chapter 2

Margo has been making great progress. She spends all of her free time sleeping and eating, and so far she's been too hungry, tired, and drug-addled to suspect me of anything. She's failing her classes too, since she keeps falling asleep during lectures and she's too distracted by other concerns (i.e., shoving as much fatty, greasy food into her mouth as is humanly possible) to get her assignments turned in. I'm sure that soon I'll be able to get her to stay home full-time.

Physically, Margo is starting to look like a marshmallow someone stuck in a microwave-- soft, pale, and expanding in all directions. She's not even close to the weight I want her to be, of course, but I like the changes I'm seeing already. Her thighs rub together and her butt has gotten bigger and flabbier. Since she spends a lot of time snacking in her underwear, I can also see the stretch marks and cellulite she's developing. Her face has plumped up too, giving her chipmunk cheeks and a double chin. Once she gets fat enough, she won't even look like the same person.

My favorite part of Margo's new look is, of course, her belly. Since it's usually stuffed, it's bigger than the rest of her. She hasn't bought new clothes, so her gut swells out from the bottom of her shirts and hangs over the waist of her pants. She used to always wear cute, put-together outfits, but she hasn't had the energy for that lately. Nowadays, when she gets dressed to go, she puts on a grease-and-food stained t-shirt, a too-tight pair of exercise pants, and flip-flops. Today's a weekend, though, so she's just wearing a sports bra, panties, and a substantial amount of food on her face. She's on the couch eating fried chicken, and I sit down next to her. I smile.

"Hey Margo, how's it going?" I say.

"Uh, I guess pretty good 'cause I'm not hungry now," she replies through a mouthful of chicken. She burps and rubs her belly. "I mean, I think I have something to do for school..." she continues, screwing up her face thoughtfully.

"Everything's so, I dunno, like, I can never think of stuff," she says. She's about to say something else when I pick up a piece of chicken and put it in her mouth. Margo starts chewing. I rub her belly, and she moans softly. She opens her mouth to talk again, and I put more food in it, holding her mouth open and packing it full. She doesn't move. Then she starts messily chowing down again, drooling a little bit and getting crumbs all over herself in the process.

"Mmmm, thanks babe," she finally says. "This tastes sooo good." How good food tastes now makes up a majority of what Margo talks about-- well, that and asking me to bring her more food. She was such a conversationalist before, but I have more fun watching her capacities deteriorate. The sedatives seem to be making her docile in addition to tired and slow, so I decide to try something and take the box of fried chicken.

"Hey," I say, "you don't have to reach for that food from all the way over there. Why don't you sit on the carpet, and I can just feed you?" Margo's eyes are on the box of chicken, and I stand up and hold it out of her reach. She dutifully crawls from the couch onto the floor, and sits down.

"Canna have my food back now?" she says.

"One second. I think it'll be easier to feed you if you're on all fours, like this," I say. I scoot a hand under her and put my other hand on her shoulder, moving her into position and grabbing her ass for good measure. She doesn't struggle. Her fat, distended belly hangs underneath her. I take another piece of chicken out of the box and put it in her mouth, and she scarfs it down greedily.

"You're a real little piggy, huh?" I say. Margo pouts.

"I'm so hungry all the time, if I don' eat it hurts," she says. I stuff more food in her mouth.

"You don't have any self-control," I say, and laugh.

"I needta eat," she says between bites.

"You can barely even say a full sentence without eating. Actually, you can barely say a full sentence, period. I'm starting to think you're just not that bright," I say. Margo gets genuinely upset at this, and tries to get up and walk out. The sedatives and her full stomach make that too onerous a task for her, though. She stumbles, and ends up sprawled on the floor with her blubbery gut underneath her.

"Thas notrue," she says plaintively. I crouch down and help her to her feet, and she makes a beeline for the fridge. I'm excited for when she'll start waddling. After cleaning up the fried chicken mess, I walk into the kitchen and see her munching on an unwrapped stick of butter, which is answer enough.

"You're right, I'm dumb... I dunno whas happening to me," says Margo, looking at the floor.

"You know, you seem a lot happier this way. Less stressed. Maybe you're better-suited to a more... sedentary lifestyle," I say. Margo bursts into tears, and her flabby, reddening face looks like a tomato. "Isn't college so hard? Don't you really want to just sit on the couch and eat instead?" I continue. I pick up the rest of the stick of butter and put it in Margo's mouth, and she stops crying. "See?" I say, "I bet you feel better already, butterball." I come up behind her, put my hand on her gut, and start kneading it gently.

"I do," admits Margo.

"I like you more this way anyway. You're more fun. It just seems more natural for you," I say.

"Uhhhh..." says Margo, trying to think again. I take a cookie from an open package on the counter and pop it in her mouth. The thoughtful expression on her face dissolves, and she goes back to eating.

"Hmm, butterball?" I say.

"Yes?" says Margo, knowing she's being addressed.

"Time for you to go down on all fours again. You don't need to get your own food."