The Sweetest Dream

Chapter 1

The headache was a low, insistent thrum behind my eyes. Another week of twelve-hour days in the glass tower, another week of living on iced coffee and the cold fire of ambition. My name is Stevie. I'm twenty-eight, six feet tall, and thin enough that my collarbones cast shadows. My mom always said my blue eyes were my best feature, but lately they just looked tired, framed by the cascade of brown hair I was too exhausted to style.

Saturday. The sacred day of nothing. The city's usual roar was a distant hum through my apartment windows. I didn't even make it to the couch. I toppled face-first onto my bed, still in my sweatpants and thin t-shirt, and sleep swallowed me whole.

It started as a warmth. A deep, cellular comfort, like sinking into a bath heated from the inside. Then came the pressure-not unpleasant, but immense. A gentle, inexorable expansion. I felt it in my sleep, a dream of becoming something more substantial.

My bones didn't ache, but they... hummed. My skin tingled, stretching with a soft, whispering elasticity. I felt my hips press outward against the mattress, a slow, rolling wave of softness following. My thighs, always slender, began to swell, pressing together, then apart as they filled with a delicious, heavy fullness. The sensation traveled up my torso; my waist dissolved into a lush curve, my stomach rounding, then ballooning, rising from the mattress like a soft hill. My breasts, small and high, grew heavy and full, spilling over the sides of my ribs, their weight a new and profound anchor.

My arms plumped, my shoulders softened, my neck thickened. Even my fingers felt pudgy when I twitched them in my dream. It was a transformation of abundance, of sheer mass, every cell drinking in some unseen nutrient, bloating with luxurious fat. The mattress groaned and dipped profoundly beneath me. I was a glacier of flesh, moving in slow, inevitable progression. When the process completed, I wasn't just a woman in a bed. I was a landscape.

Consciousness returned not with a start, but with a slow, heavy blink. The room looked smaller. The ceiling closer. I tried to sit up.

It was impossible.

A soft, monumental wall of my own stomach pressed me down. I turned my head-a movement that required effort due to the new, pillowy softness of my cheeks-and looked down the length of my body.

Oh.

Where there had been angles, there were now glorious, sweeping curves. My body was a series of soft peaks and valleys, pale flesh overflowing everywhere. My thighs were colossal pillars, merging seamlessly with the vast, domed swell of my stomach that rose before me, obscuring my feet entirely. My breasts were two massive, weighty mounds, resting on the shelf of my belly, their nipples buried in the softness. I felt enormous. Not just fat, but profoundly, astronomically huge. I must have been... six hundred pounds. The thought didn't shock me. It felt true. This was my body now.

With a grunt that came from deep in my new, barrel-like chest, I managed to roll onto my side. The bed shrieked in protest. The movement sent ripples cascading through me, a quaking jiggle that took seconds to settle. Getting upright was a ten-minute ordeal of heaving, pushing, and ungainly maneuvering. When I finally stood, my feet splayed wide to support the incredible weight, I was breathless. The floorboards creaked a symphony of distress.

I waddled-there was no other word for it-to my full-length mirror. The woman who stared back was a stranger, yet her big blue eyes were unmistakably mine. My face was round and cherubic, my cascading hair now seeming to spill over immense, soft shoulders. I was monumental. A goddess of softness. I ran a hand over the dizzying curve of my belly; it felt warm and incredibly alive.

Clothes. I needed clothes. My closet was a museum of size 4s and 6s. A laugh, thick and wheezy, bubbled out of me. I found an old, stretched-out college sweatshirt. It wouldn't close over my bust, but I pulled it on like a cape. My largest pair of sweatpants? I couldn't get one thigh into them. Resigned, I wrapped a bedsheet around my lower half like a makeshift sarong. It was barely adequate.

Then, it hit.

Hunger. Not a peckishness, but a deep, roaring void in my core. A pain that clenched my entire massive gut. It was a biological imperative, sharp and undeniable. My new body demanded fuel. Now.

The three-block walk to the McDonald's on the corner was an epic journey. Each waddling step made my body sway and jounce. I felt the eyes of the city on me, but the hunger drowned out any shame. The automatic doors slid open, and I bellied up to the counter, the edge pressing into my soft middle.

"I'll take... everything," I breathed, my voice higher, softer than I remembered. "Four Big Macs. Two large fries. A twenty-piece nugget. Three apple pies. And a large chocolate shake. To start."

The kid at the register didn't blink. This was New York.

I took my trays-I needed two-to the largest booth, which I still overflowed. And I ate. I ate like I was filling a bottomless well. The first Big Mac vanished in four huge bites, the hunger barely noticing. As I swallowed the second, I felt it-a warm, spreading fullness that wasn't satiation. It was growth.

I ate the third burger, and my already-tight bedsheet felt tighter. A soft pop sounded as the zipper on my sweatshirt gave up. I devoured the fries, shoveling them in by the handful, and as the salt hit my tongue, I felt my thighs press more firmly against the bench seat, spreading wider. I drank the shake, thick and sweet, and a pleasant, bloating pressure filled my middle, my stomach distending even further, rounding outward.

I wasn't getting full. I was getting bigger.

A quiet, desperate euphoria took over. I ordered more: two Quarter Pounders with cheese, another large fry, a hot fudge sundae. With every bite, every swallow, I could feel the expansion. My arms grew softer, brushing against the widening swell of my hips. My back fat pressed more cozily against the booth. My breasts rested more heavily on the table itself. The hunger was finally, slowly, being replaced by a dense, satisfying weight. I was becoming more of myself. More immense. More real.

When I finally stood to leave, the world had changed. I had to turn sideways to shuffle out of the booth. My body was a soft behemoth, easily over seven hundred pounds now. The walk home was a slow, rolling procession. Every step was a careful negotiation with gravity, my body swaying in a rhythm of its own making. I left a trail of deep creaks in the floorboards of my building's hallway.

Back in my apartment, the bed called to me. I didn't even try to remove the bedsheet, now embedded in the deep creases of my flesh. I simply let myself fall forward onto the mattress. It accepted me with a final, groaning sigh of surrender. I was a mountain of womanhood, spilled across the bed, still humming with the caloric energy of my feast. Sleep took me instantly, a black and dreamless void.

I woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright.

The room was its normal size. The mattress was firm beneath me. I looked down.

My thin t-shirt hung loose. My slender legs were visible. I scrambled out of bed-effortlessly-and ran to the mirror.

Stevie stared back. Tall, thin, blue-eyed, with cascading brown hair. The sharp collarbones, the slight frame. It was me. It was all me.

I touched my flat stomach, then my small breasts. A phantom sensation lingered-the memory of immense weight, of soft, overwhelming abundance. The echo of a hunger so deep it could reshape reality.

I walked to the kitchen and put the coffee on. The city outside my window was waking up. Monday was coming.

But for now, I stood there, sipping my coffee, feeling strangely light. And empty.