Big Back Loves Being a Piggy

Chapter 1: feeding Piggy's appetite

I squeezed into the booth, my thighs pressing against the underside of the table, lifting it just slightly off its anchors. The bartender didn't notice. The man across from me did.

His eyes-hazel, sharp, the kind that catalogued details-dropped to the table's edge, then rose to meet mine. Not a flinch. Not the tight-lipped grimace I'd collected from the last three dates this month. Something else entirely. His mouth curved.

"So you're Melissa."

So you're Melissa. Not you look different from your photos. Not the pause, the recalibration, the polite disappointment that men tried to mask with questions about my job.

I'd used the pictures from April. April, when I was two hundred and fifteen pounds and still fitting into the size-sixteen wrap dress that now lived crumpled at the back of my closet. July had brought heavy cream and melted butter blended into shakes that tasted like liquid cheesecake. July had brought two hundred and fifty pounds and a waistband that left red furrows in my skin by noon.

"Yeah." I settled into the booth, letting my hips spread. The vinyl creaked. "And you're Daniel."

"Daniel." He nodded, still watching me with that unreadable tilt to his head. "What are you drinking?"

The cocktail menu was printed on thick cardstock, names embossed in gold. The Creamery wasn't subtle. Its specialty drinks came with ingredient lists that read like dessert recipes. Vodka, Kahlúa, heavy cream, vanilla bean. Bourbon, maple syrup, whipping cream, cinnamon. I'd chosen this bar specifically. A test, maybe. Or a dare to myself.

"The Maple Hog," I said, pointing.

Daniel's eyebrow lifted. "That's eight hundred calories."

"I know."

The silence that followed lasted three heartbeats. Then he laughed-low, rough, the sound of someone who'd just found exactly what he wasn't supposed to be looking for. He signaled the bartender. "Two Maple Hogs. And keep them coming."

The first sip coated my tongue in fat and sugar. The cream left a white mustache I didn't wipe away fast enough. Daniel watched me, and his fingers tightened on his glass.

"Your photos," he said finally. "They're old."

My stomach clenched. The familiar heat crawled up my neck-not embarrassment, not anymore. Something slicker. I'd learned to ride the shame like a current, letting it pool between my legs. Three months of dating-app disasters had taught me that humiliation was its own kind of aphrodisiac. The way men's faces fell. The stuttered excuses. The one who'd said wow, you really let yourself go and then couldn't meet my eyes while I squeezed my thighs together under the table.

"About thirty pounds old," I said. Technically true. Thirty-five if I was being precise.

"Thirty pounds." Daniel leaned back. His shoulders were broad under a navy button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Forearms dusted with dark hair. I'd expected another accountant, another software developer, another man who'd checked athletic and toned on his own profile and expected the same. "Where'd you put it?"

The question landed like a palm on my belly. Direct. Clinical, almost. But his voice had gone lower, the words dragging.

I didn't answer. Instead, I finished the cocktail. The cream settled thick in my stomach, joining the two shakes I'd had before leaving my apartment. I could feel the stretch beginning, the tightness across my middle. My dress-a black tent of polyester with an empire waist that was supposed to forgive everything but currently forgave nothing-pulled at the seams under my arms.

"Everywhere," I said. "But mostly here." My hand found my belly without permission. Rested there.

Daniel's gaze followed.

The bartender delivered the second round. Daniel pushed my glass closer, his knuckles brushing my forearm.

"Tell me about the shakes."

My breath caught. "What shakes?"

"The ones you drink. The weight gain shakes." He said it plainly, like he was asking about my commute. "I've read about them online. Heavy cream, melted ice cream, protein powder. Some people add peanut butter. Ganache. You can blend a day's worth of calories into a single glass."

My thighs pressed together under the booth.

"How do you know about that?"

"I know a lot of things." He leaned forward. The candle on the table flickered between us. "I know you're wearing a dress you bought when you were smaller. I know the seams are screaming. I know you're sitting here thinking I'm about to make an excuse and leave like the others, and I know that idea is doing something to you that you don't want to admit."

The bar hummed around us. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed. I was underwater, my pulse loud in my ears.

"You're a pig," Daniel said. Not cruel. Matter-of-fact. Like he was identifying the color of my eyes. "A greedy, swollen little pig who's been gorging herself since July and hoping no one would notice. But I noticed."

The word hit me in the gut. Pig. I'd whispered it to myself in the mirror, hands gripping the flesh that spilled over my waistband. I'd breathed it into my pillows while my fingers worked between my legs, imagining a faceless stranger saying it. And here he was, saying it.

"Order something else," he said.

"What?"

"From the food menu." He nodded toward the laminated card tucked behind the napkin dispenser. "They have loaded fries. They have a bacon cheeseburger with a brioche bun and garlic aioli. They have fried pickles and onion rings and a brownie sundae that comes with a pitcher of warm fudge."

I was already wet. Had been since the first Maple Hog. Now I was aching, my clit throbbing against the seam of my underwear.

"And if I don't want any of that?"

"You do." Daniel's voice hardened. "You've been wanting it since you walked in. You've been wanting it for months. You've been blending butter into milkshakes in your studio apartment and praying someone would come along and see you-really see you-and instead of running, they'd order the whole goddamn menu."

The waitress materialized. Young, ponytailed, chewing gum. Daniel didn't look at her.

"The loaded fries. The onion rings. The cheeseburger, extra bacon. Two brownie sundaes." He paused. "And two more Maple Hogs."

She scribbled. Walked away.

I couldn't speak. My cunt was a slick fist of heat. My dress-that stupid, hopeful dress-had ridden up my thighs, and I could feel the cool air of the bar against the damp cotton of my underwear. I wanted to squirm. I wanted to grind against the booth. I wanted him to keep talking, to keep naming the thing I'd been doing to myself in secret.

"When's the last time you felt full?" Daniel asked.

Never, I almost said. I haven't felt full since June.

"Earlier today," I managed.

"What'd you eat?"

"Shake. Two shakes. A pint of ice cream. Half a box of macaroni and cheese. And a sleeve of Oreos."

His pupils dilated. I watched it happen-the black swallowing the hazel. His breath came faster, his chest rising under the navy cotton.

"You're going to eat everything that comes to this table. And then we're going back to my place, and I'm going to make you another shake. And you're going to drink it while I watch. While I tell you exactly what you look like. While I describe every pound you've packed onto those hips."

My mouth opened. Nothing came.

"Say yes," Daniel said.

The food arrived. Grease-slicked fries topped with melted cheddar and bacon crumbles. Onion rings the size of bracelets, batter golden and flaking. A cheeseburger that required two hands, juice already leaking onto the plate. The brownie sundaes gleamed under their avalanche of fudge.

"Eat."

I lifted the burger. Juice ran down my wrists. The first bite was obscene-meat and cheese and garlic aioli, my jaw straining to accommodate it. I chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite before I'd finished the first.

Daniel watched like I was a sacrament.

"Good pig," he murmured.

And I moaned. Actually moaned. Around a mouthful of bacon and beef, with grease on my chin and the seams of my dress finally-finally-beginning to give way, a soft rip sounding near my left hip.

"There she is," Daniel said. "There's the greedy girl I came to meet."

He reached across the table. His thumb found the corner of my mouth, swiped through the aioli, pressed it back between my lips. I sucked. His eyes flared.

"We're just getting started," he said. "By Christmas, you'll barely fit through my door."

My cunt clenched around nothing. The second sundae waited. The third cocktail. And Daniel's hand, sliding now beneath the table, finding my knee, pushing my thighs apart.

"Keep eating," he said. "I want to feel how wet you get with food in your mouth."