Surveilled

Chapter 1

Allow me to set the scene.

Interior. The ladies’ locker room of a university gym. In trudges nineteen-year-old Carrie Cane, a freshman majoring in journalism. Standing at a fun-sized five-foot-two, the red-faced, sweating brunette weighs in at 155 pounds, which is 45 pounds more than she did upon matriculation. Friends connected to Carrie on social media will recall that since the start of the spring semester, she has been promising herself to take up going to the gym, a habit she dropped during the fall and winter holidays, but let’s be honest, even when she’d attended regularly, her workouts had been no match for the dorm caf, even if the changes began subtly–a little extra squeeze in the waistband of her jeans, having to loose a notch on her bra closure. The Freshman 15 had come on slowly, almost unnoticeably. The rest had hit her like a cinderblock to the face.

She hasn’t been to the gym all term, but finally drew herself a line when she decided to make good on her word, only to find that her old workout shorts refused to pull past her hips, her once-loose tops fitting her more like crop tops now. So, she took herself to the athletics shop and bought herself a top and new shorts in a size L–just one of each, and she didn’t intend to need them for long–in a transaction on a card ending in 9943 (expiring in March of next year), totalling out to $39.60. I know this because sometimes you think your phone or your laptop webcam isn’t recording, but it secretly is, and nowadays, we just post our every thought for the world to see on webpages with our real names on them, and security cameras really aren’t as secure as you’d think.

The name’s Leo Caprisky. You might know me as the CEO of Mybrid, the world’s leading online social network, or as the supervillainous cyborg Chimera, and my consciousness lives on the BWW. Sorry–the WWW. Kind of a one-track mind here sometimes. Anyway, while I might not be central to the action of the events unfolding, I can’t say I’m guiltless in composing the narrative–controlling it, even. The targeted ads I sent poor Carrie for fast food and holiday chocolate…the viral videos I suggested to her to distract her from her intention to exercise…it’s evil, I know, but from the moment her phone told on her for gushing about how deliciously creamy and sweet her strawberry shortcake was the dinner after her first day of classes, I was powerless to resist taking her by the digital hand for a little spin.

As Carrie strips off her top and shorts and shoves them in her locker, swapping them out for her shampoo and soap, ready to hit the showers, it becomes clear to the viewer that she’s neglected to size up some…other items in her wardrobe. Before she can conceal herself with her towel, a pair of fellow students approaches her: it’s Tanya Hughes, a cheerleader in a sorority who still bullies the ‘lesser lifeforms’ with whom she went to high school, only online now rather than face to face, and her best friend Tricia Lane, who makes herself a salad every day in the lunchroom and then basks in the superiority complex she reaps from not eating any of it. Both are blonde, tan, slim, and, as you’d know if you saw anything they had ever put online, vicious.

“Oh my God, is that Carrie, from my history class last term?” says Tricia. Tanya gives her this sideways glance and this vicious smirk. Then, they close in.

“Well, if it isn’t Carrie Cane!” chirps Tanya. “You were in my orientation group, right? It’s so good to see you, but you look…different somehow.”

“You’ve blown up!” squeals Tricia. “Look at those panties! They’re cutting you in two!”

Carrie shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the breeze from the AC against her slick skin as Tanya tugs on the back of her waistband to examine the tag, which only makes the fabric pull tighter against a fresh and doughy muffin-top. “Well, no wonder they’re so tight! They’re a size small! And, what’s this? It says they’re control-top. How’s that working out for you, butter ball?”

Carrie only flushes deeper as Tricia grabs a fistful of the fabric digging into Carrie’s soft stomach. “Why don’t we put ‘em to the test? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Tanya and Tricia lock eyes and smirk, and then…

Then, they each give a sharp tug upwards. Carrie cries out as she’s wedgied from the front and the back, her panties forcing her cheeks apart and rutting up hard against her clit. They let go simultaneously and the elastic band snaps against her skin, causing her whole midsection to jiggle and bounce. For a second, her panties stay up, inches below the fuller curve of her breasts in their sports bra prison, before the waistband rolls down again, allowing her belly to plop out and outwards. Tricia gives it a slap with the flat of her hand, while Tanya gives each cheek of her new bubble butt the same treatment. “Well, I don’t think these are making you look any skinnier.”

This whole time, Carrie, curiously, hasn’t said a word. Not ‘leave me alone’ or ‘this is assault’ or ‘if you don’t stop this I’m going to call the campus police’. It’s almost a shame we won’t get to see what might happen if the barbaric blondes decided to continue in their torture, but that’s where Tanya decides to call it off. “Come on, we said we’d meet the boys at that party and we’re running late. Let’s let Tubbs here shower, she needs it.”

In the shower, Carrie examines her body–hefts her stomach up in her hands, squeezes her bigger breasts and plumper butt as she soaps them up. I know this because she takes her phone in the shower and plays that Bailey Sharp album, Blue, on repeat. She can’t explain why, but she likes having so much more of herself to touch.

When she returns to her dorm, she opens her laptop. She has an assignment due, but first things first: she looks up ‘fat humiliation’, but that only yields a bunch of pictures taken of people shopping at MegaMart. Then she gets an idea:

“Riri, show me fat humiliation porn.”

Immediately, her phone blows up with videos from SmutHub, iTube, and FeedFrenzy, of women just like herself, being jiggled and jostled and bullied.

She hits the pause button.

She runs to the vending machine for a bag of chips and scarfs it down on her way to the co-op for a tub of ice cream. Once that’s in her hands, she rushes back to her dorm, to her phone and her bed, and puts back on ‘Stuffed Belly Wedgie Torture’.

On her back, in bed, eyes glued to the phone screen, she lets her free hand disappear into her jeans. As the ice cream melts, she gulps it down greedily, replaying Tanya and Tricia’s words in her mind. She was letting herself go, she was, she was, she WAS, and she secretly hoped they had noticed how soaked her panties had gotten when they wedged them up her ass.

Shifting around in bed, she lets go of her phone. She drops the now empty ice cream container over the side of the bed. One hand grasps the back of her panties. The other jostles her belly until a satisfying belch rips its way up her throat. The phone clatters to the ground, screen down.