Chapter 7

Two weeks passed, and everything I tried failed, though it wasn’t from lack of trying. Fresh baked cookies sat on the counter until I inhaled them, full-fat cream wasn’t used in her coffees (I had to use it before it went bad,) she only ate one of my legendary cinnamon rolls.

She had so many excuses, every time I gently probed, gently being the key word, she played the innocent card. I started questioning myself, whether or not she actually was…whatever she was.

She was busy, the show’s opening weekend coming up, so she was busy, and I was too. Midterms were killing me, and so we didn’t see each other much. It made it hard to truly judge where we were, what was going on, what was working and what wasn’t.

Certainly, most weren't working. Plot after plot never went exactly to plan, she avoided leading questions like it was elementary multiplication tables. Nothing felt off in our relationship–we were just as close as we always were, caught up when we could, made love like it was the last night on earth.

The show’s opening came and went, and she was spectacular, as she always was, enough to make me completely forget our game for a while. Was it still a game?

Spring break was coming up quickly, and after the show closed, we had tons of time to lay and rest and drink and fuck.

I could never truly forget about her, and this game, and her being bigger, because, well…she was noticeably chubbier.

Genuinely chubbier. Fatter. Gaining. Whatever you want to call it.

A few weeks of…whatever she was doing…had turned into a few months, and it added up surprisingly quickly. Those closest to you notice the changes the quickest, especially when every new inch of flesh was the hottest thing of all time. Her toned abs at first no longer held their rigidity, then they were largely mono-shaped, then they disappeared beneath visible pudge in her midsection, something she tantalizingly, infuriatingly traced beneath her crop tops when she thought I wasn’t looking. Her thighs grew closer and closer together, filling the bottoms of the jean shorts she wore so fucking sexily.

She wasn’t spilling out of her bras by any means––she’d always had a vaguely hourglass form––but each had a visible fullness to them, the cups now weighed down slightly more.

A few more shorts joined her favorite pair of jeans as did a formal dress she’d worn to a cast party a few months ago in the bottom of the closet. There was some reason to believe our washer and dryer were shrinking clothes, too. Some of mine were getting tight, especially around my hips, thighs, and waist. I knew, at least, it wasn’t because I was eating too much. I’d always been able to eat a lot and never see an inch of it on my skin anywhere.

I’m not sure how much she weighed now, I’d never seen her step on a scale, but it had to be at least 10-15 pounds heavier than a few months ago. Still, she hid however she was doing it, but she was fatter, that much was certain.

It was particularly evident one night, a typical college Friday (that she had off from school because the college if liberal arts is like that), where we met up with friends later in the day, pregamed, then went to a friend of a friend’s for a party. We spent a while getting ready, us two and two of our friends catching up and chatting about the nothings of the week.

Nobody said anything, but I caught a few sideways glances of our friends towards Ry. Looks that spoke for themselves:

“When did that happen?”
“What changed?”
“Should she really be wearing that?”

Her top was tiny, something she would’ve pulled off with ease a few months ago, a corset-style top that laced together to push up her chest and reveal her midriff. She was sexy as hell in it before the gain, but this was downright incredible. It was tight, pressing against her skin, formerly the epitome of showing off just how fit she was. Now, the extra pudge was pushed up and down, her chest nearly popping out of it, a small flab of her belly pushed to the bottom, forming a roll, a genuine roll on her stomach, even if it wasn’t a true roll. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

The night was fun, certainly about as typical as any party could be. Drinks, laughs, games, music and dancing. Rylee killed it, as she always did, finding time for me and for our friends. Beer and Tequila disappeared into us both, as well as our friend’s famous concoction of jungle juice, a recipe he kept secret. I could hardly taste the vodka and malibu beneath the ridiculous amount of sugar, both from the juice and from the hundreds of sour gummy worms he threw in there for “aesthetic and palatable perfection.”

I was feeling myself. As we danced, I couldn’t keep my hands off her body, feeling its newfound touch of softness every opportunity I could.

I lost Rylee for a minute before she returned with the jug of jungle juice. She looked so proud, like she’d won a competition of some kind, but mixed with that pride was a mischievous undertone, something I saw from her often. My drunk brain couldn’t make sense of it.

She pushed some cups aside on a table and placed the large glass dispenser right at the edge of the table, unscrewing the top.

I laughed. “Are you gonna chug the whole thing?”

“Who, me?” she replied, whatever mischievous plan she was concocting coming to fruition as I watched. I wished my plans worked like whatever she was doing.

A bit of sober protectiveness came over me, despite the way-too much booze in my belly sloshing in disagreement. “Ry, we’ve had enough, no?”

She laughed, hands pressing against her cheeks as she tilted her head back. She didn’t stop laughing, and suddenly it was the funniest thing in the world, this beautiful girl laughing her ass off at nothing in the middle of a party. We laughed and hugged and laughed some more. It was the kind of hug only drunk people know: the warmth, the coziness, the kindness, and forcefulness of it all.

“You’re so silly, Princess,” she said into my ear.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You. The silly one.”


Our laughter resumed for a moment. “What makes me so silly, Ry?”

She shook her head, laughing still. “There’s no booze in this…thing. No more juice juice, all gone.”

We giggled some more. She planted a kiss on my cheek.

“No booze?” I asked.

“NOPE!” she screamed, laughing and laughing. “Absolutely none. No more, all done.”

“Then why’d you get it, silly?”

She pulled me close, lowering her chin to her chest, locking eyes with me as if this was the most serious thing in the world, though her dancing eyes betrayed her, as did a half-laugh she caught too late. “Princess, look inside this…thing.” She opened her palm to the jungle juice.

I looked inside, almost seeing double. All that were left were the dozens of drenched sour gummy worms, neon and muted at the same time. “What am I looking at?”

Her lips brushed my ear, soft and warm. Her hand disappeared into the jug, grabbing an enormous handful, raising it from the bottom.
Her voice was soft and innocent, a question fell from her lips as if sung from an angel. “How am I supposed to get fat if I don’t stuff myself?”

The world disappeared from underneath me. I couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel anything but my heartbeat.

Then she took the handful and stuffed the entire thing into her mouth, her eyes locked onto mine. Then she pressed herself to me, her lips inches from mine as she moaned, that sultry and carnal moan that only came out in the most hedonistic of moments.

Only then did I realize how much she had stuffed in her mouth, as the moan was stifled as she began to chew. I glanced back at the bucket. Her enormous handful had barely made a dent in the amount of them.

I tried to survey the area around us as best as I could. People were drunk all around, but some took notice of her and her public display of greed. The thought instantly made me even wetter. She didn’t care. She didn’t care. My brain replayed her words over and over again, forbidding it from forgetting a single bit of the way she said ‘to get fat.’

‘To get fat.’ Blinking. Incomprehension.

‘To get fat.’ She stuffed a second handful into her mouth, another stifled moan escaping from her.

‘To get fat.’ I was completely short-circuiting.

‘To get fat.’ My breath caught over and over in my lungs as I tried to remember what oxygen was.

Finishing her second handful, still so many more to go, she leaned in close. “I’m going to need you to loosen my top, it's so tight…” she pleaded, her eyes wide spheres of innocence.

I’d barely gotten my hands to the interweaving laces before she’d stuffed another handful in, no, two handfuls of sugar into her greedy mouth, jaws working overdrive as she chowed down.

I found two burst seams as I finally was able to loosen it, and when I did, a tight-stuffed belly practically fell from beneath her top, pressed to its absolute limit with booze…yet still she pushed on.

She killed the whole thing, maybe 100 or more to my best estimation. In her last handful, she leaned into me, pressing her gut into me, and whispered the hottest fucking words in the english language.

“I’m going to get so fucking fat for you, you have no fucking idea, as fat as you want me, and then fatter because I’ll be so fucking addicted I couldn’t stop if I wanted.”

Her hand slipped beneath my legs, and I came instantly.