Gluttonous Desire

Chapter 1

# Scene 1
Lauren’s skin, flushed and sheened with sweat, exhaled a candied musk into the room. The bed beneath her creaked in slow, uneasy arcs whenever she shifted her bulk, which was often, because she was never quite comfortable these days—never quite able to negotiate the sheer acreage of her body into rest. She liked it, perversely: liked the way the world bent itself around her, the way space yielded and whined in the face of her presence. Emma, stretched out alongside, had a thigh thrown over Lauren’s own, which was more like a low-slung hill than any human appendage, and was massaging circles into the skin just below Lauren’s left breast.

The breast itself, once pert, now sprawled over Emma’s hand and wrist, soft and dense, its circumference too vast to be contained by a simple palm. Lauren watched her lover’s fingers press in, indenting the red-glossed surface, a ripple moving outward and then settling back, tidal and slow. She could feel each push, could sense the blood moving just below the skin, the little shivers of sensation radiating up toward her face, which was turned slightly away, pillowed by a mound of her own upper arm. She lay on her back, spread out and unashamed, every bit of her body on open, lazy display.

The tray balanced on her stomach had shifted a little, but not enough to spill its precious cargo: a heap of macadamia nuts, some still in shell, a pile of glossy, thumb-sized chocolate chunks, and a half-eaten square of baklava that had gone limp and sticky in the heat. Lauren reached for the baklava, the movement barely perceptible except in the undulation of her arm fat and the slight tremor of her double chin. The piece dissolved in her mouth, sweet and greasy and a little crunchy, and she followed it with a handful of nuts, which she chewed and swallowed with visible effort, Adam’s apple working through a thick, resistant collar of flesh.

“Mmm.” Emma’s voice was reverential, husky. She rolled up on one elbow, her fingers leaving a trail of coconut oil behind, shining on Lauren’s skin. “It’s so beautiful. Your stomach, when it’s all tight like this. It’s almost obscene.”

Lauren snorted. She had a snorter’s laugh now, involuntary, deep in the chest. “Obscene is the point, right?”

Emma did not answer immediately. Instead, she smoothed both hands over the swell of Lauren’s belly, the skin tense and overstretched from the feeding. It rose above Lauren’s pelvis like an overfilled water balloon, doming upward and outward, with red stress lines and white tracks of new stretchmarks webbed along the sides. The navel, once shallow, was now a deep, shadowy crater, rimmed in softness. Emma dug her thumbs in around it, kneading, and Lauren gasped, not from pain but from a species of pleasure that was half sexual and half something else—pride, maybe.

Emma’s fingers went to the underside of the dome, tracing along the shelf of Lauren’s lower belly, which hung in a thick apron over her panties. “I’m serious,” she murmured, almost chastising. “You’re so beautiful. You’re growing so fast. I can’t believe how tight you are, right after a stuffing like that.” She bent down and pressed her lips into the flesh, right below the navel, where the skin was hottest. Her tongue darted out, lapping at the salt.

Lauren felt her face heat, equal parts embarrassment and arousal. She was so full she could barely breathe; her chest rose in short, shallow pants. “You keep saying that,” she managed. “Beautiful. You’re going to turn my head.”

Emma grinned, showing teeth, and bit down playfully on Lauren’s belly, not enough to hurt. “That’s the plan.” She kissed the bite-mark, then scooted up to lie next to Lauren, propped on her elbow, face inches from Lauren’s. She reached for a chocolate chunk and pressed it into Lauren’s lips; Lauren opened, obedient, and let it melt on her tongue. “Do you feel it?” Emma asked softly.

“Feel what?”

Emma’s hand swept over Lauren’s torso, up from the belly to the slope of her right breast, over the expanse of Lauren’s flank, fingers splaying, measuring. “The weight. The stretch. Your skin gets tighter every week, like your body is trying to keep up but can’t. You get heavier and heavier, but you never slow down.”

Lauren made a low, noncommittal sound. She felt it, all right. The tightness, the constant pull. Her center of gravity had shifted long ago; her hips had given up any hope of narrowing, and her thighs had merged into a single, pressing mass, the crease between them deep and always a little damp. When she stood, her belly hung over her pelvis in an enormous, soft slab. The insides of her arms chafed against her torso. Her face was rounder than ever, the jawline erased. Even her wrists looked swollen. She knew, intellectually, that she was gigantic, but the mirror always made it abstract, somehow less real. In bed, like this, with Emma’s hands on her, the reality came flooding in, impossible to ignore.

Emma saw the look on her face and softened. She leaned in, her nose brushing Lauren’s cheek, and said, “I love your body. I love you, but I love your body, too. I want to help you get bigger. I want to see what happens when you don’t stop.”

Lauren swallowed, the chocolate almost gone. “You say that now. When I hit four hundred, you’ll run screaming.”

Emma’s laugh was low and delighted. “Four hundred is just the starting line, babe. I want to see you double that.”

Lauren rolled her eyes, but the idea sent a charge through her. It was crazy. Impossible. And yet, a year ago, she’d said the same thing about three hundred pounds, and here she was, her gut so tight she could hardly roll onto her side.

Emma dug her thumb into a spot just above Lauren’s hip, massaging in slow, deep circles. “I’m serious,” she repeated. “I’m committed. I want to help you grow. Bigger and fatter and happier.” She paused. “Is that what you want?”

Lauren didn’t answer right away. She could feel the inside of her belly gurgling, digesting the obscene amount of food she’d put away in the past hour. There was a pain there, yes, but also a fullness, a sensation of accomplishment, even victory. “I want you,” she said finally. “And if this is what you want—if it makes you happy—then yeah, I want it too. I want to see how far we can go.”

Emma’s eyes shone, and she kissed Lauren, open-mouthed, salty and sweet and chocolatey. When she broke away, she took up the oil again and resumed her careful work, smoothing it over every inch of Lauren’s body, lingering at the places where skin folded over itself, at the deep channels under Lauren’s arms and breasts and thighs. Lauren closed her eyes, savoring the feeling, the heat and the pleasure and the strange satisfaction of being so thoroughly tended to.

She reached, blindly, for another nut, and then another, and let herself drift in the warmth of Emma’s hands and the slow, relentless progress of her own transformation.

When she opened her eyes again, Emma was watching her, a soft, greedy smile on her lips. Lauren smirked, then pressed her own hand into the highest curve of her belly, feeling how taut and overfilled it was, how the skin pushed back, elastic and insistent. She glanced at Emma, who was still working her way down, mapping the landscape of Lauren’s body with a surveyor’s patience.

“Hey,” Lauren said, her voice thick with sleep and satiation.

Emma looked up.

“Don’t stop,” Lauren said. “Ever.”

Emma laughed, a deep, satisfied sound, and poured another dab of oil onto her palm, then set to work with renewed vigor. Lauren let her eyes drift shut again, content to float in the heavy, honeyed air, feeling every inch of herself with more intensity than she’d ever known. She had never felt so full. She had never felt so loved.


# Scene 2

The bistro was one of those pseudo-Parisian affairs with too many tables jammed close, high-wattage bulbs masquerading as candlelight, and an omnipresent haze of butter and seared protein. Lauren hated tight spaces, but she’d insisted on coming here—she’d insisted, in fact, on this exact table, despite the fact that it was wedged between a wobbly server station and a party of six boisterous law students.

“God,” Lauren said, lowering herself into the wooden chair with a grunt that turned heads at three adjacent tables. “I feel like a whale in a sardine can.”

Emma beamed. “You’re the most beautiful whale I’ve ever seen.”

Lauren rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She’d outgrown this place, literally, since their last visit—she could feel it in the way her hips spread over the sides of the chair, in the hard pressure of wood against the underside of her belly, in the subtle cantilevering required just to stay upright. She was wearing her best attempt at casual: a loose black blouse that still clung obscenely to her upper arms and chest, and soft yoga pants that had surrendered entirely to the bulge of her thighs. She felt, as always, both enormous and exposed.

The server—a rail-thin boy with a faint mustache and a look of deep, existential terror—arrived with waters and menus, but Emma waved him off. “We’re ready,” she said, and rattled off the order: rib-eye, extra fries, loaded nachos, two racks of baby-back ribs (“with all the sauces, please”), and the restaurant’s notorious dessert sampler, three full-sized portions stacked on a single plate. She recited it with the breezy confidence of a regular, which, by now, they were.

The boy blinked, stuttered something about portion sizes, but Emma cut him off with a smile. “She’s celebrating,” she said, gesturing to Lauren’s belly. “Big day.”

He flushed, scribbled, and fled.

Lauren snorted. “Big day,” she echoed. “You’re hilarious.”

Emma shrugged. “You hit a milestone. That’s worth a feast.”

Lauren fidgeted with her napkin, feeling the seams of her blouse stretch over her upper arms. “Is it? Last week you said we shouldn’t keep count anymore.”

Emma’s gaze was fixed on Lauren’s belly, which bulged against the edge of the table, the lower hemisphere visible even from Emma’s seat. “It’s not about the numbers,” she said. “It’s about celebrating you. Us.” She gave Lauren’s thigh a conspiratorial squeeze under the table. “And, okay, I want to see if you can break your old record.”

Lauren grinned, teeth white and sharp, and let herself relax into the banter. She’d always been a fast eater, even before all this, but now it was something else—a kind of performance, a challenge, an exhibition. She liked the way Emma watched her, the intensity of it, as though she were a new animal being discovered and catalogued.

The food came all at once, a greasy avalanche of plates and platters that crowded the little table, forcing the law students to pull their elbows in tight. Lauren dug in without ceremony, her fork clinking against the bone, her knife sawing through fat and gristle with practiced efficiency. The rib-eye was gone in five minutes, the fries soaked up the juices, and then the nachos were picked clean of cheese and sour cream. Emma watched, her own food untouched, her eyes bright and hungry.

Other diners watched, too. Lauren could feel their stares, the whispered asides, the not-quite-concealed looks of amazement and, in some cases, horror. She didn’t care. She’d stopped caring months ago, around the time her thighs began to rub holes in every pair of jeans she owned. If anything, the attention fueled her. She made a point of sucking sauce from her fingers, of licking the plate clean, of letting out a little moan of satisfaction after every new bite.

Emma slid her own chair closer, until their knees touched. “You’re incredible,” she said, sotto voce. “Like a force of nature.”

Lauren snorted, her mouth full of rib meat. “You’re just horny.”

Emma’s cheeks colored, but she didn’t deny it. She reached across the table, taking Lauren’s hand, and brought it to her lips, kissing the knuckles where a streak of barbecue sauce had dried. “Maybe,” she said. “But I’m also proud. Look at you.”

Lauren glanced down. The progress was visible, even through the black blouse: her belly pushed the table several inches away, the shelf of her chest was visibly higher than before, and her arms—god, her arms—looked like overstuffed sausages, the skin shiny and tight. She could feel the fullness in her face, the heat in her cheeks, the slight wheeze of her own breath. She felt monstrous. She felt magnificent.

The dessert arrived as a final, absurd punctuation: three enormous slices of cheesecake, chocolate cake, and something with caramel and whipped cream. Emma fed her the first bite, a forkful of chocolate so rich it almost hurt, and then another, and another, until Lauren leaned back in her chair, sighing, her belly hard as a boulder.

“That’s it,” she groaned. “I’m officially dying.”

Emma laughed, the sound cutting through the din of the bistro. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “I need you alive for at least one more bite.”

Lauren obliged, and when the last crumb was gone, she found Emma staring at her, pupils wide, lips parted. There was a hunger there, a deep, animal want, and Lauren basked in it. She licked her fingers clean—slowly, deliberately—and caught Emma’s gaze, holding it, letting the moment linger.

“Ready for home?” Emma asked.

“God, yes,” Lauren said. “You’ll have to roll me.”

Emma grinned, and for a moment, Lauren felt like the most desired, most powerful creature in the world. She shifted in her chair, feeling the weight of her body, the undeniable impact of what she’d done, and knew—without question—that she could eat even more next time.

And she knew, from the look in Emma’s eyes, that Emma would love her even more for it.


# Scene 3

Lauren could smell the sweetness before she even entered the bedroom: powdered sugar, molten chocolate, a hint of vanilla so intense it almost stung. It was the smell of celebration, of reward, and it made her mouth water in anticipation. She waddled down the hall—there was no other word for it now, her thighs so thick they refused to pass each other without a struggle—and pushed open the door.

The room was transformed. A thick quilt had been spread over the bed, mounding beneath itself to create a soft nest. On the nightstand sat three heavy glass bottles, each filled with an opaque, tan liquid that sloshed viscously when touched. A plastic funnel and a length of clear tubing—surgical, clean, and faintly medical—were arranged neatly beside them. There were also two enormous mixing bowls: one heaped with pastries and candies, the other with dense, fudge-brown squares. The effect was both clinical and decadent, like a mad scientist’s tea party.

Emma was already waiting, perched at the head of the bed in a pair of loose sweatpants and a tank top cut off just below her breasts. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her hands trembled a little as she uncorked the first bottle. “You made it,” she said, as if Lauren had run a marathon instead of shuffled twenty feet from the bathroom.

Lauren grinned, showing more gum than teeth. “Didn’t want to miss my surprise.”

Emma patted the quilt. “Come on. You know the drill. Recline and surrender.”

Lauren kicked off her slippers and maneuvered herself onto the bed, a process that had become increasingly complex in recent weeks. She had to brace with both arms, heave her belly over the edge, then scoot backwards with tiny, inelegant hops until her shoulders met the headboard. Once settled, she let her legs splay open, thighs pressing into the mattress, feet dangling just above the floor. The flesh of her belly rose high and proud, resting atop her lap, her breasts flanking it on either side, massive and heavy and loose. She felt like an idol, some pagan monument to appetite, and she loved it.

Emma prepped the funnel with the precision of a nurse, attaching the tubing, testing the seal, then screwing on the bottle. She knelt at Lauren’s side, her whole body humming with purpose. “Ready?” she asked, voice low.

Lauren nodded. Her mouth was already open, tongue moistening her lips in anticipation. Emma guided the funnel to Lauren’s mouth, positioned it carefully between her teeth, and tilted the bottle. The liquid came slow at first—a glugging, beige tide—then built to a steady, choking pour. Lauren swallowed greedily, her throat working in visible pulses, eyes fluttering shut in bliss.

The shake was thicker than any she’d tasted before, a blend of condensed milk, melted ice cream, and some protein powder that tasted faintly of cake batter. It was so heavy that each swallow felt like a small victory, a triumph of will over flesh. Lauren drank and drank, the pressure in her gut building with every gulp, her belly expanding outward in real time.

Emma stroked Lauren’s cheek as she drank, a look of rapt adoration on her face. “That’s my girl,” she whispered. “Keep going. You’re almost through the first one.”

Lauren finished the bottle in less than two minutes. When Emma pulled the funnel free, Lauren gasped for air, coughing a little, some of the shake dribbling down her chin and onto the crest of her belly. Emma caught the dribble with her thumb, licked it clean, and then moved on to the next bottle. The process repeated: funnel, pour, swallow, gulp, all while Emma murmured encouragement and stroked the slopes of Lauren’s flesh.

By the end of the third bottle, Lauren was panting, sweat beading on her brow. Her stomach had ballooned outward, the skin stretched so tight it gleamed. The lower part of her belly hung even heavier over her lap, compressing her thighs into deep, pillowy folds. She couldn’t see her feet anymore, but she could feel the fullness radiating through her body—a deep, insistent ache that was almost pleasurable in its intensity.

Emma set the funnel aside, wiped Lauren’s mouth with a damp towel, and then picked up a brownie from the bowl. “Open wide,” she said, and Lauren did, letting Emma push the whole square between her lips. The brownie was dense and sticky, but Lauren managed to chew it, moaning softly as the sweetness hit her tongue. Emma followed with another, and then another, alternating with fistfuls of mini-doughnuts and bonbons. Lauren ate without pause, her jaw aching, her lips ringed with chocolate and sugar.

“God, you’re amazing,” Emma breathed, eyes shining. “You never slow down.”

Lauren tried to answer, but her mouth was full. She just shrugged, and accepted another piece.

Emma’s excitement was palpable now, her hands shaking as she fed Lauren, her breaths coming faster. She ran her hands over Lauren’s arms—thick as hams now, the skin dimpled with soft, new stretchmarks—then down to her belly, tracing the taut curve with awe. “You’re going to get so much bigger,” she whispered, as if confessing a secret to the air. “We’re going to make you the biggest, most beautiful thing in the world.”

Lauren swallowed, then managed a grin. “Is that the plan?”

Emma nodded, enraptured. “That’s always been the plan.”

They continued for what felt like hours, Emma methodically feeding Lauren every last bite, every crumb, every drop of liquid. By the end, Lauren was immobilized by her own fullness, unable to shift or even lean forward, her arms resting atop her belly like a queen’s scepter. Her breathing was shallow and fast, her face flushed with exhaustion and pleasure.

Emma lay down beside her, curling into the warmth and mass of Lauren’s body. She pressed her cheek to the hard, distended surface of Lauren’s belly, listening to the churn and groan of digestion. She trailed her fingers in lazy spirals over the skin, worshipping every inch.

“You did so good,” Emma said, her voice dreamy. “I’m so proud of you.”

Lauren tried to laugh, but it came out as a burp. She closed her eyes, let the sensation of absolute fullness wash over her, and drifted in and out of sleep as Emma’s fingers played over her skin.

In the haze between waking and dreaming, Lauren heard Emma’s voice again, soft and hungry and a little wild:

“I can’t wait to see what you become.”