Chapter 7 - flight of the aphids

Scarlett awoke to a muffled buzz of voices and the shrieking of jet engines overhead. What time was it? She couldn’t see any sunlight, cursing the blackout curtains she’d ordered Mia to install in her suite. There had been no choice but to oblige; Scarlett would get cranky if anyone or anything interrupted her post-lunch nap, and her excessive drinking had done no favors for the chubby girl’s temper. After breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dessert, Scarlett’s stomach needed time to settle before dinner, and if she woke up at any point before the evening feast, her impatient appetite would scream for satisfaction until her final meal. It was an unforgivable discomfort.

Mia had kindly moved supper up to 5 PM, two hours before it was regularly served, but suffering through those few hours between her meals was not a task Scarlett could handle while awake. Likewise, supper’s inevitable food coma kept her sedated and satisfied through half the night, at which point she’d wake to raid the fridge for whatever sumptuous midnight snack Mia had stocked for her that day. Then, Scarlett would drink until she passed out one final time, dozing until breakfast came to ease her throbbing head and roaring stomach.

This routine had been built meticulously through the combined efforts of Mia and Scarlett over the course of months. The two girls had almost bonded over their shared goal to pile lard onto Scarlett’s body, although only one of them was sober enough to observe the evolution.

Ever since Scarlett had taken the first step toward linking food and sex, all of her other ambitions unceremoniously melted away. She had never climaxed so spectacularly before, and the euphoria of the afterglow resurrected the addictive personality she thought discarded. The wine came in kegs and cases, the frequency and intensity of her food consumption increased, and she could hardly go more than a few hours without getting herself off.

She would ride this wave, as she always had, and bounce right back once the indulgences dulled. It was all on Chapman’s dime, anyway, so she’d invest herself fully into exploring this new phase of hedonism.

But no, the delights did not dull in time. If anything, each pleasure compounded and promised new discoveries.

Her breasts grew heavy and pulled at her chest, the fat-inflated skin now supremely sensitive. Her bust had widened as it gained volume, the flesh teetering over the edges of her tops as her side-boob threatened to overflow and join her rolls in swaddling her sloping back. As their perkiness gradually perished, each breast began to overlap the top of her belly, and her under boob was often slick with sweat if she had a particularly “eventful” meal. Although her twin prizes were on the path to becoming hanging parodies of their former glory, Scarlett had taken to playing them whenever she could, testing their heft in her hands and marveling at their weight.

Her leg muscles abandoned the flab multiplying on the insides of her thighs, allowing each fatty mass to sag into the other, crushing all hope for a thigh gap. They only touched for a few inches, but her inflated upper thighs pushed against her pelvis cloyingly. They’d get plenty of attention, though, as Scarlett’s hands would press into their plushness whenever she pleasured herself. The experience was incomplete, otherwise.

Her belly, above all else, was her favorite new feature, if only because Scarlett was too deliriously horny to quite realize exactly what she’d done to herself. She did, however, have a complete grasp of each new and enticing sensation. If her nightly (now several times a day) ritual of stuffing and touching herself forged a dangerous relationship between overindulgence and completion, then it was the pressure of her full belly bearing down on her inguen that sealed her fate. Her stomach had softened to the point where Scarlett could slip three fingers beneath her underbelly, at which point she’d tease herself by jiggling the tender flesh. If she felt bold enough, sometimes she’d lift her belly with one hand and release the fat, watching it dance and wobble as it reached futilely for her thighs (it was still a baby gut, for now, after all). The effect was amplified further by complete fullness, which had become more difficult to achieve as she stretched her capacity each day.

Sober, she would have been horrified at how she had perverted her perfect figure into an ungainly and shamelessly soft vessel of excess. Her arrogant charm and captivating sensuality were lost in the rolls and folds and creases cropping up on her untoned tub of a body. But through the veil of mindless consumption, her belly became a pleasure center — its utility too thrilling for her to feel any concern.

No surprise, then, that at any given moment her stomach was sloshing some ratio of food and wine — so perpetually bloated that her gut thrust out several more inches than it would have otherwise. Her tiny side rolls had matured into permanent fixtures on her waist, glomming onto her once lithe silhouette. She had attained all the glory of a freshman fattened by a year of nonstop parties, thickened by booze and cheap food. Bacchanalia’s delicacies outclassed any collegial diet, of course, but the end result was the same, only accelerated.

Most girls dedicate two full semesters to filling out into piglets, but Scarlett had laid a foundation for obesity in only three months that, to her, felt like three weeks. The 126 pound bastard millionaire had turned herself into a 168 pound mooch, an over 40 pound gain in a quarter of a year, and accelerating by the day.

Scarlett was worried, though. Not by her rapid expansion, but by the sudden presence of other tenants. She had put off exploring the island, far too busy exploring her stomach’s limits, and now people were already swarming the shores of Bacchanalia? How long had she been riding out this alleged “phase”? She felt lightheaded and weak as she pawed at her bedside table in search of more drink. The wine would make things better, always made things better. Withdrawal was bound to be a bitch once she lost her taste for her stock of elixir (though that possibility seemed less and less likely), but she was fully relying on the alleged benefits of Dapsaelia to bail her out when (if ever) that time came. Now, though, she needed its warmth in her belly, dancing across her skin. As the booze-haze numbed her frustration, Scarlett stumbled out of bed, ass and thighs and belly trembling as she plodded towards the fridge. All her energy, all her drive, had given way to single-minded gluttony. With any luck, Mia would have already prepared her midnight snack, and that could sustain her until supper. She forced her plump thighs together in anticipation, thinking that another round of sexual release coupled with her “snack” could distract her from the din outside, at least until Mia could explain what the hell was happening.

Scarlett threw open the fridge, her attention captured by the glass case, the cheesecake within smothered under an avalanche of glazed strawberries. It was almost a foot in diameter and, given the Bacchanalia’s customs, she bet that the glaze was thick with Dapsaelia.

Her prayer had been answered. Mia had come through.

She lifted the dish, almost reverently, and returned to her bed, sheets be damned. Mia had obediently cleaned up after her messiest self-pleasure sessions, and she’d continue to do so if she valued her position on the island. Scarlett was already naked, too lazy to squeeze herself into any of her outfits that day, and knelt before her victim. Her paunch projected out and over her sex, dangling dangerously above it, but a far cry from obscuring her nascent fupa. She felt the soft circumference of her thighs sway as she rocked her hips, their extra meat hanging from whatever muscle remained in her legs.

With a groan, she fell headfirst into her well-deserved dessert. Her ass — its size close to entering into competition with Mia’s —thrust upwards and exposed the first specks of cellulite that dimpled her cheeks. Her arm reached past her stomach as her hand found its mark. Bicep pressed into her belly, the effort of edging herself spurred her gut and tits into action, jiggling rhythmically as she worked, urging her to eat ever more rapidly. Her free hand, jumped from tit to thigh and back again, gripping and shaking them ferociously.

As if she needed any extra encouragement to make a pig of herself.

In the back of her mind, Scarlett found herself wishing for another cheesecake as she neared completion. She would need to have a talk with Mia about the suite’s restrictive meal plan. No one should go hungry in paradise.

Demolishing the dessert in minutes, Scarlett squealed into her pillow as one last orgasm exploded through her. She considered buzzing for Mia, but her abbreviated stamina gave out, and she succumbed to sleep, smeared in her excesses.

Miles down, back towards the shore, two long, sun-browned legs planted themselves in the sand.

“Mmmmmm YES! Gorgeous! I always knew that daddy had good taste,” Felicity giggled, “He did score the cutest baby from the adoption center, after all!”

She erupted into more giggles, tickled by her own joke.

“Gosh,” she sighed, “Just imagine! From rags to riches to inheriting my own private island! Only in America!”

She bit her lip, catching herself.

“Oh, I guess I’m not in America anymore, ha!

Shaking with laughter and grinning like a loon, Felicity strolled across the sand and headed to her suite.

Life couldn’t get better than this.