Becoming a Pig... Literally

Chapter 1

The patrol car smelled like coffee, stale air freshener, and the quiet smugness of men who thought they'd already won.

I knew what was coming. I'd heard the rumors-half-jokes in the locker room, the way conversations dropped when I walked in. The squad pig. A month-long initiation for new female officers that hadn't been used since before I was born. Until now.

"First ride-along's a tradition, Morales," Sergeant Harlow said from behind the wheel, his thick fingers wrapped around the steering column. "Welcome to the family."

"Feels more like a hazing," I muttered, watching the strip malls blur past.

He laughed-a low, gravelly sound. "Call it what you want. You signed the papers."

My stomach tightened. I had signed them. A stupid bet about being able to handle whatever the squad threw at me. I'd thought it would be push-ups, extra shifts, some verbal abuse I could shake off.

I was wrong.

Harlow reached into the passenger-side footwell and pulled out a paper bag. The grease had already soaked through in spots. He set it on the center console between us, the smell hitting me immediately-hot, salty, heavy.

"Eat," he said. Didn't look at me.

"What is it?"

"Breakfast."

I opened the bag. Four sausage biscuits, each one glistening with butter, the bread already starting to steam from the heat. My mouth should have watered. Instead, my throat tightened.

"I already ate," I said.

"Now you're eating again." His voice didn't change. Calm. Unbothered. Like he was telling me to check my mirrors. "That's how it works. We give, you take. Every meal, every snack, every time someone hands you something. You finish it. All of it."

The car hummed along the highway. My fingers hovered over the bag.

"This is the easy part, Morales. Don't make it hard."

I pulled out the first biscuit. The sausage patty was thick, the cheese melted into the bread in orange streaks. I took a bite. The salt hit first, then the grease coating my tongue, the bread dissolving into a pasty sweetness.

"Good girl," Harlow said.

Those two words burned more than the hot food.

I ate the second biscuit faster, just to get it over with. By the third, my stomach was already sending protest signals-a dull ache that spread across my abdomen. The fourth sat in my lap, half-eaten, as I stared out the window.

"Finish it," he said.

"I'm full."

"That's the point."

I brought the last few bites to my mouth and chewed mechanically. Swallowed. The bag crinkled as I crumpled it, and Harlow nodded once, a small approval that made my skin crawl.

We drove in silence for another twenty minutes. Then he pulled into a convenience store parking lot.

"Wait here."

He came back with a chocolate milkshake and a bag of chips. The milkshake was enormous-the kind you'd share with two other people. He handed them to me without a word and pulled back onto the road.

"Seriously?"

"You heard the rules. We give, you take."

"I just ate four biscuits."

"And now you're having a snack."

The milkshake was thick, almost too thick to suck through the straw. I had to work for it, my cheeks hollowing with each pull. The chips were salt-and-vinegar, sharp enough to cut through the sweetness. I ate them mechanically, one after another, until the bag was empty and the milkshake was gone and my stomach had swollen into a hard, protesting sphere.

"Good," Harlow said. "First day's in the books."

He dropped me off at the station two hours later. I waddled to my locker, my uniform pressing against my midsection in ways it hadn't that morning. I told myself it was just bloat. Just temporary.

But when I unbuttoned my pants, the waistband left a red line across my skin.

Day two started with donuts.

Officer Chen brought them in-a full dozen, glazed and sprinkled and stuffed with jelly. He set the box on my desk and stood there, arms crossed, until I ate one. Then another. Then two more.

"Attagirl," he said, and patted my shoulder.

Day three was pizza. Day four was a footlong sub with extra meat and cheese. Day five was breakfast burritos that weighed half a pound each, wrapped in foil that left grease stains on my fingers.

The teasing started small. A comment about how I was "filling out." A joke about needing a bigger uniform. I laughed along, because what else could I do? I'd signed the papers.

But by the end of week one, my shirts didn't tuck in as smoothly. The buttons across my chest pulled when I sat down. My belt had to be let out a notch.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror one night, staring at the new softness around my waist. The way my hips had started to round. The slight swell of my lower belly that hadn't been there before.

I pressed my palm against it. The flesh gave, warm and yielding.

This is bad, I thought. This is really bad.

But when I walked into the squad room the next morning, and Harlow handed me a bag of egg-and-cheese croissants, I didn't argue. I sat at my desk and ate. One. Two. Three. The bread flaked onto my keyboard. The cheese stretched in long strings that I sucked into my mouth.

"Look at her go," Chen said, leaning against the filing cabinet. "She's a natural."

"Best piggy we've had in years," Officer Reeves added from across the room.

They laughed. I kept eating.

The second week, they started timing me.

"Ten minutes for two burgers," Harlow said, setting a stopwatch on the break room table. "Go."

I picked up the first burger. The bun was soft, the patty thin and salty. I ate fast, barely chewing, washing it down with soda that fizzed in my throat. The second burger followed. I finished in eight minutes, thirty seconds.

"Not bad," Harlow said. "But you can do better."

The third burger appeared in front of me.

"I'm full."

"Doesn't matter."

I ate it.

That night, I couldn't sleep. My stomach was a tight drum, pressing against my lungs, making every breath shallow. I lay on my back and ran my hands over the new curves of my body-the way my thighs had started to touch, the soft roll of fat above my waistband, the heaviness in my chest that made my bras feel restrictive.

I should have been disgusted.

But somewhere, beneath the shame, there was something else. A warmth I didn't want to name.

Week three brought the nickname to full force.

"Hey, piggy," Reeves called out as I walked into the locker room. "Got something for you."

He held up a bag of tacos. Six of them, wrapped in foil, steam curling from the ends.

"From the whole squad," he said. "Eat up."

I took the bag. Sat on the bench. Unwrapped the first taco and bit into it. The meat was seasoned, the cheese melted, the shell cracking under my teeth.

Reeves watched. So did Chen and Harlow, who had appeared in the doorway.

"Good piggy," Harlow said softly.

Something fluttered in my chest.

I ate all six tacos. Then Reeves handed me a churro, dusted with cinnamon sugar, and I ate that too. The sweetness clung to my lips.

"Getting thicker," Chen observed. "Look at her waist."

"She's gonna need a new uniform soon," Reeves agreed.

Harlow stepped closer. He reached out and pressed his palm against my stomach-a casual, possessive gesture that made me freeze. His hand was warm, his fingers spreading across the newly soft curve.

"Solid," he said. "Good weight. She's taking to it."

"Told you," Chen said. "She's the one."

I didn't know what that meant. I didn't ask.

By the end of week three, my uniform was tight in every direction. The shirt strained across my back. The pants dug into my hips. I had to leave the top button undone just to breathe, covering it with my duty belt.

I stepped on the scale in the medical bay when no one was looking.

Eight pounds.

Eight pounds in three weeks.

I stared at the number, my heart hammering. Then I heard footsteps in the hallway, and I stepped off quickly, pretending I'd been checking the cabinet.

But the number stayed in my head. Eight pounds. Halfway there.

The final week arrived with a new intensity.

"Double portions," Harlow announced at the start of shift. "We're fattening you up proper."

Breakfast was six pancakes, three eggs, a pile of bacon, and a tall glass of whole milk. I ate until my jaw ached, until my stomach was a hard, swollen mass that made me want to unbutton my pants right there at the table.

Lunch was two footlong subs and a bag of cookies.

Dinner was a family-sized lasagna that I ate alone in the break room while the squad watched through the window, their faces lit with approval.

And then there were the snacks. Constant snacks. Granola bars and chips and candy and milkshakes. Every time I turned around, someone was handing me something. Eat. Eat. Eat.

My body changed visibly. The softness around my middle became a definite paunch. My cheeks filled out. My breasts grew heavier, pressing against the fabric of my uniform shirt until the buttons looked like they might pop.

I caught my reflection in the station windows and barely recognized myself.

But I kept eating.

The last day of the month, Harlow called me into the briefing room. The entire squad was there-fifteen men in uniform, standing in a loose semicircle. A camera sat on a tripod in the corner.

"Thirty days," Harlow said. "You made it."

A ripple of applause.

"But we've got one more tradition." He pointed to a table in the center of the room. On it sat a trough-a literal plastic trough, like you'd use for livestock. It was filled with food. Burgers, fries, chicken wings, slices of cake, puddings, pastries. A mountain of it.

"The piggy parade," Harlow said. "You get on all fours. You eat from the trough. We watch. We record. And when you're done, we weigh you."

The room was silent.

"Do it, piggy," Reeves said. The words were soft. Encouraging. "You earned this."

I looked at the trough. At the men. At the camera.

My uniform strained across my belly.

I dropped to my knees.