Cosmic Fattening

Chapter 1: The scent of Sin

The dining hall of the Saint Jude’s Academy for Young Ladies was silent, save for the delicate, terrified chime of silver forks hitting fine china. It was a cathedral dedicated to restraint. The ceilings were high, the air was cold, and the dinner was an insult.

Tonight’s meal: a single, steamed asparagus stalk, half a boiled egg, and a thimble-sized glass of lukewarm water with a lemon wedge squeezed into it.

Nick watched from the service doors, leaning against the stainless steel frame with a bored sneer. He was twenty-four, rough around the edges, and entirely entirely out of place in this world of old money and older eating disorders. He’d been hired due to a clerical error by the staffing agency, and he stayed only because the paycheck was absurd.

He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the "Elite Table" in the center. The untouchables.

There was Seraphina, the icy blonde queen bee. Her uniform—a blazer and plaid skirt tailored to within an inch of its life—clung to a frame that was starvation-chic. Her collarbones jutted out like delicate wings; her waist was so impossibly small it looked like it might snap in a strong wind. She was perfect, hollow, and radiating a bitchy, frigid energy.

Next to her was Isabella, the dark-haired sultry heiress. Even starving, she had curves that the uniform couldn't hide. Her breasts were small but perkily defiant against the tight white fabric of her blouse, her nipples visibly hardened by the drafty hall. She pushed the half-egg around her plate with the look of someone dreaming of murder.

Nick watched them. They were beautiful, yes. Like porcelain dolls. But they were empty. They were dry. He hated dry things.

He watched Seraphina lift a tiny piece of asparagus to her pale lips. She chewed it thirty times before swallowing, a look of intense concentration on her face, as if fearing the single calorie might instantly manifest on her hips.

"Pathetic," Nick muttered, turning back into the steaming heat of the industrial kitchen.

The kitchen was his domain, usually sterilised and boring. But tonight, things had changed.

Earlier that afternoon, while deep-cleaning behind the massive walk-in freezers, Nick had dislodged a loose flagstone in the floor. Beneath it rested a wooden box, wrapped in oilcloth. Inside was a book.

It wasn't a normal cookbook. It was bound in thick, dark leather that felt disturbingly soft, almost like human skin. The title was burned into the cover in jagged script: “The sustenance of the Soul.”

When he opened it, the pages were warm. The recipes weren't for salads. They were for things he’d never heard of, written in descriptions that made his own mouth water just reading them. Recipes that promised not just flavor, but fulfillment.

He looked at the pathetic leftovers coming back from the dining hall—plates full of untouched food. These girls were starving themselves for power.

Nick looked at the book sitting on the stainless steel counter. It seemed to hum with a low, throbbing energy. A wicked idea began to form in his mind. He didn't want to feed them. He wanted to corrupt them.

He flipped the book open to a random page in the dessert section. “Midnight Cream Puffs – For the Unspoken Hunger.”

The instructions were strange. They called for excessive amounts of butter, heavy cream, sugar, and pinch of a dried, purple herb he found tucked into a pouch in the back of the book.

As he began to bake, the air in the kitchen changed. It grew heavier. Hotter.

The scent that wafted from the ovens wasn't just vanilla and pastry. It was thick, cloying, and deeply, filthily erotic. It smelled like warm beds, sweat, sugar, and desperate need. It was a smell that bypassed the stomach and went straight to the groin.

Nick pulled the tray out. The cream puffs were golden, massive, and glistening with butter. He sliced them open and piped in the filling—a thick, impossibly rich vanilla bean cream that seemed to throb with its own internal heat. They looked obscene. Big, dripping mounds of pleasure meant to be shoved into a mouth.

He placed three of the biggest ones on a silver platter. He didn't take them to the dining hall. He just left the kitchen door slightly ajar, letting the scent drift out into the cold, silent hallways of the dormitory wing.

He waited in the shadows, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

It didn't take long.

The sound of soft footsteps broke the silence. The kitchen door creaked open further.

Seraphina, Isabella, and a third girl, the athletic redhead Chloe, stood there. They were in their sleeping clothes—expensive silk robes and thin nightgowns that left nothing to the imagination.

Seraphina looked pale, her eyes wide and glassy, pupils dilated. Her thin silk robe was tied tightly around her microscopic waist, emphasizing the sharp jut of her hipbones. Beneath the silk, her small, hard nipples were erect, pressing against the fabric.

Isabella was breathing heavily, her chest heaving. Her nightgown hung loosely, giving a tantalizing view of the smooth, flat plane of her stomach and the dark shadow between her thighs.

They looked like junkies searching for a fix. The scent of the cream puffs had dragged them out of bed, overriding years of discipline in seconds.

"Who's there?" Seraphina demanded, her voice trembling, trying to maintain her icy authority while drool gathered in the corner of her mouth.

"Just the help," Nick stepped out of the shadows. He looked big, rough, and dangerous in the dim light. He gestured casually to the silver platter on the counter. "Made a little midnight snack. Didn't want to waste it."

The three girls stared at the cream puffs. They were grotesque, dripping with powdered sugar and fat. A week ago, they would have vomited at the sight.

Now, they couldn't look away. The air was thick with their hunger and a sudden, sharp spike of arousal. Their bodies, starved of everything, were confusing the need for calories with the need for sex.

Isabella stepped forward first, walking as if in a trance. She reached out a trembling, manicured hand and picked up one of the pastries. It was heavy, warm, and soft.

She brought it to her lips.

"Isabella, don't," Seraphina hissed, clutching her own flat stomach as it let out a loud, demanding growl. "Think of the calories. Think of the weigh-in."

Isabella ignored her. She opened her mouth and took a bite.

Her eyes rolled back in her head. The cream exploded inside her mouth—thick, sweet, and overwhelmingly rich. It wasn't just taste; it was a rush of pure endorphins that hit her like a physical blow. A soft moan escaped her lips, a sound more sexual than anything she’d ever made before.

Cream leaked from the corner of her mouth and dripped down her chin, landing on the swell of her breast just above her nightgown.

The sight broke the others.

Seraphina let out a small sob of defeat and rushed forward, grabbing a puff with both hands. She didn't eat delicately. She shoved the pastry into her face, smashing it against her lips, desperate to get the filling inside her.

Chloe grabbed the third.

The kitchen filled with the sounds of wet, frantic eating. They were devouring the pastries like starving animals, licking the butter from their fingers, moaning with every swallow.

Nick watched them, a dark smile spreading across his face. He looked at their flat stomachs, their sharp jawlines, their tight little bodies shivering with pleasure. They were perfect, empty vessels. And he had just poured the first drop of poison inside.

Isabella finished hers, licking the last smear of cream from her cleavage. She looked up at Nick, her eyes hazy with a sugar-induced high, her chest heaving.

"More," she whispered, her voice thick with lust and cream. "Please. We need more."