Porcine Island

Chapter 1: Welcome to Porcine Island

The plane’s wheels kissed the runway with a bounce, and a cheer erupted from a group of tourists near the back. Victoria Wellington barely looked up from her compact mirror. She applied a touch of rose gloss, then smiled—her signature influencer smile, perfected through years of front-facing camera content. Outside her window, the view was a blur of tropical green and dazzling blue. Even the runway shimmered in the heat.

As the trio disembarked, the humid island air —thick, warm, fragrant. It smelled of saltwater, overripe mangoes, sizzling pork fat, and something floral and slightly smoky that Victoria couldn’t place. It was intoxicating.

Porcine Island was nothing like she’d expected. It was more alive.

Victoria let out a delighted sigh, clutching her rose-gold weekender bag and turning to her two companions.

Beverly Kane was all sinew and structure, her sleeveless top hugging a physique honed by early morning boot camps and weekend marathons. Her lips were pursed in a half-frown of vigilance, eyes shielded by sporty wraparound sunglasses.

“I already smell butter in the air,” she muttered. “Butter and pork. My arteries are filing a protest.”

“That’s not protest,” Victoria teased, “that’s paradise.”

Nina Liu followed behind, wide-eyed and smiling timidly. Dressed in a breezy sundress with her hair in two low braids, she looked like a walking travel brochure. “It’s so colorful,” she breathed, spinning slowly to take in the view. “Like something out of a dream.”

The port town sprawled beyond the runway, painted in a kaleidoscope of pinks, turquoise, yellows, and deep oranges. Even the roofs were vibrant—terracotta red, mint green, sapphire blue. Bougainvillea spilled over balconies. There were no skyscrapers, no concrete jungles—just winding streets, food carts, outdoor cafes, and villas with shuttered windows and flower boxes.

“Looks like the whole island's been dipped in a candy shell,” Victoria said as she pulled out her phone and captured a quick video of a smiling vendor offering deep-fried starfruit in paper cones. She already had a caption in mind.

“Stepping into a living postcard 🌺🍍 Stay tuned for the tastes of Porcine Island!”

Palm trees swayed as the sea breeze rolled in, but even the wind was heavy—thick with the scent of caramelized sugar and meat smoke. Somewhere nearby, someone was grilling something oily and aromatic. Her stomach responded with an audible gurgle.

“God, I could eat a table,” she muttered.

The trio made their way to the terminal’s welcome station where flower crowns were handed out. An attendant offered them each a shot glass of viscous, amber-colored syrup from a carved wooden tray.

“It’s called Gold Drip,” the man explained. “Traditional pre-meal palate activator.”

Victoria swirled it like wine, sniffed it. Butter, brown sugar, and something oddly savory beneath. She downed it and felt warmth spread instantly through her core. Her pupils dilated. “Okay. That’s dangerous.”

“Great,” Beverly said dryly. “We haven’t even checked in and you’re high on butter shots.”

Nina giggled. “I liked it.”

Victoria didn’t say it aloud, but the sensation was strangely... sensual. Her taste buds hummed. She was already planning to track down the origin of that syrup for her followers.

She turned back to glance at the island once more. Just beyond the cheerful buildings and beachy glow, dense green hills rose toward a fog-veiled mountain. Something about that jungle looked wild—untouched. Even from here, it radiated a sense of ancient secrecy. There were no roads, no trails that she could see.

Victoria raised her phone and took a long video sweep of the horizon. "This is going to be the best week of my life," she whispered.
—

The shuttle ride from the airport to the resort was brief but breathtaking.

Their driver, a cheerful woman named Anika, navigated the sun-drenched streets in a turquoise jeep with no doors and a floral lei hanging from the mirror. She chatted with them in a lilted island dialect, pointing out the “Lover’s Lantern Market,” the “Sauce Cathedral,” and the “Spice Line,” a cobblestone stretch known for its endless lineup of food stalls. Every time they passed one, the scent of something delicious punched through the air—fried dough, charred meats, creamy coconut, peppery glazes.

Victoria hung halfway out of the jeep, capturing footage and whispering commentary to her phone:

“Everything smells like a cheat day you’d never regret. I don’t even know where to start.”

The buildings leaned into each other in chaotic affection, covered in creeping vines and vibrant murals. Hand-painted signage declared tempting names: “The Hogfather,” “Sugar Belly,” “Fat Chance,” and “The Glaze Grail.” Some places were tucked between walls, no more than tiny holes in the street where locals handed out sizzling skewers or bite-sized pastries wrapped in banana leaves.

There were people everywhere—tourists with full plates walking and eating at the same time, locals sitting on stoops chewing sugar cane or drinking something frothy from terracotta mugs. Most of the islanders had round cheeks, thick arms, and soft, comfortable bodies. Their laughter echoed off the walls like music.

When the jeep finally pulled into the white-stone driveway of their resort, The Sow’s Nest, Victoria could barely sit still.

“Let’s drop our stuff and go back out. I need to eat something immediately,” she said, already tugging her camera from her bag.

Their suite at The Sow’s Nest was more extravagant than any of them expected.

A bellboy in a golden-embroidered sarong led them through arched hallways painted with murals of island feasts—women lounging on velvet pillows, being hand-fed roasted fruits and glazed meats by shirtless men. The air smelled faintly of roasted vanilla, spiced caramel, and polished wood.

When he opened the door to their suite, a warm breeze swept in through already opened balcony doors. Sunlight spilled across polished terracotta tiles, golden drapes fluttered at the edges of arched windows, and the furniture was thick and ornate—plush chairs with clawed feet, a massive carved four-poster bed for Victoria and twin canopy beds for Beverly and Nina.

“Oh my god,” Nina gasped, running to one of the beds and flopping down in a starfish sprawl. “It smells like sugar and orchids in here.”

Victoria moved to the bar counter where a welcome tray was waiting: miniature pastries shaped like sea creatures, a jar of "pork brittle" tied with a satin ribbon, and a card that read:

“Eat well. Rest deeply. Let Porcine Island nourish all of you.”

She popped a chocolate-dipped fig into her mouth and moaned. “They really want us fat and happy, huh?”

Beverly rolled her eyes as she tugged open her suitcase. “You’d think with a name like The Sow’s Nest they’d try to sound less… pig-themed.”

“I think it’s kind of sexy,” Victoria said, licking sugar from her finger. “Like, decadent. Forbidden.”

She drifted toward the open balcony and stepped outside barefoot onto warm stone tile. The railing was curved like a crescent, draped in vines bearing tiny golden fruit. She leaned forward—and gasped.

Below them, the crescent-shaped infinity pool shimmered, its surface catching the fading orange light of sunset. Floating trays of food drifted between guests: platters of sugared pork ribs, fried plantain nests, and glistening pies topped with spun sugar towers. Women reclined on foam mats in the pool, sipping thick drinks through glass straws while attendants refilled their trays from docked boats marked "Poolside Service."

Beyond the pool, a narrow stretch of beach led to the crystal blue sea, where sailboats bobbed lazily under the glowing pink sky. Just past the water’s edge, the jungle loomed—lush, untamed, mysterious. Its green was darker than the town’s manicured palms. That jungle, Victoria sensed, had secrets. And it didn’t want tourists.

Far above the jungle canopy stood the silhouette of a jagged mountain—its peak lost in a swirling crown of mist, even in daylight. She could just make out little specks of light glimmering far up on its slope. Maybe torches?

A shiver crept up her spine.

“It’s unreal,” Nina said beside her, stepping out onto the balcony in her bare feet. “Like... like something out of a dream.”

“A food dream,” Victoria added, her eyes locked on the trays in the pool. “I could write a whole book just about this island. Call it The Glutton’s Getaway. Or Feast Island.”

Beverly joined them, towel draped around her shoulders after a quick rinse. “It’s gonna be Bloat Island if you’re not careful.”

Victoria didn’t answer. She was still staring out into the jungle, watching the mist coil along the treetops like fingers.

Just then, a scent rolled up on the breeze—something rich, savory, and sweet, like smoked molasses mingling with roasted herbs. It made her head swim. Her stomach rumbled again.

She didn’t know it yet, but she was already hooked.

Within thirty minutes, the girls were back out wandering the plaza, overwhelmed by the options. The entire port town was pulsing with life. Musicians played near every corner. Couples danced in open-air squares. Children chased each other with hands sticky from candied yams on skewers.

Then the smell hit Victoria—something meaty and sweet, like slow-cooked pork drizzled with honey and finished with a kiss of smoke. Her mouth filled with saliva.

They turned a corner and found the source: a woman grilling thick slabs of pork belly over an open flame, basting them with something amber-colored from a brush made of bundled herbs.

Victoria approached with reverence. “Hi. What is that?”

The woman smiled. “Midnight Loin. Glazed in first-press drippings and wildflower sugar. Very good for first-timers.”

“Sold,” Victoria said, already pulling out local currency.

A little further down the street, Beverly and Nina found a cart selling pineapple slaw in coconut shells, fried lotus root, and breaded shrimp dumplings. They gathered everything and took seats on a low stone wall near a bubbling fountain.

“I should not be eating this,” Beverly muttered between bites of a dumpling. “But holy crap, this is amazing.”

Victoria popped another bite of pork belly into her mouth. The glaze melted like warm butter, and her eyes fluttered shut. “If the food’s this good, maybe I should come home rounder.”

Beverly gave her a warning look. “Not funny. You know your brand thrives on staying fit while eating. Let’s not tempt fate.”

Victoria just smiled, licking glaze off her thumb.

The sun began its descent as the streetlights flickered to life—fat-bulbed lanterns glowing orange and pink, casting everything in a sensual haze. The laughter, the food, the island itself—it all pulsed with something lush and indulgent. Victoria felt like she had stepped into a waking dream.

And something deep in her stomach—not hunger, but curiosity—stirred.
—

Back inside the suite, Beverly was already digging through her luggage for her travel-sized resistance bands.

“While you two turn into marshmallows, I’ll be working out on the balcony,” she announced. “I’ll even put on a swimsuit just to remind myself why I packed kale crisps instead of cookies.”

Victoria flopped down dramatically on the four-poster bed, her head resting against a plump velvet pillow. “You know vacation means you’re allowed to let go a little, right?”

“I let go for three hours on the flight,” Beverly replied dryly, looping a band around her toned thighs. “My thighs are still shaking from that in-flight croissant.”

“You’re the only person I know who could eat one pastry and feel guilty about it,” Victoria said.

Nina giggled from across the room. She was perched on her bed, already in a fluffy resort robe, munching happily on a pastry from the welcome tray.

“I think it’s kind of nice to not worry about it for once,” Nina said, licking custard from her thumb. “Everything here is so… celebratory. Like food is part of the culture, not the enemy.”

Victoria pointed in agreement. “Exactly. We’re not supposed to count macros here—we’re supposed to experience.”

Beverly sighed. “You two can experience whatever you want. Just don’t expect me to roll you back to the airport when your jeans don’t button.”

Victoria rolled over and tugged her phone from the nightstand. “If I come home with ten extra pounds and a week of incredible content, it’s still a win.”

“More like fifteen,” Nina murmured, smirking mischievously.

Beverly raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Vic. Your whole brand is ‘thin girl eats like a lumberjack.’ If that changes…”

“I know my angles,” Victoria said with a wink. “Besides, I can detox for a week and it’ll all melt off.”

But part of her wondered. The food here was rich in a way she hadn’t expected. Dense. Heady. She could feel it staying with her longer. That “Gold Drip” syrup from earlier was still warming her chest, and she hadn’t eaten more than two bites of pork belly in the plaza before her stomach had already felt... different. Heavier. Hungrier.

Not bloated—primed.

And that was just the first day.

“I’m gonna do a little walk around town before it gets dark,” Victoria said suddenly, sitting up. “Just a quick solo stroll to get some photos in golden hour. You guys good?”

Beverly, halfway into her resistance squats, grunted in approval.

Nina nodded. “I might order room service. They have something called Pineapple Buttercream Soup.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Save me a sip.”

She slipped into a linen romper, pulled her hair into a loose bun, and slung her crossbody bag over her shoulder. As she stepped out into the soft, golden light of dusk, the warm air embraced her like honey. The sounds of the island returned to her ears—music, laughter, the clink of silverware against heavy plates.

And beneath it all, that scent again: rich meat, sweet spice, and something... strange.

Something she couldn’t name.
—

The streets of the port town glowed beneath the descending sun, lanterns igniting in warm shades of amber and rose as if the island were lighting candles for dinner. The cobblestone paths were damp from a recent hosing, catching the light in slick patches. Victoria moved through them like a dreamer, camera in hand, each corner of the town revealing a new burst of color, scent, and sound.


Victoria’s stomach stirred again. She wasn’t even hungry, not really, but everything smelled so right. Her senses were heightened, dialed into every wisp of scent, every sparkle of sugar-dusted food in someone’s hand.


Victoria moved through the tables with polite murmurs and sidesteps, until a familiar scent made her stop—a rich, nutty aroma laced with something floral and sweet. She turned toward the source and saw a group of three young women at a low table in the corner, clearly American, and clearly on their second or third shared entrée.

The table was overflowing: a mound of truffle pork pasta drenched in cream sauce, a thick wedge of caramelized onion tart, and a side dish called Sweet Lard Clouds that looked like fried dough puffs glazed in lavender syrup.

One of the girls, a round-faced blonde wearing a tropical romper and fanning herself with a cocktail menu, leaned back in her chair with a groan.
“I’m not even kidding, I’ve gained like fifteen pounds already,” she laughed, voice light but tinged with awe. “My thighs are officially touching. Like, new places are touching.”
“Same,” said her friend, a brunette poking at the pasta with a dreamy grin. “I think my jeans shrunk while I was wearing them. I had to buy elastic shorts today.”
“It’s the sauces,” the third chimed in. “They do something to you. I swear, it’s not just fattening—it's addictive. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

The trio laughed, unbothered, forks clinking and cheeks flushed from sugar and drink. One of them reached down and gave her belly a soft jiggle beneath the table. “Worth it,” she giggled.

Victoria blinked, trying to hide her surprise.

She wasn’t unfamiliar with indulgence—her whole brand was “eat like a queen, stay looking like a goddess”—but something about that exchange left a ripple in her thoughts. They didn’t seem embarrassed. Just... dazed. Happy. Too happy.

She looked at their food again. Everything looked dense. Heavy. Slathered. There was no “light fare” on the table—no leafy greens, no polite portions. Just unapologetic luxury. The kind of food that made people lean back in their chairs, hands on their bellies, too full to speak.

And yet they kept eating.

Victoria felt a thrum of envy and something else—something electric.
What if I did gain a few pounds here? she thought. What if I let myself go a little? Would it feel... good?

She shook her head, almost amused with herself. No way. She was disciplined. She was controlled. She had photoshoots lined up in two weeks, and hundreds of thousands of followers who expected her to come back glowing, not swelling.

Still, the scent of that pasta hit her like a caress.

She turned on her heel, pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping, and kept walking.

As she moved deeper into the glowing town, something about the laughter and the way the lanterns flickered against the food stalls made her feel as though the island were slowly peeling back its skin. Like it had waited for her to be alone before whispering:
Go on. Have another bite. You know you want to stay.
—

By the time Victoria returned to the resort, the sky had turned violet-blue, and the warm light of lanterns reflected on the smooth tile paths like melted gold. The Sow’s Nest was quieter now, though the air still pulsed with distant drums and faint laughter from the town square. She walked slower than she had earlier, as if weighed down—not from exhaustion, but from the richness of the air, the seduction of the place.

The suite was dim when she stepped in. Beverly was already asleep, cocooned in a thick blanket with a cooling eye mask over her face. Nina was propped up in bed in her robe, halfway through a bowl of what looked like melted dessert.

“Welcome back,” Nina whispered, licking a bit of pale cream from her spoon. “They had pineapple butter cream soup on the late-night menu. I ordered two.”

Victoria laughed softly, toeing off her sandals. “Did you save me one?”

Nina pointed to the minibar tray. A bowl with an elegant swirl of cream and gold leaf sat atop a napkin that read:
“A kiss of sweetness for a heavy dream.”

Victoria brought the bowl to the balcony with her and stepped out into the night.

The view hadn’t lost any of its magic. If anything, it had become more surreal. The pool below was lit from within, glowing like an opal. Soft music echoed from hidden speakers, and fireflies glittered lazily across the garden paths. Somewhere far off, a slow drumbeat kept time with the swaying fronds of the palms.

She sat cross-legged in one of the plush balcony chairs and tasted the soup. It was warm, thick, and impossibly smooth—like drinking silk made of bananas, honey, and heavy cream. A moan slipped out before she could stop it.

Her fingers absently traced the edge of the bowl.
Fifteen pounds in four days...

Was that even possible? It had to be a joke. No one gained that fast. Not without trying.

Still, there was something about the way the food hit here—like it stuck. Like it nestled in your belly and stayed. Even now, her stomach was pleasantly full. Heavy. Satisfied.

She pressed her palm to it through the fabric of her romper.

“Maybe I’ll come home with a little island weight,” she murmured to herself with a smile. “My fans will live.”

Somehow, the idea didn’t seem so terrible. In fact... there was something romantic about it. A woman goes to an island and loses herself. It sounded like a story she might write herself into.

She finished the bowl slowly, savoring every warm, fatty spoonful, then leaned back and closed her eyes. The soft island breeze combed its fingers through her hair. She felt herself begin to melt.