Hog - Caleb Part 3

Chapter 1 - Breakfast

Chapter 1 - Breakfast

“Mhm,” Eva muttered into her phone, nodding once as she stirred the thick gravy, folding over itself in lazy swirls. The smell of browned sausage and cream clung to the air. Her other hand braced on the cool marble of the counter, fingertips drumming in an impatient rhythm.

The voice on the other end of the line kept going, a steady stream of enthusiasm that had worn thin for her ten minutes ago. She pressed her lips together, eyes fixed on the surface of the gravy instead of the stainless appliances gleaming around her. Every few seconds she glanced toward the digital clock on the stove, her brow twitching slightly at the numbers.

“Mhm,” again, quieter this time, a perfunctory response as she shifted her weight, shoulders tight, giving the gravy another slow stir. She glanced at the phone sitting offensively on the counter, heard herself breathe out sharply through her nose as her business partner launched into another tangent.

The kitchen itself stood in orderly defiance of her mood: spotless counters, a floor so clean you could see the reflection of the sunlight spilling through the wide window. Every utensil had a place and was in it. Even the plates waiting on the breakfast table were lined up evenly, one holding biscuits under a towel to keep warm, their smell mixing with the sausage and brewed coffee.

Her mind, half-listening, began to wander. She only took two weekends off a month, if she was lucky, and this was one of them. She dreamt about them during the week, setting plans and doing everything in her power to ensure she could keep them. These weekends were important to her, because they were the only times she could dedicate fully to her hog.

She hated that she’d let the call stretch even this far. She could already feel the irritation tightening her face, but she wasn’t about to let it ruin the morning she’d promised herself.

His voice kept rolling in her ear, and she tuned it out almost completely now, letting the words blur into meaningless chatter while she focused on what she’d rather be thinking about: a relaxed, easy breakfast, a hot sip of coffee, the weight of that slow, quivering lumber she knew she’d hear down the hallway soon enough.

She gave the gravy a final stir, let herself exhale, and set the spoon down to rest. The phone continued its annoying outpour of chatter. Her company mattered too, of course. And she loved it, loved the long hours and the control and the slow fulfillment of seeing her startup grow. But there had never been a part of her that believed she had to choose. She could have all of it, the work, the tidy life, and her hobbies.

Her gaze drifted over to the other plates she’d prepared, to the heaps of bacon and eggs already laid out, waffles stacked in neat towers with the faint steam curling from them. She loved cooking, whenever she had the time or patience to. She loved her hobbies in general, both the little ones and the morbidly obese ones.

“Eva?”

Her eyes snapped back to the phone. The voice had stopped his endless rambling and was waiting for her response.

“I’ll let you know on Monday,” she said, clear and cool. Before he could stammer out anything else, she picked up the phone and hit the red button with a perfectly manicured finger, and set it down face-first on the counter.

The kitchen fell blessedly silent, leaving only the low hiss of the burner beneath the gravy. Eva rolled her shoulders back once, smoothing away the tension, and smiled faintly to herself.

She tucked her long, dark hair behind her ears, out of her way so she could finally give her full attention to the food she was preparing. She leaned over the stove to taste the gravy, a contemplative pause while she let the creamy, peppery heat sit on her tongue. It needed just a pinch more salt. She flicked some more in, stirred, and tasted again. Perfect.

Eva poured the gravy into a wide bowl, steam rising in a slow curl, and carried it over to the breakfast table where everything else was already waiting. She set it down at the center and stepped back for a moment to take in the spread she’d been building over the past hour.

She uncovered the biscuits, still warm from the oven, the tops a warm golden brown. The rich sausage gravy, thick with crumbles of meat, shone faintly under the morning light streaming in. Piled beside it were soft scrambled eggs, a platter of crisp bacon, hash browns still glistening faintly where oil clung to their edges. And the pancakes, dense and thick, were stacked in two tidy towers, ready with a dish of butter softening next to them. A pitcher of orange juice waited at one end of the table, sweating lightly in the warm kitchen air.

Everything had its place, and she fussed with it until it looked just right: the plates aligned, utensils straightened, nothing out of order. It was almost formal, in its own way, but there was a warm familiarity to it, too.

She stood there for a moment, just looking at it. She fucking loved breakfast. Especially on mornings like this, when their home was slow and quiet, nothing but the faint hiss of the cooling oven and the faraway chirping of birds. She’d always been a morning person. Mornings felt like an opportunity. Everything fresh, everything still ahead of her. A new day, a new chance to be productive, to take hold of things exactly how she wanted them. And weekend breakfasts…those were her favorite.

It really was the most important meal of the day, as far as she was concerned. There was something deeply satisfying about it. Filling someone to the brim first thing in the morning, before the day even really started. Setting the tone, making sure the first thing they felt that day was heavy and round and full. In her eyes, that was how a day should begin. It set the precedent. And she never, ever got tired of it.

Eva wiped her palms slowly on a dish towel, smoothing it against her fingers until they felt dry, then folded the fabric with neat precision and hung it back on the oven handle. Her eyes swept once more across the table before she turned to the hallway.

“Caleb,” she called out for him lightly, a sing-song quality to it as it carried down the hallway. “Breakfast!”

There was a soft expectation tucked into the word, even a bit of excitement, wrapped up in it like a ribbon. But she stayed where she was, waiting. She was always patient with him, had to be. Everything with him took time now. Getting himself up, getting moving, crossing a hallway… she loved it.

Their home was still for a beat. Then, faintly, the floorboards began to answer. A long, strained creak carried down the hallway, and then another, slower, as though the wood itself was bracing for him.

Then came the soft, uneven rhythm of his breathing. Short huffs, dragging in and out, just audible over the silence. The dragging shuffle of his feet followed, heel and sole sliding along the floor, a slow, weighty rhythm punctuated by the faint tap of a hand catching the wall for balance. The sound of him working his way toward her.

Eventually, his bulk emerged from the shadows of the hallway. First came the shape of him, wide and solid, crowding the narrow space until it seemed like the walls themselves had to make room, all that size she had carved into him over the years. Both hands were pressed to the wall of the hall, one on each side, his fingers spread wide as he steadied himself. He moved with slow care, shoulders rounded, the effort of his size heavy in every motion.

The shirt he’d thrown on this morning was stretched so tightly it seemed almost pasted to him, fabric pulled to its limit across the huge, heavy swell of his middle, the lower portion of it completely exposed. That belly dominated everything now. It was massive, low-hanging, swaying forward with each careful step. Even in the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, he had to keep himself balanced against the walls, because the weight of it tugged him forward.

Every part of him had grown. His arms and chest had gone soft, shoulders rolling thick under the strain of all that fat. His face was round and flushed, cheeks full and warm from the effort of the walk, and below them his neck had long since disappeared into a soft roll that blended straight into his chest.

His hair stuck up in uneven tufts, rumpled from sleep. And his eyes, still a little bleary, moved quickly past her, searching for what waited behind her on the table. There was hunger in them already, a spark that had nothing to do with being fully awake.

Eva stayed where she was, a smile playing at her lips as she watched him approach with quiet satisfaction, listening to the slow drag of his steps and the steady huff of his breathing as he crossed the last few feet toward her.

She’d always known he’d be perfect. Even back in their first conversations, back when she had only the faintest scraps of him through a screen, she’d known what he could be. Soft-spoken and a little shy, already leaning in the direction of exactly what she liked. She’d seen him for what he was before he ever did.

She just wished she’d gotten her hands on him sooner.

But back then, she’d been busy with other things, with her career and other aspirations, without much time to fully dedicate to a feedee. And she’d never been the type to chase after something halfheartedly, so he’d slipped into the background while she was focused elsewhere, with only weak shreds of conversation here and there connecting them. And then someone else had scooped him up—Jasmine, or whatever the fuck—and that, it seemed, was that.

For a long while, all Eva could do was watch from a distance. Little updates here and there: a video clip, a photo, a post that showed him bigger than before. To that girl’s credit, he did grow. He grew beautifully. But every time Eva saw it, the same thought stuck like a thorn. How much better she could have done. How much faster. How much bigger.

It was a toxic trait, she knew that. Wanting to take something that was already good and prove she could do it better. Not that it mattered now.

In the end, she still got what she wanted. Those stale little messages they used to trade, the occasional comment on a post, they had sparked up out of nowhere one day, a thread that caught and, this time, didn’t burn out.

“Good morning, tubby,” Eva said when he finally reached her, the words warm as she reached out to him. Her hands sank into the broad swell of his chest, fingertips pressing lightly into the softness there. For a second she just stood there, looking up at him as though she were inspecting her handiwork.

“Morning,” he managed, a grunt slipping out as he shifted on his feet, the short walk still clinging to him in the form of heavy breath. Even so, he smiled at her, soft and sweet.

She didn’t let him go right away. She liked holding him in place like this, liked watching the way his body carried the strain of even the simplest movement.

“I made biscuits and gravy for you,” she said, finally drawing back just enough to meet his eyes. “Among other things.”

“Is that… huff… what that amazing smell was?” Caleb asked, his words broken up with long, slow breaths.

Eva giggled, a quiet, girlish sound at odds with the measured tone she usually used with anything besides Caleb. “Yup,” she said, and reached for his hand. Her fingers slipped around his thick, warm ones, and she guided him toward the table at his own slow, lumbering pace.

Her eyes roamed as he followed her, unashamedly tracking the sway of his stomach, the way the fabric of his shirt clung and shifted as he moved.

The bench waited for him at the breakfast table—his bench, a seat ordered special to be wide and solid, built for no one but him. Even so, she wasn’t sure how much longer it was going to last.

Caleb eased himself down onto it, the wood and metal letting out a long, groaning creak as if the bench had to brace itself for him. He let out a low groan of his own at the same time, his whole body sagging as he finally let himself sink into the seat, like releasing a massive weight he’d been carrying just to make it here. He immediately reached for the biscuits and placed some on his plate.

The contrast between him and the room was stark: her clean, expensive, orderly kitchen, everything straight and polished, and then Caleb in the middle of it all, vast and messy. But still within her control.

Eva reached for the bowl of gravy, its porcelain warm against her palm, and ladled a heavy, steaming pour over the split biscuits on his plate. She didn’t hold back; each one vanished beneath a thick coat of sausage and cream until it spilled over the edges, soaking into the golden crusts. She took her time serving it for him, watching his eyes track it the whole way like a man starved.

He didn’t wait. The second it was in front of him, Caleb dug in, fork clutched in his thick fingers, the first bites quick and clumsy in their eagerness. He ate like he’d been dreaming about it all night, like his body couldn’t get the food in fast enough to satisfy itself.

Eva stepped back a little, reaching for the coffee pot. She poured herself a cup, the rich dark liquid steaming as it filled the mug, and then wrapped her hands around it for a long first sip. Heat spread through her, as did an abundance of contentment, settling in her chest and shoulders, pulling her mouth into a faint, quiet smile.

Every motion he made was hurried, hungry. She could see how his belly pressed up hard against the edge of the table, how the mass of it shifted with every lean forward, every shovel of food. His breathing grew louder, heavier, the faintest hitch of effort following each swallow as he filled himself.

Eva bit her lip. She couldn’t help it, watching him like this.

She remembered a time when he’d tried, at least a little, to keep up some kind of decorum, especially in front of her. Like if he just paced himself, if he just kept up appearances, no one would notice what he was becoming. Even when he binged back then, there’d been some restraint, some flicker of hesitation that made him chew carefully and glance around as if anyone else cared, as if she might care.

That was gone now.

Somewhere along the way, maybe when they stopped going out as much, maybe when he realized his family and friends had given up trying to change him, he stopped trying to hold back. And what had been under the surface the whole time came boiling up. Now, he just… ate. Without hesitation and without any shame.

A massive, insatiable hog of a man.

Eva felt the faint buzz of her phone on the counter and looked toward it, picking it up. The thought struck her—he looked too perfect right now not to capture. Before he got too sluggish, too full and bloated, she wanted the before shot. One she could compare to what he’d look like after dinner tonight, after dessert.

Lifting the phone, she snapped a few photos in quick succession: him leaning forward, belly pushing the table, gravy smeared across the plate, his fork halfway to his mouth, his whole focus narrowed on the next bite.

He didn’t notice. He never did when there was food in front of him.

Satisfied, she locked the screen and slid the phone away, wrapping her hands back around her coffee cup as she sat down to watch him.

Eva made sure his plate was never bare as he ate. The moment he slowed and glanced down, she was there, sliding another biscuit onto it, ladling more gravy over the soft bread. When he cleared a space, pancakes appeared, butter melting down their sides. It was a rhythm, almost—him clearing room, her filling it, him clearing it again.

Caleb just kept chewing, cheeks flushed, sweat already glinting faintly on his temples, but his fork kept moving.

The room grew warmer as the meal wore on, the heat rising from the food and from him. His belly was changing in front of her eyes, swelling out fuller, tighter, pushing even further against the table as he leaned forward. Each time he sat back to take a break, it pushed up and out, round as a drum in his lap.

When his pace faltered, when his fork started to linger in midair and his breathing came too thick, she’d reach across and rub his belly. “Just a lil’ more,” she said, coaxing, sliding the half-eaten plate of bacon toward him. “You’ve still got room. I know you do.”

And he would try again, obedient in a way that always pulled a flicker of desire through her body.

By the time they were done, the table looked like something had torn through it: plates cleared to the last crumb, syrup dripped across the tablecloth, a scatter of debris around his plate where the pace had neglected neatness.

Caleb was sunk back into his seat, chest rising and falling hard. His shirt was stretched taut, the hem riding up to rest above the dome of his stomach, which sat heavy and round across his thighs. It looked like even breathing was work now.

Eva rested her chin in one hand, watching him over the mess of the table, her gaze slow and measuring.

After a long moment, she tilted her head. “Let’s go out for lunch today,” she said.