Indulgence Unleashed Pt. 3.3 (moira)

Chapter 1

Lisa had always known how to watch. It wasn’t just something she did—it was who she was. The quiet eye behind the curtain. The whisper through the walls. The unblinking presence hidden in every corner of her building.

Because this was her building.

She owned the block. Every apartment, every floor. The tenants came and went, thinking of her as just the quiet, slightly strange landlady who lived in the largest unit on the top floor. But they had no idea.

They didn’t know that behind the smiling eyes and polite waves, Lisa was building something.

And some of them—some special ones—never really left.

Anna and Mia shared her apartment. Her girls. Her pets. Not legally, of course. But in every other way that mattered. Both were once independent women, curious, a little too trusting, a little too weak-willed. Lisa had found them, studied them, broken them down… and rebuilt them in her image.

And now they were fat. Blissfully fat. Obedient, stuffed, soft creatures who existed only to be touched, used, and fed. Lisa loved them. In her own way.

But something stirred inside her. A need. A craving she hadn’t felt in years.

She wanted one for herself.

Not shared. Not split.

Hers.

That’s when Moira moved in.

⸻

She was twenty-three. New in town. Naive.

Lisa spotted her on move-in day—tight jeans, light hoodie, earbuds in, dragging boxes up the stairs with a little puff of effort. Not skinny, not voluptuous. Just… normal. But there was a softness in her face, a sweetness. Something Lisa could use.

Within an hour, her cameras were tuned to Moira’s new apartment.

Kitchen. Living room. Bedroom. Bathroom.

She watched her settle in. Unpacking slowly. Organizing her kitchen with a precision that made Lisa smirk—measuring spoons, air-tight jars, no junk food in sight.

Moira was trying to be disciplined.

Lisa had seen it before. The type who grew up a little chubby and spent their twenties trying to out-exercise genetics. She cooked small meals. Drank lots of water. Tried to avoid snacking after 8 PM.

But it wouldn’t last. Not once Lisa got involved.

⸻

The first contact came two weeks later.

Lisa made it look like coincidence. She “happened” to be coming down the hall when Moira was heading out to check her mail. They exchanged a smile. Small talk.
Next time, she offered her a container of casserole.
“I made too much. You’d be doing me a favor.”
Moira hesitated—just for a second—then accepted it with a grateful smile.

Bingo.

A few days later, it was banana bread. Then lasagna. Lisa never pushed, never rushed. She gave space between each offering. Let Moira think it was just neighborly kindness. A friendly gesture from the landlady upstairs.

She watched every bite through the cameras. Every time Moira reached for more. Every soft sigh after finishing a portion. The way she licked her spoon clean, even when no one was watching.

Lisa watched. Waited. Calculated.

But something bothered her.

Moira wasn’t gaining.

Weeks passed. Her clothes still fit. Her meals stayed small. She accepted the gifts, yes—but always in moderation. Still drinking water obsessively. Still exercising at home with little YouTube videos and stretching routines.

Lisa was losing interest.

She checked the cameras less. Got distracted with other things. Even considered moving on.

Then, one night, something shifted.

⸻

It was a Friday evening. Lisa hadn’t checked Moira’s feed in three days. Out of boredom, she clicked the feed again, half-expecting nothing new.

But what she saw made her pause.

Moira was in the kitchen. Sweaty. Flushed. Her hair was a mess. She was standing in front of the fridge, staring into it like a starving animal. Her eyes were glassy.

Then she did something unexpected.

She grabbed a tub of frosting from the back of the shelf and dug in with her fingers. She didn’t sit down. Didn’t bother with a spoon. Just stood there, shoveling it into her mouth with quick, desperate motions, licking her lips between each handful.

Lisa leaned forward. Her heart skipped.

It was beginning.

_________

Part 2: The Slow Undoing

It wasn’t enough.

Lisa knew the signs. She’d seen them dozens of times—how the body began to soften before the mind surrendered. How cravings crept in, first like whispers, then like screams. But with Moira… it was too slow.

Too controlled.

The girl had changed, yes. Her face had the beginning of roundness. Her belly held a faint softness when she stretched. She’d gained maybe two, three kilos at most. But it wasn’t real yet. Not the kind of spiraling loss of control Lisa needed to see.

And the worst part?

Moira knew it.

Lisa caught her weighing herself again one morning. 71.8 kg. Her expression tightened. She didn’t look aroused. She looked annoyed. And then she went straight into a forty-minute workout video, sweating and grunting through burpees like she was punishing herself.

Lisa scowled.

It had been over a month since the first casserole. The powder in the bottled drinks helped stir hunger and subtle arousal, yes—but Moira was stubborn. A little indulgence here, a skipped workout there… it wasn’t enough to tip the scale.

Not fast enough.

She was resisting.

Lisa paced her living room later that night, agitated, her own heavy frame shifting with each irritated step. Moira wasn’t like Mia or Anna. She was holding on. Still trying to be better. Still clinging to control.

That had to end.

⸻

The decision came the next morning.

Lisa moved through the basement hallway, keys jingling softly, stopping in front of the utilities room. The building’s water system was old but simple. Each apartment had a separate line for cold drinking water, leading into the kitchen tap and bathroom sink.

It took her less than fifteen minutes.

Just a few drops of concentrated powder in the line—direct, steady exposure. Moira wouldn’t even notice. Every sip, every glass of water, every tea or instant coffee she made would now carry a chemical whisper into her bloodstream.

More hunger. More need. More craving. And most of all: more desire for what she was becoming.

Lisa sealed the panel again with a satisfied grunt.

⸻

Over the next few days, Moira didn’t look different. Not right away.

But Lisa watched carefully.

She saw the girl drink more. She was thirstier—downing glass after glass, licking her lips as she worked at her desk or lay on the couch. Her hands hovered over her belly more often now, even when she didn’t seem to realize it.

She snacked more, too. Chips, cereal, peanut butter straight from the jar. Caught on camera one night chewing mindlessly as she watched Netflix, one hand tucked under the hem of her hoodie, rubbing the soft swell of her stomach.

And her face…

There were moments now—fleeting, but real—where Lisa caught the look she was waiting for. Confusion. Frustration. And a flicker of something else.

Want.

Not full surrender. Not yet. But something was beginning to shift.

⸻

Lisa, however, was tired.

This one was taking too long. She found herself watching the feeds less often, even skipping entire days. Anna and Mia still needed attention, after all. And Lisa had other projects. Other fantasies.

She told herself she’d check back in later.

Just a few days.

Maybe a week.

And then she stopped altogether.

⸻

Two months passed.

And then, late one evening, there was a knock at her door.

Heavy. Slow. Almost uncertain.

Lisa raised an eyebrow.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

When she opened the door, she froze.

Moira stood in the hallway, barefoot, wearing an oversized T-shirt soaked in sweat and stretched tight over a body that looked utterly transformed.

Her face was flushed and puffy, jaw softer, cheeks round and pink. Her arms were thick, her thighs wide, inner flesh brushing together heavily as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. The swell of her belly was unmistakable—sloping forward and resting low, visibly jiggling beneath the hem of her shirt.

She had gained at least twenty-five kilos.

Lisa’s eyes flicked over her body with restrained hunger.

Moira looked up.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I… I need help. I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t stop.”

Her eyes were full of shame—and something deeper.

Need.

Desperation.

Li sa smiled.