chapter 1

It was Friday night in the warmly-lit Preston's Diner, and there was a pleasant susurration of conversation in the air. There was a stage set up on one side of the place, and all the tables were carefully positioned so that it could be seen from anywhere in the room. The only object on the stage was long and- for the time being- covered with a large sheet.

Hackman Orthoclase (who was fond of telling people his name was a pseudonym, even though it wasn't) sat a few rows back at a small table of his own. He had a notebook balanced on one knee, a pen shoved behind his ear and a detached, absent-minded smile on his face. Those who noticed him were left with the impression that they had seen a very polite and unobtrusive ghost, who they nonetheless wanted to avoid at all costs. This probably had something to do with the fact that Hackman was a journalist. He was present to cover the events that were about to take place on the stage. In the opinion of Hackman's superiors, this was a trivial and unenviable thing for a respectable journalist to be doing (but somebody had to do it). In the opinion of Hackman himself, he might as well have won the lottery.

At last, the lights in the diner were dimmed and spotlight was shone on the stage. The diner's owner- Mr. Preston Diaspore- came onto the stage and stood in front of the sheet-coated object. He gave his audience a winning smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen," quoth he, "as you all know, we have a very special guest with us tonight. She's won hundreds of titles in the world of Competitive Eating and has broken several world records. She's here to display her talents and attempt to beat another record tonight. Without further ado- all the way from America- I give you... Rhonda Apatite!"
A woman stepped onto the stage and grinned at the crowd with obvious and genuine enthusiasm. She was stunning.

Hackman couldn't take his eyes off her: she simply beggared belief. Her face was round and pretty, flushed with affectionate warmth and on-stage nerves. She had a big, soft Southern Belle haircut and a big, soft Southern Belle body. Her breasts strained to escape her form-fitting red dress. Each one was (just slightly) larger than her head. Her gut swelled out in front of her, huge and round: it bounced in response to even the slightest movement. Her thick thighs rubbed together as she walked across the stage and her backside jiggled with each step. Even her arms were padded with a surfeit of creamy, yielding flesh. She came to a stop in the middle of stage. In the sudden silence, Hackman (along with everyone else in the room) could hear the boards creaking as they strained to support her. A low-ball estimate, Hackman decided, would put her at 350lbs.

"Hi, folks- I'm Rhonda Apatite," she said, by way of introduction "and I'm here to eat." She turned and whipped away the sheet from the Object, revealing a table with row after row of heavily-laden bowls. "Apparently, there are 52 flavours of ice-cream, and nobody's ever eaten them all in one sitting before. That's why there are 52 bowls, each containing two scoops of a flavour." She winked at the audience. "I did tell my agent that there are actually a lot more than 52 flavours, but he felt that the stage would collapse if I took on any more than that!" This got a laugh from the audience, but Rhonda was already moving on, her voice becoming strangely husky. "52 flavours; 2 scoops of each flavour. That means you're about to watch me consume 104 servings of icecream. Should I gobble it quick, just to show you how off-the-rails my appetite is... or take it slow? Let's see if I can make this feast last a full half-hour, shall we?" She smirked at the audience, sat herself down behind the overburdened table, and began to eat.

It was a mesmerising display. Hackman knew he should be taking notes- he was supposed to write this up for the paper at some point, after all- but he couldn't take his eyes off Rhonda. The undisputed champion of eating contests ate like there was no one watching. Her consumption of each spoonful of icecream - chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, mint- was almost obscenely sensuous. Mouthful after mouthful of rich, sweet dessert slipped between her lips and disappeared into the vast cavern of her belly as easily as the last. A few drops of icecream would sometimes escape and roll down her chin to land in her cleavage. Her eyes fluttered closed as she ate: she seemed consumed by the flavours and barely aware of her surroundings.

Rhonda's dress creaked as her swelling gut filled it out. She kept eating as though she didn't notice the sound. Slowly, a seam began to split along the side of the garment, revealing a tantalising oval of flesh. As she gorged, the split developed, becoming a tear that made its way up and down the length of the dress. Finally, as the last mouthful of icecream plunged down Rhonda's throat, the last seams holding the dress together broke, and it fell away from her as an insubstantial red wisp.

There was absolute silence in the room. Hackman stared at the enormous, unveiled body of the woman: she was porcelain-pale and cream-smooth. Hackman wondered how many other fat admirers there were, scattered throughout the audience, drinking this sight in. Most of the people here had just turned up because of an interest in competitive eating or world-record attempts. He wondered dimly how they'd react to this development, while his eyes roved over Rhonda's spectacular physique...

Then her eyes snapped open and she treated the crowd to a self-deprecating, aw-shucks grin.
"Sorry about the indecency, folks" she beamed. "I think I underestimated just how much of an impact that icecream would have. On the plus side, though, I think I definitely beat the record!"
The applause was deafening.

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TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR CHAPTER 2, WHEN HACKMAN AND RHONDA WILL FINALLY TALK TO EACH OTHER AND DISCOVER SOME SHARED FANTASIES