chapter 3

Jackson forces himself to be patient for three weeks; he maintains his pace, knowing that this journey is a marathon, not a race. His patience pays off in the third week, when the three tactics -- the copious amounts of food he stuffs into her belly, the appetite stimulants, and her lack of activity - converge. Victory is sweet.

Mallory wakes on Monday with a rumbling belly and hunger in her eyes; he rewards her caramel cinnamon rolls, and she tucks away two of them, in addition to some donuts, milk, and bacon. She lays back, moaning, obviously surprised at herself, and Jackson rubs her tummy indulgently, knocking loose a few burps and popping pieces of donut into her mouth, to fill that space. Although she whines in protest and grimaces, her fullness keeps her all but pinned, so she has to accept the food.

Even her empty stomach takes on a slightly bloated appearance, which then yields quite abruptly into a little belly where her firm abdominal muscles once laid. The progress is minimal, but tangible. A good stepping stone. He documents everything religiously -- her calorie intake, the amount of food she was able to eat, her slowly increasing weight.

Each time he feeds her, she takes a little more, easily driven past comfortable fullness by the stimulants that trick her into believing she is still hungry. The stimulants also allow him to give her little top offs throughout the day, adding to the calorie count. He loves the way she swells just a little more every time, showing an increase in the capacity of her stomach.

When Jackson enters her room on Sunday morning, he automatically glances to the electronic scale above her bed. She has gained nine pounds, a small number, but one that will climb quite rapidly, he is sure. Her metabolism will free fall soon, and then she will truly grow. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and puts a hand on her small stomach, that rises and falls with her deep, slumbering breaths. The slightest sliver of skin peeks between the waistline of her jeans and the hem of her shirt, and the obvious growth excites him.

He sets up the camera and eases the bed into a more upright position. "Up and at 'em, sweet pea," Jackson murmurs, tugging on the end of a braid. (He had washed and braided it yesterday, quietly relishing the way she leant back against his chest, even if she didn't have anywhere else to go.)

Mallory grumbles, peeking an eye open, and Jackson grinned back at her, a glass of water in hand.

"I still hate you," she reminds, slowly sipping at the water (and appetite stimulant, of course).

"That's all right."

When she is through with the water, he pours thick weight gain shake into the glass and returns it to her mouth. She doesn't fight, probably because artificial hunger has started to gnaw at her, but drinks it down steadily. Three tall glasses later, she tilts her head to avoid the next portion, and Jackson clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

"We're pushing your limits a little bit this morning, sweetheart."

"No," she protests with a pout.

"You and I both know where this goes, Mallory," Jackson warns, mimicking pinching his nose.

Whining her discontent, Mallory accepts the shake once more. She takes two more glasses, until her mouth firmly closes, her stomach heartily swollen; but he knows she has a little more room, that she's just being stubborn. He pinches her nose, and she holds her breath for as long as possible, but her stomach is so full, that is not very long. She inhales deeply, and Jackson takes the opportunity to squeeze the last fourth of the shake into her stomach.

Her shirt has slipped upwards, and he can tell her jeans are too tight around her bloated belly. Although he could unto them and ease her pain a little, he has been specifically requested not to do so. Mallory pants quietly, obviously overstrained, and Jackson carefully undoes her wrist bindings. Automatically, albeit a bit slowly, her hands come to cradle her swollen tummy, rubbing its rounded sides. Jackson tenses to avoid a shudder of pleasure. (He alone had taught her this method of self-soothing.) He knows the thought of escape doesn't even cross her mind; even if she tried, her taut belly would probably prevent her from moving too far.

When her hands reach to unbutton her jeans, Jackson lightly slaps them away. "No," he instructs.

"But-"

"No ."

After a few minutes of her rubbing her belly, Jackson eases her hands away, cupping its girth easily between his hands. Tilting his head, he gives it a little shake, pulling a sharp, pained gasp from her. He taps his hands lightly against either side, sloshing the contents within her stomach, and she yelps, this time, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Smiling, Jackson tilts his head and kisses her forearm, tapping his forefinger against the skin above her bellybutton.

. . .

In the next two weeks, she gains seven pounds, which adds a soft rim of pudge on her lower belly. While her clothing launders, Jackson sets about fulfilling another request. The bed entirely flat, he puts her into a button down shirt that is snug, just starting to stretch and gap, and a clean pair of jeans. Even laying down, both of them notice that the jeans are harder to button, much to his delight and her disconcertion.

Now, Jackson positions her in a comfortable wooden chair and secures her legs. Because she is upright, the shirt has tightened about her belly, highlighting the fat he had lovingly grown. Over fifteen pounds of it. Resisting the urge to whistle jovially, he leaves her hands free, and rolls a tray of food within her reach. Mallory gives him a curious glance, but when belly gives a little mumble, she reaches forward automatically to skewer a piece of chicken and pop it into her mouth.

Jackson takes a seat at the desk he has repositioned to face her, and Mallory tries not to moan at the taste of the sweet and spicy chicken. The foods she could have easily denied before have become her cravings. Everything has been tasting so good, and she is almost always hungry. A few times, she tried to eat less, to feign fullness, but she still accepted everything Jackson offers, until she hurt with fullness. There is more every time, she knows, and her stomach must be stretching to accommodate his demands.

Her jeans are uncomfortably tight, now, digging into a thin layer of fat that seemed to appear overnight. It will only grow, and she idea makes her vaguely sick. Regardless, she nudges the empty box of chicken to the side and starts on another, sipping a rich smoothie through a straw, irritated with her hunger.

By now, she is familiar with the feeling of a bloated stomach. However, she typically has more room to swell, her shirt inching up; the button down shirt is less favorable, tightening around her sides. A quick glance down, fueled by morbid curiosity, shows that the once-snug shirt has gapped embarrassingly between the buttons, showing her skin beneath. When she reaches to undo them, face red with shame, Jackson clicks his tongue.

"No," he warns.

"It's too tight," she insists in a mumble.

"Then take it off."

Again, she reaches for the buttons, and he narrows his eyes. "Then how am I supposed to take it off?" she snaps.

"Just keep eating," Jackson responds, absently correcting a mistake on the paper before him.

Mallory obeys, full of hate, and tucks into a calzone. The more she eats, the more her belly bloats, putting more strain on the shirt and tightening it further. Jackson's instructions are stupid, she concludes, angrily chewing on a piece of calzone. When she leans forward, to get her drink, her shirt creaks. Curious, she drinks the milkshake quickly; thankfully, it was nearly melted, so it didn't give her brain freeze. The shirt creaks more insistently, and Mallory takes up a tall glass of milk and all but chugs it. She is breathing noisily, gulping, one hand pressed lightly to the side of her belly.

When she puts the glass down, the button about her belly button pops. The tightness of the shirt lessens, and she hates Jackson for being right. Now, though, she is overfull, though nowhere near the fullness he has pushed her to before. Really, though, she is entirely unwilling to eat anything more. Playing up her fullness, Mallory whines, rubbing her belly lightly. Jackson arches a brow skeptically and takes something from the desk drawer, sauntering over to her with his hands behind his back.

He is close enough to touch her, shake her full belly as he is prone to do, when he offers a box to her, in the palm of his hand. Although she has never seen the food boxed, she knows exactly what it is: the cinnamon roll that drips caramel and pecans. He smirks knowingly at her, and she glares in return, but eats the entire thing from his fingers. Jackson fills another glass with milk, and she drinks it readily, needing to wash the almost burning sugary sweetness from her tongue. Another button falls victim to her bloating tummy, and she can't care. It's less pressure. She leans back in the chair as best she can, frowning slightly, and a thick chocolate shake finds its way into her mouth.

She hates him, but she knows it's all right.

- - -
As always, if you have a particular fantasy you'd like written into the story, feel free to shoot me a message or leave it in the comments.
See you next time!