Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Bet's First Casualty

The first notification buzzed at 11:47 PM, while I was still finishing the second half of a large pepperoni pizza, the grease pooling in the cardboard box like a small, salty lake. I was on my third glass of sweet tea, and my phone was face-up on the crowded coffee table, its screen glowing. A direct message from a username I barely recognized-FeedTheMaw.

You eat like you're trying to win a prize, don't you?

I nearly snorted. I wasn't posting anything. How did they see me? My fork hovered mid-air, pierced through a cheese string that drooped like a lazy smile. I clicked the notification and the message expanded. It felt invasive and, shamefully, thrilling. I ignored it and resumed eating.

Five minutes later, another one. This time from BigDaddyGirth.

I bet you can't put that whole box down tonight. Twenty says you choke before you finish.

My jaw tightened. I typed back, my fingers greasy against the glass screen. You don't know what I can do.

Show me, he replied, instant. Then, a follow-up: I'll add a hundred if you film it. Wear something tight. Show the tummy working.

The phone went dark in my hand. My heart hammered. Outside, the parking lot light cast a dull orange glow against my tilted blinds. I hadn't been to the gym in three months. My boyfriend, Marcus, was working late-again-and my friends had stopped texting after I'd cancelled our brunch plans eight weekends in a row. The pizza box sat open before me. A single slice remained.

I looked down at my body, spilling over the sides of my jeans. My favorite pair, the ones that used to fit loose, now dug into my waist and left long pink furrows in my skin whenever I unbuttoned them. I stood, waddled to the mirrored hallway, and propped the phone against the shoe rack.

The recording lasted forty-seven seconds. I lifted the pizza, folded it lengthwise the way I'd seen online, and took three massive bites. Chewed quickly. Swallowed. A surge of sweet-and-savory flavor rolled over my tongue. My cheeks bulged, and the camera caught every greasy, sloppy movement.

I posted it to the group chat I hadn't known existed. The Feeding Pit. Twelve other users. All men.

The responses rolled in seconds later.

There she is.

Look at the belly spill over that top. Perfect.

She eats like a bred sow.

My stomach dipped. A sick, electric thrill raced down my spine. I flicked the phone away, shoved the last bite into my mouth, and felt the shame clamp around my chest. I masturbated three times that night, each time crying a little less, each time imagining a weight gain challenge. By morning, the group had already started a poll.

Betting pool: When does she lose the job? A: 4 months. B: 6. C: She quits and gets on her knees for a second breakfast.

I read it, heat pooling in my cheeks. Then I laughed. Out loud. A thick, breathy sound.

Monday morning was hot enough to lick the asphalt. My car's AC had died two weeks ago, so I rolled the windows down and drove with my arm hanging out, my massive shadow swaying across the cracked parking lot lines. The uniform shirt-the last one that fit, an XL from the dollar rack-pulled tight at the bust and strained around my middle. Beneath, my skin chafed in the heat.

I worked the drive-thru window at the Mel's Burgers off Route 9. The customers were mostly commuters, truckers, and stoned college kids. My manager, Dana, a wiry woman in her fifties, caught my arm as I clocked in.

"You're late again." Her eyes flicked to my stretched uniform. "And those pants look painted on. This isn't a nightclub."

Heat crawled up my neck. "They're the biggest we have."

"Then buy bigger," Dana snapped, and walked away.

The morning shifted into a blur of iced coffees and ketchup packets. But at 11:14, my phone buzzed in my back pocket. FeederMaw again.

Bet's live. You've got 5,000 followers watching right now. All of them watching that little window. Show them the view. Unbutton your top button.

My hand froze over a drink cup. I glanced at the security camera on the far wall. Its red light blinked steady, recording. But the parking lot was visible through the window-a long strip of heat-shimmering asphalt where a young man in a sedan sat with his phone held up slowly. Filming me.

I looked away. Then, with trembling, swollen fingers, I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. Then the second.

Another buzz.

Tighter. Suck in your gut. Let them see the roll fold over the waistband.

I adjusted my posture, sucked in as much as I could, and a thick band of soft flesh bulged over my jeans. The sensation of the fabric digging in. The pressure pinching my skin. The thought of strangers watching through a grainy livestream as I flexed my fat for their approval. My clit pulsed against the seam of my pants.

I worked the next forty minutes in a daze. At the first lull, I ducked into the walk-in cooler and leaned against the cold metal shelf, letting the icy air press against my overheated skin. The phone buzzed again.

Break time. You know what to do.

The fastest drive-thru was the Triple King across the street, a windowless burger joint jammed between a laundromat and a shuttered video store. I pulled up to the speaker at 12:47 PM, still in my work shirt, top buttons undone, sweat cooling against my stomach.

"Can I take your order?" The speaker crackled.

I leaned toward the box. "Two Triple Kings, large. Large fries. Large onion rings. Two apple pies. Two large shakes. And a chocolate chip cookie," I heard myself say. Already the numbers danced in my head. Nearly 3,500 calories.

Is that all? The speaker laughed. I didn't respond.

A week later, the group had pooled $400. The first challenge was set: 10,000 calories in twenty-four hours. Filmed. Posted every hour. Each post had to include my bare belly. The money would be sent via crypto. The shame, delivered live.

I sat in my car that night in an empty Mel's parking lot, the engine off, the windows fogged with my breath. The food spread across the passenger seat like a glistening altar. Two large pizzas. A dozen glazed doughnuts. A family-size bag of greasy nacho chips. A half-gallon of chocolate milk. The scale at home read 253 pounds that morning.

My phone rested on the dashboard, its camera pointed at my face.

Hour one, I whispered to the screen. Then I lifted the first slice and bit.

Time blurred. The smell of cheese and oil and synthetic chocolate. The sensation of my jaw working. The slow, thick pressure as I swallowed. By hour six, my stomach felt like a taut drum, grinding its contents with violent, hungry sounds. I unbuttoned my jeans and let the waistband pop so hard it snapped the button. The relief made me gasp.

My phone buzzed.

Look at that belly distend.

She's struggling. She won't finish.

Ten says she pukes by hour eight.

Defiance flared through the haze. I grabbed the doughnut bag and shoved two in my mouth at once, the powdered sugar coating my chin and sticking to my sweat-slicked cheek. I chewed. I swallowed. My body protested; I kept eating.

By 9:40 PM, the forty-third minute of hour nine, I was in the McDonald's parking lot, the one with the cracked pavement and four cars in the lot. The livestream was still rolling. I'd lost count of the chat messages. They blurred into a racing stream of oh god, so full, she's actually doing it, disgusting beautiful, more. I was parked under a buzzing halide light, sitting on a curb near the dumpster, my mouth raw and my throat thick. A half-eaten Big Mac sat in my lap.

The clock on my phone read 9:41. Eighteen minutes left.

Another message pinged, this one private, from BigDaddyGirth.

Your boyfriend's home. He just drove past you.

I blinked. The words didn't compute. Then headlights swept across the grass, a parking lot over. A blue sedan pulling into a spot beside me.

The door opened.

Marcus stepped out, his face half-lit by the halogen bulb. He wore his work clothes-the clean white shirt with the name tag still attached. He looked from me, to the food litter in my lap, to the phone, then to the pile of wrappers gathering on the passenger-side floorboard.

"What the hell is this, Rosa?" His voice was flat, low.

I opened my mouth. A small burp escaped. The chat box on my phone lit up with blinking messages, but I couldn't read them. I just saw the counter on my screen tick to 9,842 calories.

And the livestream still playing.

He's here. This is better than the bet