Supervillain, super genius, super fat

Chapter 5

Chevy Mole walked out of one of his mansion’s many secret tunnels, peeling his gloves off his hands. He handed them to Billington, his loyal butler.
“How did crime fighting go tonight, Master Mole?” Billington asked.
“Not so bad,” Chevy said, taking off his Mole Man mask. “I managed to stop Professor Scorch from melting the Murnau Bridge with his lava gun.”
“Surely that is a call for celebration?” Billington asked, “Let me get a Merlot from our cellars.”
“No time,” Chevy said, “After I get out of this costume, I have to go back down to the Mole Hole. I have some investigating to do.”
“What’s wrong, Master Mole?” Billington asked.
“It’s Jessie Jester,” Chevy said, “I haven’t seen her in months, I know she must be plotting something. She nearly trapped me last time, you know.” His dick pulsed just thinking about it. He needed to know what had happened to her.
“Of course, Master Mole,” Billington said, “Very prudent.”
Chevy stepped behind a modesty screen and peeled off his costume. “Billington,” he called, down to just his boxers, “Can you bring me my nice slacks?”
“Certainly sir,” Billington said, “I laundered them this morning.” Chevy heard a creak as Billington opened the door to step out of the bedroom. “Um, sir,” he said, “I may have just made some headway in your search.”
“What’s that Billington?” Chevy asked.
“Hello, Mister Chevy Mole.” It was Jessie Jester’s voice.
Chevy stepped out from behind the screen, still just in his underclothes. There in the hallway was, well, he wasn’t sure. He thought, maybe even hoped, that it was Jessie Jester, but it couldn’t be, could it? She was a huge, panting sculpture of sweaty lard. Her face was red and one hand gripped to the wall for support, the other held a gun. Her breasts were enormous and pendulous, splayed across her gut like the thrusters of a crashed space-shuttle. Her nipples were only covered by two Xs of black tape. Her pale, sagging belly looked like a parachute wrapped around a yoga ball. It obscured her crotch, so he couldn’t tell if she was even wearing anything below the waist, save for her bright pink flip flops. Her hair, grown out so that the roots were undyed, was pulled back into two messy buns. There was ketchup on her chin and chest.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she belched, “I raided your fridge.”
His dick sprang to attention, stiffening so fast he almost fainted.
“J-Jessie Jester!” he said, “What do you want?”
She looked at his groin. “What do you want, mister? Sorry, I’m busy right now, no time for fun.” She winked.
“I’m busty– I mean busy too! I don’t have time for your nonsense!”
“Then let’s make this quick,” she said, “All the money in your personal vault, or the butler gets it.” She pointed one of her toxic confetti guns at Billington’s head.
Chevy’s mind raced. He knew there was some way to take down Jester, there had to be, but he couldn’t find it. If only he’d had time to plan! If only he wasn’t so distracted by her massive… heaving…mammaries… and her bloated… sagging… gut…
“Okay…” he said, “The safe’s back here,” he turned to the secret entrance to the Mole-Hole, “Let me go open it for you…”
“Be quick!”
“Are you going to follow me?” he asked.
“What, and walk more?” Jessie asked, “I think I’m good. No funny business though, that’s my job.”
Chevy opened up the secret passageway behind his bookcase and ran down the tunnel to his Mole Hole. He opened up his display cases and frantically fumbled through them, looking for something that could foil Jester. He clipped on his utility belt over his boxers and equipped it with a grapple hook, some knock-out gas, and a blinking electronic disruptor which he hoped would keep her from firing her gun.
He took a deep breath and ran back up to his bedroom. “Halt, ne'er-do-well!” he said, trying to take an imposing stance.
“Chevy Mole!” Jessie said, “How did you get one of Mole-Man’s utility belts?”
“He gave it to me!” Chevy said, “We’re good friends!”
“That won’t stop me from killing you!” Jessie said, turning her gun on him.
Chevy fired the electronic disruptor. There was a loud popping noise, all the lights in the room went out, and Jessie’s gun fizzled.
“Nice try, harlot!” Chevy said, and swung his grappling hook at her. Unfortunately, her body was so large that the hook couldn’t make it all the way around her waist. Instead, it fell impotently to the floor.
Chevy tried to ignore his pulsing dick and fumbled for his knock-out gas. He raised it high and prepared to detonate it. Jessie trundled toward him.
“You little scamp!” she sneered. Her breasts swung and flopped as she walked. Her belly swayed and bounced. Chevy thought he got a glance of her engorged fupa. He hesitated, his fingers trembling.
Jessie grabbed the gas canister out of his hands and threw it out the window. “You think you can trick me? I’m Jessie Jester, the smartest woman alive!”
Chevy figured he’d have to try his last-resort, hand-to-hand combat. He darted around Jessie and kicked the back of her knee, trying to make her fall. Fall she did, hard, heavy, and backwards, right into him.
It seemed to happen in slow motion. She toppled backwards, and her wobbling, naked ass crashed into his pelvis, knocking him onto his back. He tried to scramble away as she collapsed, but he didn’t make it in time. Her great, heaving, rolling body slammed down on his. At first it felt like the delicate kiss of flesh against flesh. Her skin was delicate and soft and sensual. But as more and more of her weight piled on, the more he felt it. Pressure built up in his rib-cage, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Her back-fat spread over his eyes, nose, and mouth. He felt like Atlas under the weight of the sky. Her flesh was squishy enough that it pressed down against every nook and cranny of his body. His dick was pressed flat against his abdomen. He heard something pop, and there was a searing pain in his chest. His clavicle splintered. His skull fractured.
He jizzed in his boxers and blacked out.

Two months later, Chevy Mole was still in a full-body cast, lying in the specialized bed he’d installed in his manor. Every part of him ached. Most of the time, he was plagued with itches he couldn’t possibly scratch. The doctors had said it would take a miracle for him to return to his previous physical prowess. A gnat landed on his nose, he flared his nostrils until it buzzed away.
The news was playing on the tv in front of him. Two portly news anchors sat in front of a green screen. They smiled brightly as they came back from a commercial.
“In other news, Bill,” the woman said, “It’s been two months since Stoker City’s defender, the Mole Man, seemingly took sabbatical. Commissioner Morgan reports that crime has not seen a significant increase over all, but that those special elite criminals we call supervillains have been living large.”
“Yes, Bobbie,” the man said, “And nobody has been living quite as large as the killer klown herself, Jessie Jester. If you’ll recall, the now-obese supervillainess emerged into the public eye one month ago with a mysterious new fortune.”
“Somehow,” the woman said, “allegedly by bribing corrupt city officials, she was cleared of all her crimes, and went on to purchase Madexo LLC, the company that makes Tango Cola, Instant-Meal, Pucker Chocolate, Rinky Breakfast Cereals, Doctor Einstein Genius Bars, and many more. According to ex-employees of Madexo, she has been making significant alterations to the recipes of their beloved products.”
“Some say that might explain the strange cases of rapid weight-gain that have been spreading throughout the city,” the man said.
“Is that the excuse you’ve been using, Bill?” the woman laughed, poking her co-anchor’s plump stomach.
“I don't know, Bobbie,” the man said, poking her engorged gut, “Is it yours?”
They both laughed heartily. “We’ll be right back to this story after these messages,” she said.
The image cut to a sloppily-painted backdrop of a mad-scientist’s lab. Standing in front of the backdrop was a plinth with a pink cardboard box sitting on it. There was a wheezing sound and Jessie Jester waddled into frame, wearing a mad-scientist costume that was barely modest enough for television.
He might have been imagining it, but he thought she might have been even fatter than last time he’d seen her. Her belly surged out of her lab-coat, heaving like some great white sea. The coat itself was secured with only one button, over which her enormous breasts were threatening to break free. Her double-chin quivered as she walked.
She leaned against the plinth and gasped for breath. “Gadzooks!” she panted, “Are those… Doctor Genius Einstein Bars…? Now sponsored by… Jessie Jester…?” She limp-wristedly grabbed hold of the box. “Only one… way to find out…” She ripped through the cardboard and began sloppily stuffing the bars into her mouth. Crumbs sprayed from her lips and landed in her cleavage. White frosting smeared across her face.
After she finished the box, which took about thirty seconds, she belched for another five. “They sure are…! How… do I know? Because they have the taste that makes your… Ass Clap? Pagliacci… what's the tagline I came up with?” An offscreen voice said something. “Oh yeah, because they have the… taste that makes your Pussy Fat.”
She belched again. The remaining button of her lab-coat burst off.
Chevy Mole sighed as another commercial started playing. These past few months, trapped as he was in his cast, confined to his bed, riddled with aches and pains, he’d been haunted by the memory of Jessie Jester falling on him. The way he had been suffocated beneath her flesh, the way delicate pleasure had turned into a crushing pain, the taste of her sweat, it was all seared into his memory. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it. Every time he slept, he dreamt of it. Every moment of the day, he felt its ramifications.
He wondered, wistfully, blissfully, hornily, what it would feel like now that she was even fatter.