Heavy Expectations

Chapter 1

The billboard stretched three stories high across the glass facade of the Meridian Tower, and Nikki had to tilt her head back to take it all in. A woman-easily seven hundred pounds, maybe more-reclined on a velvet chaise in nothing but strategically placed silk scarves, her abundant flesh cascading in soft, deliberate folds. Her face was serene, confident, beautiful in that way that made Nikki's chest tighten with something she couldn't quite name. Envy, maybe. Or grief.

MAGNITUDE: Where Real Bodies Find Real Love.

The dating app's slogan pulsed in neon beneath the model's painted toes, each letter the size of Nikki's entire body.
She stood on the corner of Fifth and Prosperity, a small island in a river of people who flowed around her like water around a stone. They were all so big. The woman to her left had to be five hundred pounds at least, her hips swaying in a dress that shimmered with embedded LEDs, the fabric programmed to ripple like water with each step. The man crossing against the light was taller and broader, his belly preceding him like a declaration, straining against a shirt that probably cost more than Nikki's rent.

No one looked at her. Not really. Their eyes slid past her the way you'd glance past a fire hydrant or a parking meter-something too small and utilitarian to warrant attention.

Nikki pulled her jacket tighter, though the afternoon was warm. The jacket was vintage, from before the Shift, when clothes came in sizes that fit her frame. She'd found it in a retro shop that specialized in "historical fashion," tucked between corsets designed for twenty-inch waists and suits cut for men who'd never seen the inside of a feeding house. The shopkeeper-a kind woman whose arms were as thick as Nikki's torso-had given her a pitying smile when she'd bought it.

"You know," the woman had said, "there are programs. Medical interventions. My cousin was like you, and now she's thriving. Three hundred pounds and counting."

Nikki had smiled and nodded and paid in cash, because what else could she do? Explain that she'd tried? That she'd spent six months forcing herself to eat until she was sick, choking down weight-gain shakes that tasted like chalk and desperation, only to gain twelve pounds that melted off the moment she stopped? That her body seemed to burn calories out of spite, as if it knew it was supposed to be different and refused on principle?

The light changed. She crossed with the crowd, her small steps requiring three for every one of theirs. The sidewalk was wider than it used to be-she'd seen the historical photos in school, back when streets were narrower and people were... smaller. Now the walkways were broad boulevards designed to accommodate bodies that needed space, that deserved space. The benches were reinforced steel, twice as wide as the old ones. The doorways were grand archways. Even the subway turnstiles had been redesigned, their openings generous and welcoming.

Nikki had gotten stuck in one last week. Not stuck, exactly-she'd fit through fine. But the sensor hadn't registered her, programmed as it was to detect a certain mass, a certain presence. She'd had to wave her arms and jump a little before the system acknowledged her existence and let her through. The man behind her-easily six hundred pounds of solid, beautiful mass-had chuckled, not unkindly.

"System's glitchy today," he'd said, as if that were the problem. She passed a café with floor-to-ceiling windows, and inside she could see the afternoon crowd. They sat in chairs that looked like thrones, wide and plush, designed to cradle bodies that spilled over the armrests in soft, comfortable abundance. A couple near the window was sharing something from a platter the size of a hubcap-pastries glistening with honey, cream puffs the size of softballs, chocolate-covered strawberries as big as her fist. The woman was feeding her partner, holding a cream puff to his lips with such tenderness that Nikki had to look away.

That's what I want, she thought, and hated herself for it. Not to be fed. To feed.

It was the secret she carried like a stone in her chest. She didn't want to be bigger-though God knew that would solve half her problems. She wanted to make someone bigger. Wanted to watch a man grow soft and heavy under her care, wanted to feel the power of it, the intimacy of feeding someone until they were helpless with pleasure and fullness. Wanted a partner who would submit to her, who would let her take control, who would grow and grow and grow because she willed it.

But who would submit to her? Who would let themselves be dominated by someone who looked like she could be knocked over by a strong breeze?

The feeding houses didn't even let her through the door.

She'd tried, three months ago. Had dressed in her best clothes-another vintage find, a black dress that hugged her small frame-and walked into Abundance, the most popular feeding house in the city. The bouncer, a mountain of a man whose belly hung past his knees, had looked down at her with something like confusion.

"You lost, honey?"

"I have a membership," she'd said, holding up her phone with the QR code.

He'd scanned it, frowned at his tablet, scanned it again. "This is a feeder membership."

"I know."

The confusion had shifted to something else. Amusement, maybe. Or pity. "Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but-"

"It's not a game."

"-but this isn't the place for it. We've got standards here. Feeders need to be... substantial. It's about presence, you know? Authority. No one's going to take you seriously."

She'd left before the humiliation could choke her. Walked twelve blocks before she could breathe again.
Now she kept walking, past the gym-though "gym" was a misnomer. The sign read Elevation Fitness, but everyone knew what it really was. Through the windows she could see rows of people on specialized equipment, not burning calories but building them. Treadmills that moved slowly, designed for walking while consuming high-calorie smoothies. Weight machines that encouraged muscle growth beneath layers of fat. Feeding stations where trainers helped clients maximize their intake, tracking macros and calories with the precision of scientists.

A woman emerged as Nikki passed, her face flushed with exertion and satisfaction. She was breathing hard, one hand on her belly, and Nikki could see the slight waddle in her walk-the gait of someone who'd just pushed themselves to consume past comfort, who was carrying the pleasant weight of a successful session.

The woman's partner met her at the door, kissing her deeply, one hand sliding possessively over the curve of her hip. They walked away together, and Nikki watched them go, watched the easy intimacy of it, the way they fit together like puzzle pieces.

She pulled out her phone, more for something to do with her hands than anything else. The screen lit up with notifications from MAGNITUDE, the app she'd downloaded in a moment of desperate optimism three weeks ago.
Your profile has been viewed 3 times today!

She clicked through, knowing what she'd find. Three views, zero matches. The same as yesterday. The same as every day. The app's algorithm was sophisticated, designed to connect people based on compatibility, preferences, body type. It was supposed to be inclusive, celebrating all bodies.

But "all bodies" apparently had a minimum threshold, and Nikki fell below it.
She'd tried other apps. Feeder-specific platforms where people advertised their desires openly, where feeders sought feedees and vice versa. She'd made profiles with carefully worded descriptions: Experienced feeder seeking submissive partner for long-term dynamic. Interested in growth, care, and mutual satisfaction.

The responses had been... educational.
lol are you serious?
How are you going to feed anyone when you look like you need feeding yourself?
No offense but I need someone who can actually dominate me. You're like a doll.
Maybe try gaining 200 pounds first and then we'll talk.

She'd deleted those apps after a week. Kept MAGNITUDE only because Maya had insisted, because her best friend believed in optimism the way some people believed in God.

Maya. The thought of her was a complicated knot of love and envy. They were supposed to meet for dinner tonight, at Maya's place. Which meant Nikki would see her friend's husband, would watch them together, would witness the easy affection of a feedism relationship that actually worked. Would see how much bigger Maya had gotten since last month, because Maya was always getting bigger, always growing, always thriving in a world that celebrated her.
People asked Maya, sometimes, why she bothered with Nikki. Nikki had overheard it once, at a party she'd been dragged to. Some woman with a voice like honey and judgment: "I don't understand why you're friends with her. She's so... small. Doesn't it bother you?"

And Maya, beautiful Maya, had said without hesitation: "She has a good heart. She's kind. That's what matters."
Nikki had gone to the bathroom and cried, because kindness was apparently all she had to offer.
A gust of wind caught her as she turned the corner onto her street, and she stumbled, catching herself against a lamppost. A lamppost that came up to her shoulder, because of course it did. Everything in this world was built for people who had weight, who had presence, who had substance.

She was a ghost in her own life.

Her apartment building loomed ahead-a converted warehouse with industrial charm and rent she could barely afford. The lobby door was heavy, designed with the assumption that whoever opened it would have the mass to do so easily. Nikki had to put her shoulder into it, shoving hard enough that she stumbled through when it finally gave way.
The elevator was empty, thank God. She pressed the button for the seventh floor and watched her reflection in the polished steel doors. Small. Thin. Breakable. Everything this world had decided was wrong.

Where Real Bodies Find Real Love, the billboard had said.

Apparently, hers wasn't real enough.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened. Nikki stepped out into the hallway, pulling her keys from her pocket, and tried not to think about the evening ahead. Tried not to imagine Maya's happiness, her growth, her perfect life with a partner who wanted her exactly as she was.

Tried not to feel the crushing weight of her own invisibility. But it followed her anyway, heavy as the world that refused to see her, as she unlocked her door and stepped into the small, quiet space where no one was waiting.

Where no one ever waited.