back in the centre of the room – grunting, teeth bared – in the middle of her nightly exercise routine. Damn if it didn’t look like she’d dropped a few more pounds since I’d seen her that very morning. Regardless, there was definitely more ‘ab’ than ‘flab’ in her midriff nowadays. I instinctively sucked in my hanging paunch, for all the good it had done. As I was about to turn away I spotted something that caught my eye. On her desk was a picture of me holding a tennis racquet. “Why do you have my picture on your desk?” I asked from the doorway, confused. “That’s not you,” she replied without breaking form. “That’s mom.” I hurried forward and snatched up the photo. Mom once mentioned to me she used to play tennis, but I had dismissed it. I just couldn’t envision her weeble-wobble form plodding around the court. Yet here she was. Beautiful. Tanned. Fit. Had it not been for the Duran Duran T-shirt and 1986 verso timestamp I still might have argued it was a picture of me from a few years ago. “I keep it for inspiration,” she said as she completed a final rep. Her disposition was as rosy as her cheeks. “Want to see a picture of Dad as a kid?” I didn’t answer, but that didn’t stop her from standing and pushing past me like I was taking up the entire room. She opened the drawer in her desk and, as she rummaged through, jutting out her ass. It was thick, but no longer the wide and flabby mess it had once been. She looked… hot. She then spun around wearing a broad grin. “Here.” Extended in her hand was a Polaroid picture of a fat, acne-riddled boy with a bowl haircut. His belly hung over his belt so much a sliver of flesh was visible beneath his untucked blue IZOD. I took the photo from my Sister and flipped it over. 1986. She looked over my shoulder as I gawked. How had she gotten so tall? “Mom gave these to me a few years ago when I was feeling down,” she said. “She told me—‘just because things are a certain way now, doesn’t mean that’s how they’ll always be.’” I turned, dumbfounded, and flipped back to the picture of Mom. Thin, like I had used to be, but now… My sister clapped me on the shoulder jovially. “Now you get it sis. You were right all along – we are just like our parents”. She patted me on the soft underside of my belly with her free hand. The movement sent my middle jiggling ferociously, her finger tickling gently at my adipose as if to highlight the extent of my obesity with the movement of every digit. “It’s just… you’ve always been more like Mom than Dad”. The realisation hit like a truck. My slow descent into morbid obesity – a mirror of mom’s when she’d been my age, and a warning of what was still yet to come. I passed her back the photos and hurried out of the room, hyper-aware of my large globular ass-cheeks slapping together as I did. “I tried to warn you, remember?” she called after me with a giggle- “You’re going to get fat!”. The final semester of high school had been, without question, the worst of my academic life to date. Sure enough, the tale of my embarrassing fainting episode had done the rounds of the school by the time we’d returned. When combined with my significant weight gain it had been enough for my old friends to finally turn their backs on me, lest they be tainted by my newfound ‘uncoolness’. I didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone anyway - school had become a daily punishment to be suffered through, and suffering in silence seemed to make the day pass just that little bit faster. Even so, I recall being conscious of my size every second of the day. The way my ass filled out the entirety of the chairs in lessons and the excess adipose that bulged between the arms. The way my body wobbled as I lumbered down the hall towards my locker. The way that beads of sweat would adorn my brow as I arrived late to the next class, struggling to catch my breath. The way the dinner ladies would give me disapproving or pitiful looks as I asked for larger portions of whatever junk food graced my plate each lunchtime. The way that haunting pictures of ‘fit’ me winning tennis trophies from years ago still adorned the hall leading up to the gymnasium, or the time that someone had scrawled ‘fatass’ underneath one of them that was still visible despite the school’s best efforts to remove. I could go on. Most galling, however, had been the fact that my sister’s social status had breached the lower atmosphere and would shortly break its earthly bindings and blast out into space. She’d helped the girl’s football team reach the state finals that year. They’d have lost were it not for her one-woman rampage in the dying breaths of the game that scored the winning touchdown. Half the school had been there, chanting her name as the final whistle blew. A body-snatcher, she’d somehow usurped my life and was proudly wearing my skin as she strutted the school’s ageing halls. Her shiny new sporting accomplishments had forced my dusty old ones to the back of the school’s trophy cabinet. She made friends with my old friends and was invited to their parties, shared their booze, and laughed at their jokes. The results of Spring finals showed that her grades were as good as mine used to be, and mine as bad as hers. She’d stolen my crown and had somehow become the school’s new queen bee. Only… she hadn’t really stolen anything. My hubris had caught up with me, and her willpower had propelled her. I knew this deep down, though at the time wasn’t willing to admit it. The nail in the coffin of my Senior Year had occurred at the end of the final term. After a weekend of pure unadulterated gluttony, I’d waddled into school stretching the seams of my sweatpants to limits as yet unseen. The week prior I had finally broken past the 260 pound milestone and to commiserate I had drowned myself in a sea of desserts from the local bakery. It was drug addiction awareness day and the school had organised a speaker to come in during the last period to give a talk about, well, not doing drugs. I hadn’t been listening if truth be told - too busy sat at the very back of the hall munching on a jumbo bag of Reese’s Pieces that I had snuck in under my jumper. It was a surprise when the applause started and everyone began to get up to leave. I recall pushing down on the arms of the chair and expecting to heave my bloated body to a standing position, but instead, I found myself still plopped on the seat, unmoved. I tried again, then again, and again, but to no avail. “Oh my god, she’s stuck”, one of the girls nearby giggled after a minute or so of failed attempts. Dread washed over me like a cold shower. More people turned and gawped, as I tried and failed once again to extricate my gargantuan asscheeks from their fleshy prison. “Nice job fatty”, a disembodied voice called from somewhere behind me, “maybe lay off the triple cheeseburgers next time”. The room erupted in laughter - loud and cruel. One of the teachers recognised my plight and tried to assist, but it was no good - I was well and truly stuck. By now the crowd had swelled to what felt like more people than had been there for the presentation in the first place. Come to gawp at the former fit girl’s humiliation for letting herself go so spectacularly. I caught the eye of my old friend Jen in the crowd, hanging on Josh’s arm - the pair having recently announced they were ‘going steady’. I tried to signal her to come to my aid, but she hadn’t moved, instead simply turning to her man candy and drawling “can you believe we used to hang out with that pig?”. Just as tears of embarrassment and frustration started to form I spotted a hulking figure making their way through the throng. My sister had pushed her way to the front of the crowd. Dressed in her football kit and caked in a mixture of mud and sweat. She took a few more steps forward until I was craning my neck to stare up at her strong jaw. “What are we going to do with you sis?”, she asked, shaking her head, “I’ll be honest, at first I was quite enjoying your well-deserved weight gain, but this… this is just sad”. A curt nod to the empty packet of Reese’s Pieces on the floor - I winced, feeling the sting of the jibe. “Well… are you going to help me or not?”, I snapped back more harshly than I’d intended. The stress of my gawping peers not helping. She smiled, “as you wish”, and before I could react she’d braced a foot against the chair’s seat, grabbed my wrists, and kicked off hard. The force was enough to push my bulging love handles past the chair’s arms and free me from my plight, but not before the chair had its last laugh. I heard the sound of tearing fabric just before I felt the cool breeze across my ass. The sound of the chair clattering to the floor was drowned out by the gasps, whoops, and laughter that had erupted across the room. I remember groping desperately at my behind and feeling the cool touch of skin on skin. The bumpy cellulite-ridden globes that were my buttocks bare for all the world to see - burst out of the sweatpants that had grown too small to contain them. I started to cry and turned to waddle off to the bathroom when a strong hand gripped my thick wrist. My sister pulled me in effortlessly - her strength equal parts concerning and impressive. Then she grabbed a handful of my bare booty flesh and squeezed hard - the fat oozing between her fingers. She let it fall with a wobble and then gave it a light slap, setting my wide, sagging ass jiggling ferociously. “You’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you piggy?… I warned you what would happen if you kept eating like a hog--“. “You’re going to get fat!”. A quick call to Mom later and for the second time I was being driven home in a spare pair of school shorts. She had tried to console me, but it was no use - I’d phoned in sick and seen out the rest of term in my bedroom, buried under the weight of my shame… and blubber. Still, at least high school was finally over. Though my dreams of attending a prestigious Ivy League college had died when my grades started to turn south a couple of years ago, I’d nevertheless scraped together the SAT Score necessary to attend a little-known college out of state. Frankly, I’d have left to join the circus if it meant getting away from all the prying eyes around my small suburban town, where everyone knew everyone. My sister, of course, was looking forward to a highly coveted sports scholarship at Princeton—every overbearing Asian parent’s wet dream. At least Mom was now Americanised enough not to completely fetishise it as the rest of her family had done upon hearing the news. By summer’s end, I’d stress-eaten my way into the next dress size up, so sporting the only pair of shorts that (just about) still fit, I stuffed dad’s car to the brim with my luggage and the two of us made our way across state lines for the next step of my academic career. The journey was nice. I’d never really had that much one-on-one time with Dad - my sister and I always shared his attention- so it had been a pleasant change to have him all to myself. We talked, sang, attempted to recall all 50 states from memory in alphabetical order, and generally drank in each other’s company. After a long day’s driving, we booked a stopover in some backwater town, and after checking in, we hit the only restaurant within walking distance. ‘Big Joe’s Grill’ wouldn’t be winning a Michelin star anytime soon, but ‘beggars, choosers’ as the saying goes. I felt slightly sheepish ordering a second helping of baby back ribs, but Dad had just smiled warmly in a way that said ‘go ahead’, so I did it anyway. He’d always been kind like that. A starter, two mains, a large dessert, and four beers later and the pressure of my bloated belly pressing against the waistband of my too-small shorts had reached a point of no return. “I’m sorry Dad”, I’d whimpered, before reaching down and flicking the top button open. Instant relief - a tsunami of belly butter poured out onto my lap and forced open each of the smaller buttons below with a satisfying ‘ping’. “Uugghh”, I’d groaned, practically orgasmic from the release of pressure, hands gently massaging my enormous gut whilst simultaneously dying of embarrassment at my public display of gluttony. “Oh honey, what are we going to do with you?”, dad smiled kindly. He then paused, thoughtful. “You know sometimes you remind me a great deal of your mother”. “Because I’m hopelessly fat?”, I frowned. “No… well, yes, maybe a little, but that’s not what I meant. Your mom also struggled with her self-confidence. Not as comfortable in her own skin when… well, when she started putting on a few pounds. But I think she’s as beautiful now as the day we met. She’s perfect just the way she is. Same as you are honey”. Dad stumbled over the words a little - as he was known to - but the sentiment had hit home hard enough. I welled up - touched by Dad’s surprisingly tender words. He wasn’t known for his Churchillian oration, but on this occasion, he outdid himself. He took my pudgy hand and squeezed it tight. For a brief moment the spectacle of my bulging belly spilling out of my shorts - my morbid obesity exposed for the rest of the diners to gawp at - was but a distant memory. Dad chuckled to himself and continued, “it’s like I told your mother when she moved here all those years ago. Everything’s bigger over here. You just have to accept—“. “You’re going to get fat!”. I’d settled into college life quickly enough. With the horrors of high school firmly in the rearview mirror and my sister at the end of the phone rather than the end of the upstairs hall, everything seemed a lot less intense than it once had. The non-stop drinking and partying had certainly helped of course - I barely had a dry day in my first couple of months. Attending classes had been… an ancillary concern if truth be told. I would later find out my attendance record was dangerously close to single digits in that first semester. Of greatest relief was the fresh start I had been gifted to carve out a new social identity. I was no longer ‘that girl who gained over 150 pounds and got very fat’ and was instead simply ‘that very fat girl’, which though nowhere near the ‘tennis pro, good-looking, queen-bee’ status I had enjoyed a few years ago was nevertheless a marked improvement. I made new friends with a crowd I wouldn’t have given a second look at when I was growing up. We were a slightly motley crew of sorority house rejects who all shared a defining physical characteristic… we were the resident big girls on campus. If you’d asked me before I arrived at college I’d have balked at the thought - but in reality, spending my days around similarly plump women had been very liberating. I hadn’t needed to worry about how much I was eating, whether my clothes were looking too tight, or whether I would stand out in the crowd. It’s true what they say - there was indeed safety in numbers. We were six in all - though likely weighed about as much as fifteen of the skinny bitches that strutted around campus with yoga mats under their arms, iced coffee in their hands, and Onlyfans accounts on their phones. Our weights ranged from a positively plump 250 or so all the way up to a portly 350 plus. I was somewhere in the middle of the pack. When we weren’t drinking and dancing late into the night we were enjoying our other favourite pastime. Eating. The in-dorm kitchen had never known such enthusiastic diners, to the extent that it needed to implement a hasty ‘no second helpings’ rule just two weeks into the start of term lest it run out of food early every day. No matter - we simply supplemented the dorm’s meals with an unhealthy selection of takeouts, quickly getting on first-name terms with our local Uber Eats drivers. For breakfast, we would order stacks of syrup-laden waffles, for mid-afternoon snack on a pizza, burger or other greasy fare, after a hearty dinner perhaps snuffle down a doughnut or two, and when we needed a break from the club on a sweaty night out a trusty styrofoam carton of cheesy-fries was never far from hand. Leaning into my gluttony rather than shying away from it had been difficult at first, but soon enough it became second nature. We would trade tips on beating ‘chub-rub’, give each other recommendations on the best local eateries we ‘simply had to try on our next girls' day out’, share clothes we’d outgrown, and regularly affirm one another’s beauty despite our size. For the first time in a long time, I felt pretty. One Friday night towards the end of the first semester we were out in the local town hitting up a strip of cheap and cheerful college bars. Five beers down it was getting hard to think straight, but thankfully one of the girls waddled back to our table after a suspiciously long absence holding two bags laden with fried chicken to help line our stomachs. “Mmmmm, this is better than sex”, Brittany moaned as she licked a drop of grease from her lips. The group giggled - “like you’d know Britt”, Lucy had jibed in return. Brittany gesticulated with her a half-eaten drumstick, “I’ll have you know I’m getting plenty thank you very much. Remember that ‘handsy’ guy who I was dancing with at Roxie’s last Tuesday?”. Lucy nodded eagerly. “Well let’s just say we both got plenty ‘handsy’ that night back at his place…”. More giggles and I’d snorted loud enough to attract the attention of the table. “Speaking of which, when are you going to get some action babe?”, Lucy asked looking at me, her eyes bright and mischievous, “you’re one of those disgustingly beautiful mixed-race people and somehow I still haven’t heard any banging through your bedroom wall”. I blushed, deciding to take another mouthful of fried chicken rather than respond. Sure, I’d had a couple of messy kisses on the dance floor, but a few months into my college career I remained as stubbornly a virgin as I had for the previous 19 years or so. Confidence around fellow beached whales was one thing. Confidence within the shark-infested dating pool was another entirely. Charlotte, the largest at the table, piped up. “Well… I might just know a guy who would be pretty interested in some wall-banging action. He tried to court me for a while before I broke the news that I drive on the other side of the road” - she winked, a lentil-eating lesbian through and through - “but I know if I sent him your picture he’d be up for a date. He’s… ummmmm… well let’s just say he’s into fat girls. Really fat girls”. She held her arms wide, cradling an invisible belly even larger than her own. “Well if anyone’s got the potential it’s you babe”, Lucy grinned playfully, “quite the appetite after all”. She nodded towards the entire bucket of chicken I’d just absentmindedly polished off by myself, a testament to my insatiable appetite. Each of us could eat more than our fair share - but my appetite had always been the most insatiable. Though not the fattest of the group - yet - I was fast on my way to gaining the title. My weight had continued to climb since I stepped foot on campus and pounds crept onto my body with every passing day. Hand greasy and stomach bulging under my shirt, I considered for a moment. “Yeah go on then”, I said finally, pulling another of the buckets towards me and plucking out a greasy drumstick, “you can give him my details”. Charlotte nodded with a smile as Lucy clapped her hands together with barely contained glee. “Good, he was quite hot, to be honest”, Charlotte continued, a mischievous gleam in her eye, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you about his, errr… predilections. This is only going one way, babe”. She leaned over and jiggled my belly playfully. “You’re going to get fat!”. “-ter”, Lucy had finished off to guffaws of laughter, myself included. We drank and ate, then drank some more - well into the early hours of the following morning. The hangover was dire, as expected, though made a little brighter by the fact that Charlotte’s mystery man - Ben - had Snapchatted me early in the morning. He was indeed a good-looking chap - reasonably tall, fit, and with a shock of wavy blonde hair. I awoke to the offer of a date. I graciously accepted and we met the next day for coffee. Coffee became lunch, lunch became dinner, dinner became drinks, and soon enough we’d spent the entire day together and were stumbling home near midnight, arm in arm. He insisted on walking me home ‘the scenic route’, which I soon understood to actually mean ‘the route that passes that dessert shop that’s open late’. He wasn’t particularly pushy about it, but I could tell he was hoping I’d ask to stop in. Maybe if we’d had one less round of beers I’d have held firm - but my inhibitions were dulled by the night’s alcoholic beverages and I decided that given I quite fancied seeing him again I would put on a show, just this once. This was just the fat girl equivalent of flashing your eyelashes, right? “Any chance I could grab something for the road?”, I asked sweetly. A porky finger pointed at the shining beacon of the neon ‘Just Desserts’ sign up ahead. He hadn’t needed convincing. I remember the smell of the place as we’d entered - rich and sweet - and wondering if I was seeing double or whether there were just that many baked goods crowding the shop’s busy countertop. I waddled up to the cash register and (ever so slightly) slurred at the girl standing behind it, “what would you recommend?”. A plump little thing, she certainly looked like she’d sampled a few too many of the store’s treats. “Ummm, well the velvet cake is to die for”, she considered, “but the double fudge brownie is also delicious”. A lick of her lips - she’d definitely been dipping her hand into the company cookie jar recently. “Great, I’ll have both”, I smiled back, taking Ben’s sharp intake of breath as a sign that I’d probably made the correct choice. “And why don’t you serve a couple of portions for yourself as well?”. The plump girl didn’t need telling twice - ringing up the four slices and already greedily munching away as we turned to find a table, her free hand lazily resting on her protruding gut. Even through the drunken haze, I was able to see Ben’s erection threatening to burst out of his jeans. I wasn’t the only one waddling across the shop that evening. We sat down at an empty table and I made a show of sniffing each dessert in turn before moaning, “mmmmmm, which should I start with?”. Ben gulped - he didn’t mind - so I settled on the velvet cake. It was good, really good, and I was licking my lips clean less than a minute later. “That barely touched the sides”, Ben joked breathlessly. Though my elevated blood alcohol level probably had something to do with it, I was feeling sexy for the first time in a long time. “Oh, too fast? Well I’ll take this one a little slower then…”. The next 5 minutes were what could generously be described as sensual and perhaps more honestly described as soft-core pornography. I nibbled, licked, and groaned my way through the brownie in an extended display of gluttony, making a conscious effort to rub the belly bulging through my dress as I did so. By the end, Ben looked as though his head might explode. If she’d been listening then Lucy would have heard a great deal of headboard banging through my bedroom wall that night. Ben was as greedy in bed as I’d been at the dessert shop. His hands had groped and squeezed and slapped at every pound that jiggled on my elephantine body. Charlotte’s heads up about his ‘predilections’ had been pretty on the mark so far, and though part of me still found it strange that anyone could honestly find my fattened form even remotely attractive, I wasn’t about to turn down the attention. If anything in my drunken fog I played up to it. “Mmmmm, do you like my body? Do you like how big I am? If we keep this up then what’s going to happen to me?”, I whispered in his ear in between thrusts. It was too much for the poor man to handle. As he climaxed - a little early if truth be told - he grabbed two handfuls of my love-handle blubber and cried— “You’re going to get fat!”. We’d been thoroughly red-faced when we realised that the entire corridor had probably heard. Lucy confirmed as much over breakfast the next morning with her sniggering. The remainder of my first academic year had been split broadly between studying, partying, and spending time with Ben. I’d finally pulled my finger out and attended just enough lectures to scrape a pass at the end of the year, the girls and I still drank our weight in beer each week on the strip, and importantly I’d progressed my relationship with Ben from passionate one-night stand to ‘officially dating’. Unsurprisingly the impact on my waistline from these last two activities had been severe. It’s said that the scales don’t lie, in which case their honest response of 339 pounds on the final day of term had been a little difficult to accept at first, but Ben’s encouragement had certainly helped. Our ‘weigh-ins’ were the highlight of his week, and were more often than not followed by a passionate exchange to celebrate the slow ticking up of the numbers on the digital display. Unfortunately, our parents lived on opposite sides of the country, so at the end of the semester when we were finally booted out of halls we said our tearful goodbyes for the summer and then went our separate ways. We resolved to ensure that we ‘met the parents’ at some point next year so we could spend the following summer vacationing at one another’s houses. Once we parted ways I hailed a cab to the local airport to catch a short flight home for Mom’s birthday party that evening. You were only 50 once after all, and she’d invited the great and good of our family and friends to celebrate it with. I could hardly miss it. What I hadn’t factored into my timings was the mad rush of students heading home for summer that had snarled up the freeway. With a bit of luck, I managed to make the flight just before boarding closed. The day was looking up. Until it wasn’t. “We’re sorry ma’am but your suitcase seems to have got on the wrong flight. It appears to be on its way to…”, the fake-tanned passenger assistant said in a drone that did nothing to hide her indifference, “…Venezuela”. A heated debate, formal complaint, $500 compensation, and the promise of my bag couriered to me by tomorrow afternoon later and I was finally in an Uber on the way to Mom’s party. It was just a shame that the comfy pink Juicy Couture tracksuit I’d donned for the plane wasn’t exactly in keeping with the required ‘smart-casual’ dress code. Mom greeted me at the door. Her long dark hair framed an ageing but beautiful face, which remained as full and plump as ever despite the wrinkles beginning to show at the corners of her eyes. She’d squeezed herself into a light floral dress that hugged her enormous body, leaving relatively little to the imagination. Thick pillowy arms bulged and sagged under gravity’s pull, and her rounded gut looked like the Japanese mochi desserts that she so enjoyed of an evening. Her ham-hock legs, thick and sturdy, bulged out from beneath a hemline that seemed to ride a little too high for someone of her age. But then again, with the word ‘JUCY’ stretched dangerously wide across my ample rear end who was I to judge? Our embrace – the first in many months – had been tender. We sank into each other’s wobbling bodies. As I tried and failed to wrap my arms around her vast frame, it struck me that her hands could also no longer fit around my own much larger body as they’d used to. “…So I’ll just head out to the store and grab something to wear before everyone gets here”, I concluded, having spent the last couple of minutes filling the family in on my morning misfortunes. Mom's expression shifted to one of concern as she nervously glanced at her watch. “I’m not sure honey – people will be arriving any minute. Can’t you just make do with some of the dresses you left behind when you went off to college?”. I felt my cheeks glow as I mumbled, "they won’t fit anymore”. “I know”, my sister had chimed in happily, “I think I still have some of my fat – sorry – old clothes knocking around at the back of my wardrobe. Why don’t we go and see what fits?”. Her smirk indicated that the slip of the tongue had been very much intentional. “It’s settled then”, Mom concluded with a clap of her pudgy hands, “but please do try to play nice today girls. For me”. We nodded in silent agreement and made our way up to my sister’s room. I couldn’t help but admire her ass as I followed her up the stairs. Her body was lean and muscular – the baby fat I’d once teased her about having all but melted away, leaving behind a strikingly beautiful woman in its place. My eyes were drawn against my better judgement to the gentle sway of her well-proportioned hips and the generous curve of her bottom which creased in just the right way with every step. It was a temptation I knew I couldn't indulge in, but in that moment my eyes were fixed to her bottom as if pulled by an irresistible force. When we reached the top of the stairs she paused and turned to face me, her dark black hair falling over her shoulders and eyes sparkling with amusement. "What are you staring at?" she asked, a playful smile on her lips. I felt my cheeks burning with embarrassment once more and quickly averted my gaze. "Oh come on now, don't be shy," she purred, her voice dripping with amusement, "I know you were admiring my ass. After all, I used to do the same to you when we were younger. How times have changed – eh?”. I pushed past her huffily, not rising to the bait. “And there it is in all its glory”, she called after me as I made my way across the upstairs landing, “but now there’s so much more of it to admire”. The faint scent of sweat hung in the air as I crossed the threshold into my sister’s bedroom. It was clear she had been exercising here earlier in the morning – doubtless part of her rigorous college football training regime, which continued unabated over her summer break. The room was, frankly, a mess, scattered with discarded free weights and soiled Sweaty Betty workout clothes. A copy of 'Strong' female fitness magazine, with its glossy cover displaying an impossibly toned woman, rested on the bedside table, accompanied by an aggressively large tub of protein powder and a used shaker. It was a shrine to physical perfection, a testament to the lengths my sister had gone to lose weight, and a far cry from the discarded pizza boxes and ice cream tubs that had decorated my dorm for the past year. “Now if I remembered correctly then they should be just about… here!”. She spun around triumphantly holding a modest pile of clothes. I vaguely remembered some of them from our school days. Though only a few years it already seemed like a lifetime ago. I accepted them begrudgingly and trailed across the hall into my room, shutting the door behind me. With a growing sense of dread about what might be about to transpire, I began trying on the clothes one by one. The first – a delicate floral dress – clung to my body and refused to edge past my generous bosom. The second – a short bodycon dress with a zipper up the front – strained at the seams as I tried and failed to get it to close around my hanging paunch. The third – a lace-trimmed blouse – was so tight around my upper arms that my fingers were starting to turn purple by the time I finally prised it off. As I gingerly stepped into the final item – a pair of white-washed jeans – a faint glimmer of optimism fluttered in my chest. Though uncomfortably tight and demanding that I suck in my stomach for the remainder of the afternoon, I managed to somehow wrestle the button closed. Just as I was congratulating myself on a job well done, my sister, ignoring the unspoken sanctity of the closed bedroom door, barged into my room. The unexpected intrusion, made worse by the fact that I was still wearing only a sports bra on my top half, was enough to cause me to exhale in surprise. ‘Ping’ – the top button of the jeans ricocheted across the room, hitting the mirror opposite before clattering onto the hardwood floor, and my belly cascaded out the flies in a blubbery tsunami. Quick as a flash my sister moved behind me, her muscular arms wrapping around my overflowing muffin top, and cradled my vast doughy gut in a firm yet tender embrace. She bounced it up and down in her arms, her biceps flexing visibly under the weight. A playful smirk crossed her face. "Maybe it's time you put down that spoon and picked up a dumbbell or two sis", she teased, her words dripping with condescension, “or perhaps just pumping this big old belly up and down a few times a day could do the trick – it’s quite the workout, I must say!". She pretended to pant and released her grip, letting my gut fall with a jiggly thud. "Too big for even my largest clothes," she scolded, "you must have been a greedy piggy at college – gaining the Freshman 50 is no joke”. She regarded me pitifully as I stood in glum and stony silence. “Oh go on then, squeeze those cottage cheese thighs out of my pants. Luckily for you I think I’ve just thought of the perfect solution to your predicament…”. “So you decided to put on one of my dresses then dear?”, Mom asked kindly as I waddled into the living room wearing one of her tent-like garments. My sister shot a side-eyed smirk at me. “Yes Mother”, I choked through gritted teeth, painfully aware that I’d officially gorged myself fatter than my sister had been at her heaviest and was well on my way to catching up Mom too. A hand – my sister’s – unexpectedly plucked at the cotton around my waist and stretched it out, examining it thoughtfully. “You know, I think the two of you could start sharing your wardrobes soon. You’re basically the same size nowadays. It's adorable - a lovely way for a mother and daughter to bond. I’m absolutely green with envy”. “Yes that sounds lovely dear”, Mom absentmindedly agreed as she plumped the sofa cushions in preparation for her guests' imminent arrival. My sister leaned in and whispered out of earshot, “you know what they say, people who share clothes also share waistlines. Just wait until you outgrow Mom too. Because if there's one thing we can count on sis, it's that—" “You’re going to get fat!”. The party itself had been predictably middle-aged and tedious, but the rest of the summer break had been pretty good all things considered. I’d spoken to Ben almost every day – the best we could do given the distance between us. It wasn’t ideal but at least it was only temporary. And the regular video calls kept us connected in more ways than one. Our chats quickly turned steamy – I would sneak food up to my room and stuff myself silly for his viewing pleasure. It may not have been ideal, but it was enough to keep the embers of our relationship burning bright and hot. For the remainder of my time at home, I did what came naturally - lounging around the house and gathering mass. It got so bad that Mom threatened to make me get a part-time job next summer lest I carry out a repeat performance. Towards the end of the holidays, I’d taken a month-long inter-railing vacation around Europe with my college girls. It had certainly been an experience. Six American girls weighing in at around 2 tonnes waddling around quaint Centuries-old villages. We stood out like a sore thumb - but we didn’t care. We were having too much fun. With neither fitness nor culture being our strongest attributes we limited activities to only the truly unmissable sights in each place, instead opting to fully immerse ourselves in the local cuisine. Whether Italian thin-crust pizzas, Spanish paella, or British fish and chips, we gorged our way across the continent - whetting our appetite at a smorgasbord of bars, pubs and clubs in between. “Uggghhhh, too full”, Charlotte moaned on the final day of the trip. She lay flat on the sofa, shorts unbuttoned and gut bulging through her flies. We’d recently returned from a sizeable celebratory / commiseratory lunch to make the end of the trip and she’d looked in need of a good long hibernation to work off the meal. “Come on fatass”, Lucy joked, giving Charlotte’s belly a playful poke, “let’s see what the damage is”. Charlotte moaned louder still but with great effort managed to heave herself up and waddle towards the scales in the centre of the room, around which the other five of us stood expectantly. On the first day of the holiday, we’d had a group weigh-in, intending to check again on the final day to see how impactful the vacation had been on our dress sizes. The other girls weren’t into the sort of weight gain fetish stuff that Ben was, but they also didn’t shy away from the reality of the numbers on the scale. It was more about morbid curiosity than it was anything else. The scales creaked ominously as Charlotte stood on them. She looked quite the spectacle - ass entirely filling out her too-small shorts and a hefty spare tyre bursting out of the front of them. The scales read out her weight in an impassionate computerised voice - “weight - three hundred and fifty-seven pounds”. The group whooped and hollered as Lucy inspected the notes on her phone. “That’s a gain of… 11 pounds”, she grinned, “damn girl you’re going to need a whole new wardrobe when you get home”. Charlotte simply groaned and stumbled off the scales. She roughly forced off her shorts and waddled back towards the comfort of the bed. Her globular cheeks munched greedily on her lace panties with every laboured step until they had utterly devoured them. Her entire body shook violently as she collapsed back onto the mattress with a thud. “So, just you left babe”, Lucy nodded at me and then the scales, “chop chop”. Charlotte’s gain was the most of any of the girls so far, though they’d all put on at least some weight during the trip. Jen’s bust, for example, had ballooned so much that she’d outgrown all of her bras and had decided to take the last few days of the trip ‘au naturel” instead - her ponderous melons wobbling with every step had the eyes of the local teenage boys glued like moths to a flame. I had a sneaking suspicion, however, that my gain was about to steal the gold medal from right underneath Charlotte’s nose. I was right. “Weight - three hundred and sixty-two pounds”, the scale announced. Shocked faces turned to broad grins and finally fits of laughter. “Oh my god” - Lucy scratched her head in disbelief - “that’s 15 pounds. In four weeks! You’re officially the group’s chief fatass now!”. From the bed, Charlotte raised her head slightly, doffed an invisible gap in my direction, and collapsed back onto the mattress with another laboured groan. To be honest I wasn’t surprised. I’d felt the growing tightness of my clothes, the way my ass filled out the train seats entirely and had begun spilling over into the one next door, and how large and heavy I felt when doing even the least strenuous of daily tasks. Lucy pinched my upper arm flab and gave it a playful wobble. “I can’t wait to see Ben’s face when he picks you up. I think he’ll probably just cum in his pants there and then”. Vulgar, but not entirely incorrect. I had to help him hide his throbbing erection as we’d waddled through the airport together, and a brief but sticky handjob when we finally got to the car was necessary to relieve his aching blue balls. “I guess this is a lesson for all the ladies out there”, Britt righty concluded, “if you go on holiday with a bunch of big girls—“. “You’re going to get fat!”. My second year at college had been similar to the first - perhaps a tiny bit more studying and a smidge less drinking, but overall a largely repeat performance. Ben and I were going strong. I’d spent both the Winter and Easter break with him at his family home. At Christmas, his family had been particularly welcoming and I’d appreciated the real effort they’d made to include me in their quirky traditions. For example, I didn’t have my own pair of ‘bright pink Christmas-morning socks’ before I arrived, but I left with a pair that I’d been told were good for re-entry next year should I wish. The only slight dampener on the otherwise pleasant trip had come on Christmas Eve when the men were outside collecting firewood and Ben’s mother and older sister were showing me some of the old family photo albums. I’d enjoyed seeing baby Ben in the bath or dressed as a Christmas elf in the school nativity, but I hadn’t been prepared for the appearance of an old girlfriend from his high school days. She’d hardly been a supermodel to begin with, but with each passing picture, the girl got fatter and fatter - by the final picture she looked to be pushing 500 pounds on a good day. “Oh god - Ruby”, Ben’s sister sighed as she thumbed at the ex-flame, “poor girl - absolutely ballooned in the time that we knew her. Was a big wobbling fatty by the time she and Ben broke up. Even bigger now from what I’ve heard. Not… er… not that there’s anything inherently wrong with that”, she finished awkwardly with an obvious side glance at my vast body, which had only continued to grow this academic year. I brushed it off with a smile but stored the memory of Ben’s enormous ex for safekeeping. Still, it had been a great year, and though the college girls and I hadn’t planned a vacation for the summer break this year – as we were all exceptionally poor at the moment - we’d organised a couple of meet-ups to keep up to date on each other’s gossip. Instead, I packed my luggage into Ben’s car for the long drive back to my family home. He was coming to stay for a couple of weeks at the start of summer break – my parents having been surprisingly relaxed about the idea once I’d finally plucked up the courage to ask. We set off at the crack of dawn and arrived in the early hours of the following day. Exhausted, we didn’t emerge from my bedroom until well after midday. “So this is the man I’ve been hearing so much about”, Mom smiled as we walked into the kitchen. She was standing behind the kitchen island preparing a hearty breakfast of pancakes, muffins, waffles, and fried goodness, looking even fatter than the last time I had seen her. Perhaps food had been filling the void left by her b**s flying the nest? Her hips now bugled out so far that she’d soon have to turn sideways to squeeze through doorframes. Every inch of her wobbled with the slightest movement. Introductions had been made between boyfriend and mother. Ben blushed as Mom went in for a hug - he side-eyed me awkwardly, knowing that I knew he’d find Mom’s body appealing whilst trying his best to show he wasn’t overstepping any boundaries. I just giggled and watched him squirm in her soft, blubbery embrace. Dad joined us a few minutes later and we’d tucked in. Mom and I polishing off the lion’s share of the meal as the boys looked on. “You’d better get used to eating the scraps” Dad teased, jabbing Ben in the side with his elbow, “it’s how I’ve managed to stay in such good shape all these years”. An eye roll from Mom and a wink from Dad. Ben just turned purple and focused intently on the piece of waffle speared on his fork. We were sitting by the pool later that afternoon when my sister finally arrived, straight from a gruelling workout. Wearing a bikini that left relatively little to the imagination she ducked out of the back door and wandered over. She was still every part the Amazonian goddess - dark black hair cascading over broad shoulders, bulging muscles, and an impressive 6’3” frame. Her jawline was now so well defined it looked like it could cut glass. She was still a little thick overall - football demanded a bit of weight behind her tackles - so there was no shortage of wiggle in her thighs as she neared our loungers. “I mean, know you said she was big, but I didn’t think you meant…”, Ben whispered as she approached. “Hey there sis”, she smiled, “and you must be Ben?”. Ben gulped, nodded and stood to shake her hand. He was no slouch at 5’11” and reasonably fit, but I’d still fancy my sister in a fight if things kicked off. “I… errr…”, Ben stuttered, but he was saved by Mom calling from the patio doors - “Ben darling your phone is ringing - it looks like it’s your parents. You have told them that you got here safe and sound, haven’t you?”. He smacked his forehead in an exaggerated ’doh’ and hurried off up the garden. My sister and I shared general pleasantries for a few minutes before she glanced up at the house and said “so - he’s cute. A tad shy maybe, but I guess ‘meeting the family’ is always a little stressful”. She then leaned close and gave my meaty hip a wobble, “I see some things haven’t changed though. Unlimited buffet in your dorms I assume?”. “None of your business thanks very much”, I replied grumpily. That hadn’t taken long. The festering resentment at my size-related jokes and jibes when we had been little was clearly still an open wound for her then. “Besides why do you care so much about my weight? No offence sis but you seem a little… obsessed. Living vicariously through my diet as you count the grams of protein in every meal?”. She scoffed - “Hardly. I’m just worried about you sis. You’ve gone from such a skinny little thing to such a big fat porker in only a few years” - a rough jiggle of my gut to emphasise the point - “I just can’t bear the idea that you’re at college and your fat ass is bursting out of more pairs of sweatpants without me there to help”. I remember the words ‘smug bitch’ forming on the tip of my tongue, but just before we descended into a full-blown argument Ben had returned holding three large Magnum ice creams. “Your mom insisted that I bring these down”, he explained on approach. He handed one to me, which I’d accepted, obviously, and attempted to give the other to my sister. “My body is a temple thank you very much”. There was a dull thud as her fist thumped into her abs. “I was a little podgy when we were younger and my dear sister never let me forget it. Of course karma sorted that one out as we got older”. Ben shrugged off the snide remark and passed me a second ice cream instead. I was certain I could see the hint of a bulge in his swim shorts as he did so. The idea that my boyfriend was secretly getting off on my displays of gluttony and my sister’s mean-spirited teasing was too tempting to pass. I began messily chowing down - double dipping between the ice creams in each hand. My sister laughed. “Careful, I’m sure you’ve seen our mom waddling about the house. You know that these things run in the family, right? If you keep feeding my big sister like that then only one thing is going to happen”. She’d looked me in the eye as she poked a finger playfully into my gut— “You’re going to get fat!”. Unfortunately, a couple of days later Mom had reminded me of her threat from last year - that I needed to get a job over the holidays. Neither protesting nor procrastinating seemed like it would do much good, so I’d dusted off my CV and fired it around the local mall. One offer came back - I’d accepted. The main benefit of my job at ‘Largesse’ - plus size clothing store - was 85 per cent off all clothing for staff members. My monthly wardrobe budget had skyrocketed since I met Ben. Elasticated waistbands helped a little, but it was nevertheless a massive boost to my personal finances. And I fit right in. The staff were fun and fat. A winning combination in my book. My most memorable shift came one hot August day. I was quietly refolding and reorganising the T-shirt display, praising the lord for his benevolent gift of AC, when I heard a familiar voice approaching. “Excuse me miss, do you have this in a size 14?”. I turned to be greeted by none other than Jennifer, my ex-double partner and ex-friend, clutching a pair of white-washed jeans. We’d not parted on the best of terms - her guffawing cruelly at my misfortune when trapped in a school chair, fawning over my ex-crush Josh. But the sight of her in Largesse that day had been surprisingly welcome. The past couple of years hadn’t been kind to Jen’s figure at all. She’d put on a good 100 pounds, likely more, centred around her lower half. She’d always been a very pretty girl - blonde hair, blue eyes, big boobs - and I could still see the beauty in her perfectly symmetrical face. Only now it was surrounded by a ring of chub in the form of a thick double chin. The leggings she’d opted to wear that day were stretched so tight around her meaty thighs that I could see the threads starting to come apart at the seams. Her bulbous ass was packed dangerously into them - like an unstable concoction that could explode at any time. It took Jen a moment to make the connection. As soon as she did her cheeks flushed rogue and she had the good grace to look away with embarrassment. “Oh, hey, I errrrr… wow this is awkward”, she said meekly. “Oh, hey Jen”, I smiled back, “long time no see. How’s life treating you?”. I gave her meaty fupa a patronising pat. “Pretty well from what I can see”. She progressed from rouge to crimson by this point. “I’m good, thanks. I errrr… I guess I dropped out of college in the first semester - stress, you know - and started working in my mom’s bakery here in the mall. Just a stopgap. Until I figure stuff out. Though it has been a couple of years now…”. She trailed off - likely contemplating her sub-optimal life choices. “Oh a bakery - lucky you! God to think if I’d worked in a bakery how big I’d be now!”. I grabbed my hips with two hands and jiggled them for emphasis. “I’m plenty fat enough already - or what was it you once said? A ‘fatass’, wasn’t it? Funny as I think I was about the same size that you are now…”. Jen was looking very uncomfortable now. Her eyes fell awkwardly to her feet. “Oh, you remember that…. Yeah, I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I just wanted to impress Josh. He dumped me anyway once I started to gain weight if that makes you feel any better”. It did, but only a little - Jen looked sadder than I’d expected, and the triumphant turning of the tables had felt better in my head than it did in real life. “Oh… well, let’s let bygones be bygones. Anyway, you wanted some help”, I nodded to the jeans clutched in Jen’s hands, “let me see what I can do”. I took her by the hand and led her into the fitting rooms at the other end of the store. On the way, I grabbed a pair of jeans in both 14 and 16. The sight of Jen’s bottom wobbling into the booth made me suspect she was a little in denial about her true clothing size. Still, I gave her the size 14s as requested. The customer was always right after all. It hadn’t come as a great surprise that a couple of minutes later I heard muffled grunts and cries coming from behind the curtain. “This can’t be right”, Jen’s disembodied voice moaned. I took that as an invitation to offer my support. Stepping inside the changing booth I’d been greeted with a close-up of Jen’s large flabby ass - the jeans having made their way up to the crease of her enormous buttocks and no further. She’d opted for a rather racy g-string today, which in hindsight might have been an error given the fabric had been entirely swallowed up by her meaty cheeks so I could now see every bump of the cellulite that ravaged her bulbous bottom. But as she’d looked up in the mirror and seen me it was only frustration and panic that showed in her pretty face. “They’re too small”, she moaned pathetically, jumping up and down in an attempt to brute force them over her ass. Her fat cheeks slapped together audibly, ripping blubber across their wide surface. The resulting tremors from her feet pounding into the floor had caused the mirrored wall to rattle ominously. I’d rather not spend my afternoon sweeping up broken glass thank you very much. I produced the other pair of jeans from behind my back. “Perhaps it’s time to admit defeat and go a bit bigger?”. “But I CAN’T be a size 16”, Jen whined. She tugged hard on the belt loops until her knuckles turned white, but succeeded only in wobbling her gelatinous bottom for my viewing pleasure. I smiled back sweetly - “There’s no shame in it hun. I mean, I can’t even count how many pairs of jeans I’ve outgrown over the years. I’ll just leave these here”. I placed the jeans gently on a hanger and backed out of the stall. Jen bumped into me on her way out of the store a few minutes later, wearing the jeans that I had left for her. The size 16s hugged her curves snugly, accentuating the softness of her body and the generous jiggle in her step. “Thanks again…”, she said sheepishly, “and I meant what I said earlier about being sorry, you know I wasn’t in a good place when…”. She trailed off mid-sentence, her gaze drifting over my shoulder. “Is that your sister?” I turned around to see my twin strolling casually through the mall’s large sunlight atrium in the distance, arm-in-arm with none other than Josh O’Callahan himself. The vibrant green sundress she wore flowed gracefully with every step, drawing eyes from passersby. She did cut an impressive figure, almost as tall as the handsome man confidently striding beside her. Josh, with his sandy blonde hair perfectly tousled, had a hand placed casually on my sister’s perfect ass, squeezing it playfully. I was unable to tear my eyes away from them. My mind raced with a mixture of shock, betrayal, and more than a tinge of jealousy. Thankfully they didn’t see us – a pair of fat voyeurs – as we watched them walk the length of the atrium before turning out of sight. Jen was the first to break the silence. “Want to go eat away the pain at my mom’s bakery?”, she sighed, flat and defeated. I was supposed to be on shift for another hour but nodded wordlessly and followed her out of the store. As we waddled towards the ‘Cakes N Cookies’ opposite, Jen muttered, as much to herself as to me, “I’m going to need therapy after today…”. I was about to agree glumly when the first whiff of cakes and pastries emanating from the open bakery door ahead hit my nostrils. I was already panting slightly from the effort of the short walk, but I gulped in the sweet, inviting scents as if they were a lifeline – keeping me going. Jen, in her naivety, had overlooked a much easier, cheaper, and more satisfying way to soothe the ache in her heart. I replied, “And I…”— “I’m going to get fat!”. - - - - - Choose your preferred ending… - - - - - Ben Ending (note: Male Weight Gain) My final year of college had been quite the culinary exploration. Ben had thrown himself head-first into a new hobby - cooking. It was very evidently a thinly veiled ploy to shovel even more calories down my throat, but I’ll be damned if it hadn’t worked exactly like he’d intended. Not a day went by without another heavy meal plated in front of me and entirely devoured by the time the freshly baked pudding was ready. By the end of the year, he’d become quite the cook. And I’d put on another 25 pounds. I’d also managed to scrape a so-so grade. Enough to bag me a simple office gig in the city – HR at some fancy-pants bank. Sitting on my wide bottom all day and snacking along with the other large ladies in the department. The resulting “HR spread” (my ever-widening ass) was to be expected. Less expected was the fact that Ben had pulled his finger out and surprised everyone – including himself – by securing a rather well-paying job at a super-posh restaurant in the city as an apprentice chef. His gastronomic flair only intensified as he honed his craft over the next couple of years. We soon had enough money to move into our own place. It was modest, homely, and everything we could have hoped for. Not long after I’d left the family home behind Dad had finally retried. He and Mom invested in a Winnebago to travel the length and breadth of the country. Hard to imagine them enjoying the simple life but damned if they weren’t giving it their all. My sister had reluctantly given up her sporting career after a bad injury all but ruled her out of the big leagues and transitioned, after a bit of academic upskilling, into the glamorous world of corporate law. She wasn’t the muscled monstrosity she’d been at her fitness peak but I still wouldn’t want to be sitting the other side of the negotiating table from her. As Ben’s career took off his passion for food had bled into every aspect of our day-to-day lives. When we weren’t eating we were talking about eating, and when we weren’t talking about eating we were thinking about it instead. Fast food was but a distant memory. Now we dined on buttered greens, creamed spinach, triple-cooked truffle chips, thick cuts of filet mignon, creamy lobster linguine, and an ever-growing menu of similar restaurant quality meals. In a sense, it was healthier, though just as calorific. We’d evolved beyond mere mortals and incorporated a fourth main meal into our daily routines – we called it ‘Nibbles’ and it usually consisted of an experimental dish Ben was thinking of offering at the restaurant once perfected, served midafternoon. Everything Ben cooked was drenched in butter, cream, or oil – very rarely was one of these dishes not declared a roaring success. And the sex – spectacular, if a little messier than it had been. We rarely made it to the bedroom without a dessert tray in hand to enjoy during the proceedings. I’d come to associate the breathless highs of orgasm with the taste of chocolates, caramels, and blueberry pie. When I’d pass the bakery in town the wafting smells of brownies fresh out of the oven had me weak at the knees. Pavlov’s hog, perhaps? The effect of this had been predictable on the one hand – my weight continued to steadily climb with every passing meal as it had done since I first met my devilish feeder boyfriend – but on the other hand rather unexpected indeed. At college, Ben had always been content to let me polish off both our plates. He’d graze a little when we ate together, but by and large, subsisted on a meagre diet to maximise the amount that I would eat. As a consequence, he’d never put on so much as a pound the entire time we’d been together, despite the frequency of our fast food tips and familiarity with the cheesecake factory menu. His job had changed things. It made sense when I stopped to think about it. He’d have to try his cooking at work, right? Experimenting with dishes - little tastes here and there. Perhaps a quick snack on some leftovers - would be a shame for them to go to waste. As Ben brought his gastronomic skills home to our kitchen he began eating more and more of his own creations. It wasn’t long before he was the one pinching from my plate, returning for hearty second helpings, or snacking absentmindedly on the desserts that were supposed to be saved for later that evening. As his appetite grew so did his lethargy – he’d return from a hard day at the ‘office’, rustle us up some dinner, and then plop down on the couch to play videogames as I’d ferry him his evening snacks. Which I did. Willingly. Seeing my feeder, the man who’d ravaged my body with blubber, devolve into my helpless feedee had been surprisingly erotic. The effect of all of this had been entirely… as expected. So to today… The restaurant is heaving. A queue of people, so long it snakes around the corner of the building and out of view, look on with envy as I waddle inside flanked by Charlotte and Lucy. We have reservations, of course, courtesy of (boy)friends in high places. We are shown to our table by a pretty young woman. Her little black dress would barely fit over one of my thighs. God I’ve gotten fat. “Well, this is fancy”, Charlotte coos, clearly impressed. She inspects her ornate dessert spoon. “Almost hate to dirty it on one of those souffles you’ve been banging on about”. I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Almost”, Charlotte winks back. Little black dress returns to the table soon enough and we place our order. A minute later we’re chinking three glasses of Champagne in anticipation of a good night to come. We start by catching up on each other’s lives. Charlotte’s girlfriend had proposed a few weeks back so naturally we spent a couple of minutes fawning over the large chunk of diamond now stuffed onto her porky ring finger. The prospect of getting the old college crew out of retirement for the bachelorette party was certainly an enticing one. Only Charlotte and Lucy live within driving distance nowadays. Lucy had just moved house and lit up as she showed us pictures of moving day. Her boyfriend, a rather strapping local fireman, had even attempted to carry her over the threshold. ‘Attempted’ being the keyword in that sentence. The pictures of him resting his injured lower back with an ice pack were a testament that even his tree-trunk arms were no match for her heft. “So what’s new?”, she asks once the proverbial conch has been passed in my direction. “Oh, errr, nothing too much with me to be honest”, I begin, “as for Ben, well you already know he was promoted to head chef here a few months back. It’s been going really well – great reviews, booked up weeks in advance. And the best part is that I get to eat restaurant quality food, for free, pretty much every day!”. I pat the protruding curve of my belly gleefully. “Yes, we can see that”, Charlotte smiles in response, “but to be honest I’d expect nothing less from you babe. Your boyfriend on the other hand” – she nods towards the kitchen – “has been steadily packing on the pounds for the last few years. Come on, spill the beans, what’s the story?”. I blush and lower my voice so only the girls can hear. “He’s become such a greedy pig! He eats all day – at work, at home, in the car, everywhere – and hasn’t so much as walked past a gym let alone been in one since he started working here. To be honest, at first, I wasn’t sure, but you know what, it’s pretty fucking hot”. “Pray tell”, Lucy continues eagerly. “Always so bloody nosy”, I shake my head with a giggle, “well, you know food’s always better when you can enjoy it with someone. And the sex… don’t knock it till you’ve tried it is all I’ll say”. Lucy’s mouth opens wide in Looney-Toon-esque astonishment. “And last month he officially weighed more than me for the first time… ever. He’s over 450 pounds!”. I finish, slightly breathless, and look away with an embarrassed grin. We toast to that just as our mains arrive. Five lip-smacking minutes later the generous portion is already resting heavy in my stomach. As I pause for breath a familiar voice rises above the cacophony of excited diners. “… I think you’ll agree that we’ve been more than fair with regards to PCI, so a little give on the Share Purchase Agreement would go a long way in showing that…”. I follow the voice to a table near the window and the unmistakable sight of my sister sat across from two stern-looking Asian gentlemen. She spears a piece of slow-cooked BBQ pork and eats it without breaking eye contact with her dining companions. Intense to say the least. I wasn’t about to go and interrupt her mid-flow. My friends and I continue drinking and chatting until nature finally calls. As I exit the stall and walk towards the resplendent bathroom’s wide vanity mirror the entrance door swings open. “Fancy seeing you here”, my sister drawls sarcastically, “how did you hear about it?”. “Just some guy I know”, I answer, before giving her a warm embrace. Perhaps it was the wisdom of age, or maybe just no longer living on top of each other, but our relationship had greatly improved over the last few years since college. From frosty to cordial, to something resembling real sisterhood. She’d long ditched that layabout O’Callahan and was presently engaged to a rather dashing investment banker, whom she’d first met across the negotiating table whilst thrashing out a difficult deal before the relationship progressed to the bedroom and thrashing of an entirely different nature. “Well give this mystery man, whoever he is, my compliments”, she continued, “this has become my go-to closing restaurant. I’ve done four deals here in the last month alone, and it’ll be five once Mr Kaneko pulls the stick out of his ass and agrees to our terms”. I chuckle. “If anyone can do it…”. And I meant it too. I’d become accustomed to seeing my sister hammering out the finer details of her contracts over one of Ben’s mouthwatering desserts. No matter how tense the conversation sounded as it wafted over from their table it was always vigorous handshakes and broad smiles by the time the meal was finally over. But success, alas, had come at a cost for my dear sister. A sudden devastating decline in her day-to-day physical activity combined with an equivalent increase in late-night stress eating at expensive restaurants had resulted in a delightful, if not predictable, increase in her dress size. Slowly at first. Barely noticeable unless you were looking out for it (which of course I had been). The smallest of pooches forming over the waistband of her shorts here, a slight softening of her jawline there. But fat begets fat, and now for the first time in years my sister’s hips are wider than her shoulders. No mean feat given she’s still as broad a doorframe, but such was the extent of the spare tyre now permanently hugging her midriff. The tight-fitting satin dress she’d opted for this particular evening was not leaving much to the imagination. Every roll is deliciously accentuated. Her lardy belly spills out onto the countertop as she bends low to fix her make-up. Soft and flowing like the heavy cream she drowns her nightly puddings in. I desperately wanted to comment on it. ‘Looks like I’m not the only one suffering the effects of Ben’s cooking’, I might say, with a patronising little pat on her soft under-gut. I imagined her thick blubber pinched between my fingers as the words form on my lips. Instead, I held my tongue. I’d made a concerted effort not to mention my sister’s obvious weight gain even one since it started over two years ago, lest she agree and do something about it. I quite liked being on a more level playing field with her, and I certainly wasn’t in any position to lose weight myself. “I think I’ll nail it over dessert”, she continued, completely oblivious to the few seconds of silence we had just shared – ever focused on the job at hand. “I’ll order two helpings to maximise the time I’ve got him pinned to the table”. She leant back from the mirror, her belly plopping off the counter and jiggling back into place, and turned about heel, striding purposefully towards the exit. “I’m going to get him to sign”, she said, as much to herself as to me. “You’re going to get fat...”, I muttered under my breath, quietly enough that she wouldn’t hear, as I watch her fat ass jiggle out of the door. Her globular, dimpled cheeks swayed with each step, straining against the fabric of her dress, before brushing the doorframe on both sides as she waddled back to the negotiating table. By the time I returned to my table, the girls had polished off our last bottle of bubbly and ordered another. Three hours later and the place was shutting down around me. Mr Kaneko had signed on the dotted line in the end. My sister, high on adrenaline and food, had long since waved a congenial goodbye with a broad grin and a bloated stomach. Destined for fatter things. Lucy and Charlotte too had waddled out a short while ago, nursing distended but satisfied guts. I was the only table left now. Upturned chairs are decorating my closest neighbours. Little black dress was the last of the staff to leave. She stopped by briefly on her way out the door – “Ben said he’ll be out in a minute with, errrr…”, her eyes momentarily drifted down to the belly spilling out of my jeans, “second dinner”. With that she saunters away, leaving me alone in the impressive high-ceilinged dining room. “Smug bitch”, I mutter to myself once the door has closed behind her. I hear Ben before I see him. With the background buzz of the restaurant now extinguished, the heavy ‘thud, thud, thud’ of his footsteps drawing closer reverberates around the empty room. When he finally lumbers through the kitchen door I watch with a smile as his hips also brush the wide wooden frame on both sides. His vast weeble-wobble body is both fattened and feminine – a good majority of the weight having settled in his cellulite-ridden ass and thighs. As he slips into the room I watch as his grease-stained t-shirt rides further and further up his belly with every plod. His pasty white gut is exposed like the unveiling of a great work of art. The sack of soft subcutaneous fat hangs over the waistband of his trousers and jiggles deliciously as it bumps against his meaty thighs. Balanced on his thick forearms is an industrial-looking cooking tray piled high with barbequed meats – chops, steaks, ribs and others that I can’t make out from this distance. He waddles, slow and laboured, towards the table. As he approaches I see beads of sweat dotting his brow. Was that from the heat of the kitchen or the effort of the short walk to our table? Probably a little of both. Ben reaches the table and drops the tray with a triumphant, if breathless, “et viola”. He pulls up and settles himself into a spare chair, which creaks under his immense weight. The aroma of grilled meats wafts tantalisingly from the table. “After you darling”, I nod towards my boyfriend, “you must be starving – the place was packed this evening”. It appears Ben agrees as he doesn’t need telling twice. Both arms reach forward and return with a chop in hand – he greedily munches on them one after the other. I’m already uncomfortably full and more than a little tipsy, so settle for simply grazing, content to watch my boyfriend gorge himself instead. And gorge he most certainly does. The platter of meats, easily enough to feed a family of four, is gradually worn down over the next 15 or so minutes until only a pool of beef dripping and grease remains. Ben grasps the tray with pudgy hands and lifts it to his lips, drinking this down too – pure fat settling in his expanded tummy. He’s done well tonight. I glance at my watch – 11:10 pm. Just time for a quick treat before we head home. “I think you need to relax babe…”, I coo softly, “let me help you take a load off”. With considerable effort, I push myself to stand and move our dining table to one side. I pop the clutch on my bag and dig around until my hand grasps a familiar plastic bottle. This wasn’t the first time we’d enjoyed each other’s company at the end of a hard day’s work. I’d come prepared. Kneeling gingerly in front of Ben I take a moment to look up at him. He was thrice the man I’d first met – or more, the numbers on the scale were always increasing and it was hard to keep track. From this angle, the generous sag of three chins – each rounder and thicker than the last – gives him a cherubic glow. Gluttony incarnate. Starting at the bottom I hook my finger inside his chef whites and gently pull it open one popper at a time. Each gratefully gives way to reveal more of his morbidly obese body until the last pops open to reveal it in all its glory. A pair of melons larger even than my own sit fat and engorged on his chest. Puffy nipples hard and tender, begging to be suckled. Below a rounded belly cascades out onto his lap. Doughy flesh inches thick and soft to the touch. Ben fumbles at his elasticated waistband, forcing it down underneath his crotch and flopping out his fat pad. And quite the fat pad it was. His manhood had long been swallowed up by his growing body. The glutton’s curse – for men at least. No matter though, we’d long since found other ways to satiate his urges. I upturn the bottle of lube and squeeze a generous dollop onto my palm. Rubbing the cool liquid between my fingers until my hand was greased and ready. Careful not to overexcite him too early I begin by gently massaging his fat pad. I can already feel his cock, hard and throbbing, beneath the couple of inches of blubber enveloping it. When we first met I wouldn’t have been able to so much as pinch that much fat anywhere on his body. How times had changed. After a couple of minutes of warming him up, I delve a tentative finger into the fat pad, searching for my boyfriend’s once-proud cock. It’s not hard to find – buried under an inch of so adipose. He splutters and spreads his legs as wide as his thunderous thighs and the arms of the chair will allow. I circle my finger slowly around the tip of his cock. It’s already dipping in pre-cum as I hear him panting up above. “Yes… yes…” he groans, to which I press slightly harder and angle my finger so the nail tickles the tip ever so slightly. After a short tease, I reach deeper, rubbing my oily fingers gently under the grove between head and shaft. Guttural groans, louder than before. I sense that he isn’t going to last much longer. “You know, Charlotte warned me about you”, I say in a sultry tone, looking up at my behemoth of a boyfriend, “she said if we dated you’d make me fat”. I grasp his manhood tightly and pump my hand up and down in a slow but purposeful rhythm. He shudders with anticipation. “And you did – I mean, just look at me. A big, wobbling, tub of lard and there’s no denying it. But…”. I pump harder and faster, his fat pad slapping audibly against his hanging gut. “In reality, it was Charlotte who should have warned you about me”. Ben grimaces and grips the chair’s arms so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His whole body shakes violently with every one of my greasy pumps – great waves of blubber crashing into one another. “You see, there’s a reason that over half of your body is now pure fat”, I continue, “there’s a reason that you haven’t so much as seen your cock, let alone been able to jerk yourself off, in months”. I quicken my hand and tighten its slippery grip. “There’s a reason that you’re now even fatter than I am”. Ben moans even more desperately than before. “Being a feeder but lacking the willpower to stop her turning you into her feedee... you must have known what was going to happen…”. Unable to contain himself any longer, Ben explodes as I utter the final phrase-- “You’re going to get fat!”. The End - - - - - 2. Sister Ending (note: Incest) My final year of college had been more tumultuous than I’d expected. The unwelcome discovery of my boyfriend balls-deep in his ex had probably topped the list. The image of Ben vigorously pounding the sweaty 500-pound hog from behind had been hard to shake, despite my best efforts. ‘But you weren’t meant to be back until tomorrow’, hadn’t exactly been the most compelling defence on his part. By the end of a rather teary conversation later that day, we’d parted ways. For good. Unfortunately, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time – just before finals. Revision was the last thing on my mind. My textbooks stayed shut and my lecture notes unread, as instead I turned to the fridge and ate to fill the hole in my heart. My girlfriends tried their best to comfort me, setting up a daily support rota that ensured I was never too far from a shoulder to cry on, or a tub of ice cream to drown myself in. Suffice to say, when I waddled up to receive my diploma it was two letter grades lower than it should have been, and I was 20 pounds heavier, pushing me above 400 for the first time in my life. The irony that this fact would have made Ben weak at the knees my certainly not lost on me. With each step back to my seat my body wobbled and jiggled, the weight of these extra pounds straining the fabric of my graduation gown bought a few weeks prior. Judgmental smirks from the sorority sisters I passed on the way didn’t help either. With college completed I’d moved back home and found a modest office job at a local office supply company. The sort of honest work and low pay that was deserving of my below-average academic achievements. I tried not to dwell on my sister’s professional soccer contract, her beauty, body, or the penthouse apartment she’d just started renting in the city. Comparison was indeed the thief of joy. So to today… “I’m sorry girls, we should have left hours ago but all flights have been grounded and they’re saying that the absolute earliest we could leave is tomorrow afternoon”, Mom sighs, the stress in her voice evident despite the cracking of the poor connection. She and Dad had left for Sri Lanka three weeks ago – a bank-busting vacation to mark the start of an early retirement. They were due to fly home early this morning – Thanksgiving – to be greeted by their daughters and a lovingly prepared holiday meal. The turkey was already basting in the oven. Unfortunately, a spot of sudden and violent civil unrest followed by a harsh government crackdown got in the way. “It’s fine Mom”, my sister replies, “just stay in the airport and stay safe. We can manage just fine on our own here. Though…”, she glances fleetingly at the oven, “we might have over catered…”. A few minutes later I pop the cork on a bottle of rather expensive looking Champagne from Dad’s private stockpile, pouring out a pair of generous glasses. “Might as well enjoy ourselves whilst we wait for lunch”, I smile as I hand one to my sister. A bottle and a half later and the freely flowing drinks had washed away any residual tension between us. We were sisters first and rivals second after all, though at times that hadn’t always felt like the case. We’d been so lost reminiscing about Thanksgivings gone by that it had taken a moment for either of us to register the significance of the distant chirping emanating from the kitchen. Groggily we made our way towards it. I went to the fridge for a top-up, and my sister to the oven to serve up the now-finished meal. “You feeling *hic* hungry?”, she hiccups a minute or so later, a mashed potato-laden serving spoon held aloft a plate that was already piled generously high. I consider for a moment. The alcohol might have dulled my senses for a time, but the familiar pangs of hunger were definitely still there. A nod and the spoon is upturned, sending even more food tumbling onto my meal. We take our seats on opposite sides of the dining room table and bask in our triumph. The turkey is moist and tender, its golden skin crackled and crisp. Just the smell is making my mouth water uncontrollably. I adorn my creamy potatoes with a generous slab of butter that slowly melts into an unhealthy pool, into which I dip my greens for a decadent first bite. We’d done well. Very well. As we gorge in silence the clinking of silverware against porcelain echoes through the air - the gentle symphony broken only when we reach for another gulp of Champagne to further dull our senses. Despite plating up about half the serving that she’d given me, my sister was still tucking into the meal with gusto. I suppose her normal healthy eating regime doesn’t allow for such frivolity as ‘tasty meals’. “I’m done…” I moan a little while later, tugging at the waistband of my jeans in vain. Where before I could slip a finger between flab and denim, now there is only taut, quivering flesh pouring over the waistband. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, the exertion of simply existing whilst this full almost too much to bear. My sister is also looking stuffed. Her normally flat stomach is pronounced with an unmistakable curve, which rises and falls with deep and laboured breaths. “Yep… definitely over catered”, she groans, clutching her bloated belly, “and there’s still so much left… haven’t even touched desert… seems a shame to let it go to waste…”. A large cheesecake sits tantalisingly in the centre of the table. One of my favourites, and my sister’s too before her body became the temple it is today. A devilish thought crosses my mind – perhaps I could tempt her off her diet and have a bit of drunken fun whilst at it. “Well… we could make it interesting?”, I grin mischievously, my words slurring slightly from the champagne, “for every slice we manage the other one of us has to… I don’t know… take off an item of clothing?”. My sister raises an eyebrow, intrigued. The champagne has evidently already gone to both of our heads, awakening a delicious recklessness that I’m keen to explore. “And the first to give in has to do a forfeit?”, she proposes, the innocence in her voice betrayed by the glint in her eye. The deal is done over a curt nod. My sister takes the lead, snatching up a slice and quickly seeing it off in five large bites. Concerning –suddenly she doesn’t seem as full as she had done – am I about to be hustled? I shrug off my jumper, revealing a plain white t beneath, and set to work on my own helping. Tough but doable – I pass the baton back her way as she sheds her blouse and starts on a fresh slice. It’s disappeared in a flash and before I know it I’ve huffed and puffed my way to standing and I’m squeezing myself out of my white-washed jeans. It’s a blessing in disguise really, given how uncomfortably tight they were feeling after the main course. “Looking good sis”, my sister teases from across the table as I turn to discard my clothes behind me, “how many aeroplane seats are you up to now? Three?”. I have the good grace to blush, having just flashed her my bare and barely contained ass, instead resolving to win the bet and exact my pound of flesh in revenge. She stands to remove her pants a minute or so later as I wipe the crumbs from my lips. Annoyingly all I’m greeted with is a pair of impossibly toned legs, thick and muscular with naught but the slightest hint of flab or cellulite. I can’t help but stare. “Like what you see”, she grins mischievously, lifting one onto the table in an effortless lunge that I probably haven’t been able to do for about 200 pounds or so. My eyes trail down to her red lace underwear, now on full display with the movement. The fabric stretches slightly, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of her pussy underneath. Against my better judgment, I find myself imagining reaching out and feeling the soft material between my fingertips, being crushed between her powerful thighs... I manage to tear my eyes away as she grabs the next slice. Before I have time to collect my thoughts it’s my turn to disrobe once again. T-shirt now off I’m feeling significantly more vulnerable than I’d expected – despite ever-deepening inebriation. Plopped on my parent’s old dining chair in just my bra and panties, I’m painfully aware of my sister’s eyes boring into my engorged body and the fact that, despite a vast weight advantage, her combo of height and strength could probably overpower me should she so wish. “Oh my god”, she says finally, “I actually cannot believe how fat you’ve gotten”. She takes another generous swig of champagne. Her eyes take a moment to refocus. “Like, I obviously wanted you to get a taste of your own medicine for the way you acted when we were growing up, but even in my wildest dreams I didn’t think you’d actually get this large”, she gestures vaguely at my blubber-ridden body – ass sagging over each side of the chair. “Well, you’d better *hic* believe it sis”, I slur back, grabbing my next slice and shovelling it into my face, cheesecake smearing around my lips and the folds of my nested chins. My sister’s eyes are wide and, oddly, excited. I’m putting on a show, but to what end? With the final mouthful swallowed she accepts her penalty with a resigned sigh. With a subtle twist of her body, she unclasps her bra, allowing it to fall elegantly to the floor. Her chest is like a work of art, sculpted and smooth like marble, with ample curves that defy her otherwise muscular frame. She smiles wryly, clearly proud of maintaining her impressive bust despite her rigorous athletic regime, and inviting me to admire them too. “I’ve shown you mine, now show me yours”, she hums, bending over to take another slice, ample tits swaying ponderously in the open air. A moment later I’m fumbling behind my back to release my heavy chest from its cotton prison. Significantly less gracefully my bra pings off in relief, letting my vast engorged hooters flop onto my rounded gut. I cup them, letting the excess adipose slosh in my palm, spilling between my porky fingers. I watch my sister lick her lips as she gazes, mesmerised, at my cleavage, before refocusing and diving in for her next piece. Sure enough, I’m pulling off my panties a minute later, now naked as the day I was born. I feel a sudden flush of heat as I slap my bare ass back down onto the chair. I reach forwards to seize my final slice but a loud and ominous belch, a hair's breadth from being followed by the contents of my stomach, gives me pause for thought. I am, in every sense of the phrase, ‘at capacity’. “I surrender”, I moan, slumping back into the chair, “if you hadn’t served me such an enormous portion for lunch…”. “If you hadn’t eaten such an enormous portion for lunch you mean”, my sister corrects me, “it’s hardly my fault you can’t control your appetite now is it?”. She stands, clad in nought but a pair of lace underwear that rides high on her hips. Her long legs carry her towards me effortlessly, and I can't help but notice the way her bare breasts bounce with each step, or the slight curve of her distended belly. “Now, I believe I’m owed a forfeit? I’ll take… a weigh-in”. She rushes out the final words, her voice dripping with excitement. “Seriously?”, I groan. “Seriously”, she responds, firm and unwavering. “I want to see just how much of a piggy my twin sister has gorged herself into. Now come on, chop chop”. With a playful yet forceful slap on my hip, she urges me to get up and move. I waddle slowly up the stairs, my sister following close behind. “Admiring my ass this time are we sis?”, I joke breathlessly over my shoulder, the effort of the short trip already causing beads of sweat to bubble on my brow. “Didn’t have you down as a chubby chaser”. To my surprise, I turn to see her blush and avert her gaze. She has one arm placed carefully across her breasts, the other hangs loosely by her side showing the definition of her muscles. I’d not even given my nakedness a second thought, content to let my meaty melons bounce and slap against the curve of my gut as I walked. She looks surprisingly vulnerable, for an Amazonian goddess at least. By the time we finally reach the bathroom, my lungs are begging for a break. She pulls out the scales from underneath the sink and sets them at my feet. I can feel her eyes on me as I step onto their cool glass surface. The air is thick with anticipation as I peer down. As expected my bulbous belly blocks the digital display from view. “445 pounds”, my sister declares with barely masked incredulity, as she reads the results on my behalf. She’s stood just in front of me, her generous breasts directly in my eyeline. “You’re… enormous”. She traces her hands delicately up and over the curve of my lower belly. Her fingers close around two handfuls of hip fat and start to wobble gently, seemingly mesmerised by the bounce and jiggle of my blubber gut. Guided by instinct alone, I mimic her actions and place my hands on her hips as well. A jolt of electricity. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrenches me closer, her breath warm against my cheek as she stretches her hands around my back and snatches two handfuls of my elephantine ass and shakes it roughly. My cheeks slap together in a rhythmic ‘clap’, ‘clap’, ‘clap’ that echoes around the windowless room. I eagerly accept the invitation, raising my own hands to her chest and gently cupping her soft breasts. I feel the warmth of her skin against mine. Looking up I see her beautiful face staring down at me. Eyes closed our lips meet, and suddenly our hands are hungrily exploring each other’s bodies – no longer siblings, just people driven by desire and lust alone. She pulls me to the floor – her considerable strength more than a match for my gym-phobic body. I collapse with a heavy thud, ass spreading wide across the stone tiles. The cabinet on the wall rattles ominously with the force of the impact. The cabinet on the wall… “Cabinet… lube…”, I pant from the floor, gesturing up towards the white lacquered door high above. My sister doesn’t need telling twice, leaping up and returning a moment later with the large bottle that I keep tucked at the back of the cupboard for… extra-curricular pursuits. She roughly pulls down her underwear – the last survivor of our drunken dares. She pops the cap nonchalantly with her thumb and squeezes what looks like half the bottle into her open palm. Fast as a cat she dives at me – pushing me onto my back and painting my belly with the oily liquid. I let out a low moan as her fingers delve into my hip rolls, smother my ham-hock arms, and massage the length and breadth of my thunderous legs. The lube can’t help but rub off on her own skin as she lays on top of me. We spank, pinch, stroke, and grope at each other’s bodies – our fit and fat bodies slap together in a symphony of desire and pleasure. Our movements become more frenzied with each passing moment. The room filled with the echoes of our slapping skin and the wet sounds of our passionate lovemaking. A combination of exhilaration of the situation and the physical exertion of supporting my sister’s considerable, if lean, weight pressing down on me has left me gasping for air. My hands, slick with sweat and lube, fall away from her perfect behind as I struggle to catch my breath. I peer down my torse to see my sister grinning back at me wickedly. She straightens up, pushing herself to standing – my body grateful to be supporting only my own considerable weight once again. I watch her glistening abs ripple as she steps over my belly, turns, and positions herself above me, her gaze locked onto mine. She slowly lowers herself into a deep squat, her pussy hovering just above my face. As her lips hover above mine I can feel my heart race. Her scent is intoxicating. How long had I wanted this… had we wanted this? I grab at her thick thighs and pull, urging her to descend. "Eat up, fatty" she scoffs, and with a slow, deliberate motion, lowers herself. Her pussy is wet and warm when it finally makes contact with my face. My tongue darts out instinctively to taste her. I lick up and down her slit, savouring the moment as her moans grow louder and more desperate. She plays with my chest, squeezing and slapping my large breasts, teasing my nipples and urging me to go faster. I oblige. She moans in pleasure, her hips bucking as my tongue dances around her swollen lips. She starts to pick up the pace, her hips undulating faster, each movement hitting my face with a satisfying ‘slap’. My hands wander, tracing the curve of her taut ass. I feel her orgasm building, trembling against my face. With every lick and suck of my tongue, I work to push her over the edge. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and she pants in my ear, "fuck yes… eat me… you pig”. As her moans reach a crescendo I feel her muscles tense, and then she loses control. Her pussy floods my face with her juices, as she drops to her knees, hands bracing as she arcs her back and quivers with pleasure. She falls off me and we lay together in a breathless heap on the bathroom floor. Muscle and fat intertwined. I feel her trace a finger delicately around my belly button and look down to see her staring up at me with hungry eyes. “You know we’ve got the place to ourselves for the next 24 hours…”, she plunges the lubed-up finger into my naval, “we could order some takeout”, and begins slowly pumping it in and out, “and maybe some dessert in bed?”. I bite my lip and nod nervously, unsure where exactly this road would take me, but knowing full well I wasn’t about to turn around now. She reaches down and places a hand between my legs, tickling at the flabby mound that is my fat pad. I feel myself getting hotter as the excitement builds and her greasy hands slowly work their way southwards. “Oh sis, you do know what this means don’t you?”, she continues, her fingertips now dancing around my lips, each delicate touch making me wobble uncontrollably. She lifts her head and whispers softly in my ear, as her fingers finally find their plump prize-- “You’re going to get fat!”. The End - - - - - 3. Mom Ending My final year of college had gone smoothly enough. I’d actually pulled my finger out and studied for the final exams, managing a surprisingly good grade when all was said and done. It had been sad saying goodbye to my carefree college lifestyle - but I suppose I had to grow up sooner or later. With college over and both of us lacking the stability of a full-time ‘professional’ job, Ben and I had been forced to move back in with my parents. That was nearly two years ago now. Over this time the forced proximity of my family had put a painful strain on our relationship. We fought more than we used to - silly things like leaving dirty clothes on the floor for a day too long, and not-so-silly things like my unexpected weight loss over those two years. I certainly wasn’t skinny by any stretch of the imagination, but despite a concerted effort to eat unhealthily around Ben to keep him happy, I’d still managed to lose about 75 pounds in that period, dipping below 300 for the first time in a long time. A worrying doctor’s visit filled with phrases like ‘prediabetic’ and ‘time is running out’ had scared me straight, though I hadn’t told Ben this for fear he might up and leave me. The situation in the house was tense, to say the least. My sister had signed off her illustrious college career with the badge of valedictorian and also moved back home last summer. However, unlike myself, her graduate job at a magic circle law firm meant she was already well on her way to saving enough money for a house deposit of her own. She’d kept up her fitness regime as best she could, though had certainly softened a little around the edges since she’d embarked on her gruelling post-college career. Mom and Dad were the same as always - for the most part. Dad’s job had downsized its property footprint post-COVID and closed the local office that he’d used to work at. Now he spent half the week working from home and the other half living out of hotels out of state. He wasn’t that far away from retirement anyway so this had been accepted by all as a necessary evil in the short term. Mom had continued to pile on the weight both in my absence and on return from college and was now pushing dangerously close to 500 pounds of wobbling Japanese woman. Nearly as wide as she was tall, she wheezed and spluttered around the house - the windows shaking in their frames with her every laboured step. Even Dad had tried to have a word with her about the ever-increasing numbers on the scale, though she’d simply brushed it off with a smile and continued gorging. Happy families indeed. So to today… I buckle into the driver’s seat of my recently purchased SUV as my sister clambers into the passenger side. The suspension groans under our combined weight - a mixture of both fat and muscle - but I bought the car specifically for its advertised ‘heavy duty load capacity’, so feel confident all the same. We set off just as the sun is cresting over the horizon. An early start, but needs must when the devil drives. We were off to pick up Dad’s birthday present. In a surprise act of teamwork, my sister and I sought out and purchased a vintage signed sports jersey from Dad’s beloved state baseball team. The collector hadn’t been prepared to post so we’d agreed to go and collect it together today. Dad was out of town with work as usual so we wouldn’t have to worry about him seeing us on return, and Mom and Ben could mooch around the house just fine until we got back. About 15 minutes into the 3-hour drive my sister slaps her hand to her forehead without warning. “Oh shit”, she sighs heavily, “so promise you won’t hate me…”. We pull back into our parent’s driveway a short while later to retrieve my sister’s forgotten purse and with it the wad of cash she’d withdrawn as payment. Annoying, but not the end of the world. As we enter the house we agree to divide and conquer in the search - she will look for it downstairs and I will take the first floor. I trudge upstairs, expecting to see Ben sitting at my desk as I pass our room, intently focused on whatever video game was his flavour of the month, but there’s no sign of him. I am about to head into my sister’s bedroom when I hear muffled cries coming from my parent’s room at the end of the hall, the door ever so slightly ajar. Odd - was mom okay? I waddle towards it and peer through the crack. Through the sliver of the partially open door, I can just about see Mom’s torso. She’s lying naked on all fours on her bedroom floor. Well, I say ‘all fours’ - her enormous gut is now so large it appears to be supporting her full weight, such that she could lift her hands and feet if she wanted and still be in the same position. The space under her belly is not empty air like it would be for a woman of healthy weight - it is completely filled by her hanging blubber. Her entire body is jiggling rhythmically, sending waves of fat crashing across its surface. The rolls and ripples of her body create a hypnotic wave effect, making it hard to look away despite the absurdity of the situation. A pair of engorged, veiny melons spill out onto the floor in front of her. I hate to think what vast cup size she’s up to now, but I know that she shops online because most stores don’t cater to her generous assets. Her vast ham-hock-like upper arms look about as thick as one of my thighs and are certainly just as cellulite-ridden, and a pair of porky hands gently caress her nipples - thick and puffy. I shift slightly so I can see Mom’s face. It’s presently buried in a large chocolate cake that had been placed on the floor in front of her. I recognise it from the fridge. Mom said she’d bought it as a present for the neighbour’s birthday. Evidently not. Mom raises her head, munching greedily on a mouthful of cake. Her chubby cheeks and triple chins are smeared in chocolate icing. Crumbs fall from her mouth as she chews - gluttonous and greedy. She swallows and moans, “ohhhh, don’t stop… keep… ohhhh… going”, before sinking her face back into the cake like a pig snuffling in its trough. My heart skips a beat. Wordlessly I push the door open. Ben is knelt behind Mom - naked as the day he was born. He has a fistful of her hip fat in each hand and is pounding his crotch into her enormous ass. The force of his body hitting mom’s gelatinous bottom causes a rhythmic ‘slap slap slap’ to echo around the room. “Eat… up… piggy”, Ben pants breathlessly. Eyes closed, he is lost in his world. A raised hand slaps her globular booty hard with an open palm. “Mmmmm, you’ve gotten so FAT. You’re an enormous hog. And I’m going to make you even fatter” – he chokes on the last word as if struggling to hold back the oncoming tide. Mom squeals with pleasure, spluttering crumbs across the white-washed wooden floor of her bedroom, before shoving her face back into the cake, hungry for more. At that very moment, Ben looks up and catches my eye. The colour immediately drains from his face. He splutters something incoherent that might just have been “oh god I’m cuming”, before blowing his load. His face is an odd mixture of immense pleasure and abject horror - the latter of which I was starting to feel myself. He stumbles to his feet, cock still very much at full mast and hands outstretched in a ‘stay calm’ sort of pose. Mom grunts from the floor, her face still buried in the last of its chocolatey remains. It emerges a second or two later - covered in icing - and she too catches my eye. She chokes on her mouthful, spluttering sponge across the cake tray, and attempts to stand. Unfortunately, her weak arms cannot support her immense weight. She struggles against her own morbid obesity and loses the fight. The beached whale isn’t going anywhere without a helping hand. Tears begin welling up and tumbling down my cheeks as the full impact of the betrayal starts to hit home. Before I can find my voice another booms loud and angry from beside me. I hadn’t noticed my sister’s approach - my attention entirely captured by the scene unfolding in front of me - but she was now standing next to me, her broad shoulders filling the part of the hallway not already taken up by my wide hips. “Fucking hell”, she shouts, “really? When Dad’s away and we’re off running errands? You decide to roll around together like pigs?”. Words failed them. Ben simply stands dumbfounded as cum drips pathetically onto the and Mom continues to struggle against her enormous heft to get to her feet, to no avail. Her hand slips in the chocolatey mess and like a prize heifer, all 500 pounds of her slap down onto the cool stone floor. The force of the impact reverberates around the room. “Ughh, pathetic”, my sister spits. A last scathing look at the adulterous pair and she gruffly takes me by the arm and escorts me out. “No need to traumatise you any more than you are already” she mutters as we take the stairs two at a time. My mind is racing. How could Ben do this? How could Mom do this? What would Dad do when he found out? As we closed the front door behind us she places a surprisingly tender hand on my shoulder. “I need a drink. No, a few drinks. And something disgustingly fattening and unhealthy to eat. You in?”. “You’d compromise your diet for me?”, I sniffle, genuinely taken aback at the touching gesture. I wipe a tear from my eye and chuckle against my better judgment. “You know what I’m going to say don’t you?”. She did indeed. We speak the phrase in unison— “You’re going to get fat!”. The End