Chapter 9

It took a little while for me to adjust to my new environment. All of that sunlight, fresh air, and crystal-clear silence—it was all so different from what I had grown used to in the mansion. There, the windows were always draped in heavy curtains, the air was thick with the constant smell of food, and the only sounds were the soft hum of cameras, the clinking of silverware, and the voices of the women who had been sent to force-feed me.

Out here, the world stretched endlessly around me—open fields, rolling hills, the distant sound of birds instead of the quiet hum of surveillance equipment. The wind was crisp and unsweetened, carrying the scent of grass and earth instead of pastries and roasted meats. I should have felt relieved, I should have felt free, but my body had been conditioned over time for something else entirely.

I ate constantly. Morning, noon, and night, Thomas brought me plate after plate of fresh food—eggs from the hens, buttered toast, thick cuts of ham, bowls of fresh fruit dripping in honey. For lunch and dinner, there were roast chickens, fresh-baked bread, hearty stews, and rich, golden potatoes smothered in freshly churned butter. The food was good, better than anything I had eaten in years, but my body screamed for more—more fat, more sugar, more everything!

Over time, I had gotten completely hooked on the ultra-processed and high-calorie foods that I was force-fed in the mansion, meals designed not just for flavor but for maximum weight gain, packed with synthetic fats and sugars that kept me craving more, needing more, stretching my body further and further beyond reason. My stomach knew the difference. It had been trained to need excess, to never feel full unless I was completely stuffed past the point of comfort.

Even as I ate all day long, my body still ached for the manufactured richness of the mansion’s meals. I would sit in bed, my stomach full from real food, and yet the hunger would still gnaw at me, like a deep and primal urge that would not relent.

Thomas was very patient with me. “Just give it time,” he told me. “Your body will adjust.”
Slowly, the endless cravings dulled, and the ache inside me lessened. I still ate more than any sane or rational person should; I still needed to be full, to feel the comforting weight of food in my stomach, but the desperate, insatiable hunger that had once consumed me began to fade.

Soon I really started to like the food I was eating. I could taste the sweetness of real honey, the buttery richness of eggs straight from the farm, the deep, earthy warmth of fresh bread. I found myself savoring the flavors instead of simply devouring them without thought.

Now I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re wondering if I had lost any weight once I had begun to eat all of these healthful, organic foods. The answer is no. In fact, not only had I not been losing weight, I actually seemed to be gaining more weight.

When I left the mansion, my last weigh-in had been seven hundred and fifty-nine pounds. A number so staggering that, even in my food-fueled haze, I had struggled to process it. After just a few weeks on the farm, Thomas helped me up onto a new motorized scooter that he had bought just for me, and he wheeled me onto an industrial scale he kept in one of the barns.

I was now just over eight hundred pounds.
I stared at the glowing red numbers, my breath catching in my throat. I wasn’t losing weight. I was still growing!

Every time we went down to that barn to do a weigh-in, I was beyond shocked to see the number still creeping higher and higher, my body still expanding, still stretching, even without the grotesque glut of the mansion’s ultra-fattening force-feedings.

Something else was happening though, something that was truly miraculous and amazing. For the first time in months, I found that I was actually able to walk!

It wasn’t graceful, not by any means; my walk was more of a slow, careful waddle, my thighs rubbing together in thick, rolling waves, every movement a balancing act as my weight shifted all around me. There was something in the real, wholesome meals that Thomas was feeding me that was making my body more mobile, my joints less painful, my energy returning in ways I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager.

Like most discoveries in life, I discovered this development by accident. Thomas had come up to help me onto the scooter, as he did every morning, but when I shifted my weight forward, something incredible happened. For the first time in ages, I pushed myself up and out of the bed, my body heaving upward, my belly spilling forward in heavy, jiggling waves. I could feel my weight shifting, pulling me in a dozen different directions at once, my rolls swaying, my balance precarious—but I was standing nonetheless.

“Look at you, baby!” Thomas trumpeted cheerfully. I saw the way his eyes widened in shock, and I felt a burst of pride swell in my chest. I took a step. Then another. Slow, careful, each movement sending ripples of motion through my billowing flesh. My belly hung low and heavy, pressing against my knees, flapping softly with every lumbering step. The sheer size of it made walking a surreal experience—it stuck out so far in front of me that even when I was standing upright, my “belly shelf” remained enormous, jutting outward like a soft, heavy ledge.

Walking was never easy; every step was a battle with gravity, a delicate negotiation between momentum and control. My weight shifted constantly, rolling from one side to the other, my balance always on the edge of being lost. Each movement sent tremors through my body, my belly swaying, my thighs rubbing together in soft, heavy waves, my arms wobbling as they fought to keep me steady.
It would have been terrifying if I had been alone, but Thomas was always there. Every time my balance wavered, every time I felt the sheer weight of myself threaten to pull me down, his hand was already there—strong, steady, unwavering. He never hesitated, never faltered, never treated me like I was too heavy, too much, too difficult to hold upright. He simply held on, his fingers curling around mine, his other hand pressing against my lower back, anchoring me as I found my footing again.
It was funny to me sometimes, the way my belly always entered a room long before the rest of me did. No matter how slowly I moved, no matter how carefully I navigated through doorways, there was no avoiding it—my stomach was always the first thing anyone saw. It stuck out so far in front of me that, as I looked around me, it was all that I could see—just more belly, more of me.

Thomas, of course, absolutely loved it. I could always tell by the way he watched me, his eyes lighting up with something unspoken, something deeply satisfying, every time I lumbered my way into a room. He got a thrill out of seeing my belly push forward first, filling the space, making its grand entrance before the rest of me even followed. Sometimes, I would catch him grinning as he waited, watching, knowing that it would be a full half-minute before he could even see my face.
I’d be lying if I said that there was something about it that I loved too.

With each passing day, I was still growing. I could feel it in the way my belly hung heavier, the way my thighs pressed closer together, the way my arms grew softer, thicker, rounding out with each new pound.

More than once, I found myself wedged in a doorway, my stomach and hips pressing firmly against the frame, my soft flesh spilling out and trapping me in place. I would push forward, shifting my weight, trying to ease myself through, but it wasn’t always enough.

If Thomas was in front of me, he would reach for my hands, his grip strong yet careful, gently pulling me forward as I wiggled and twisted, breaking myself free with a breathless laugh. If he happened to be behind me, he would press his hands firmly against my rump, giving me a gentle push, his fingers sinking into the softness, making sure I didn’t lose my balance as he guided me loose.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the fact that most of the time, as we were doing all of these things, I was completely naked. It was so hard to find any clothing that even remotely fit me, so I did the only natural thing I could do, spending most of my days in the nude.

Needless to say, I was comfortably settling into my new life. Yes, I was still gaining weight. Yes, I was still getting fatter. In many ways it wasn’t unlike what I was experiencing at the mansion, but in other ways still, it was a whole new world for me. Without the relentless demand of The Feed, pushing me to eat more and more, forcing fattening food down my throat to the point where I thought I would be sick, I felt as though I were free to enjoy the foods that I wanted whenever I wanted. As it turned out, what I wanted still was to eat as much as possible all the time.

As I’ve said before, maybe this is perfectly fine. Maybe this was just the way things were meant to be for me. While it’s certainly not the way that I imagined my future to be when I was hobnobbing with Manhattan’s social elite, enjoying the privilege that comes with being “famous for being famous,” I have to say that the life I share now with Thomas is one that I truly enjoy.

That’s life, I suppose—unpredictable and full of surprises. However, I don’t think anyone could have prepared me for the surprise that was yet to come.