The Fattening Pill

Chapter 1

At first, she weighed 62 kilos — not thin, just what she called “a little chubby,” with present hips, thighs that touched, a generous but contained chest, and that small fold on her stomach she saw in the morning light that made her uncomfortable. Diets had exhausted her, quick promises had disappointed her. Then, one night, between two videos and some shady ads, she stumbled on the announcement: a miracle pill, “that melts fat while you sleep.” The pitch was flashy, the reviews half-fake, but the promise rang like deliverance. She ordered the box, received the package within days, tore open the wrapping with feverish hands and swallowed the first capsule with a large glass of water — she had been warned it had to be taken at bedtime; she took it at bedtime, convinced that by morning the body she dreamed of would be waiting for her.

A week later, the scale read 68 kilos. The first surprise was physical: her jeans pinched at the waist, her belly — not hard, but incredibly soft — had grown in volume, and when she passed her hand over it, the skin yielded like a sponge. Her breasts, already generous, seemed heavier, pulling on the straps, rolling slightly on her chest when she bent down. Her thighs whispered with a new friction when she walked. This was not the figure she had imagined, but she told herself it might just be water, some transient swelling.

Two weeks after the first pill, 74 kilos. The change sped up: her belly now formed a clear bulge above her jeans, which she had to adjust constantly; her bras became too small, and holding her chest at every movement became almost automatic as the weight dragged her forward. Her hips widened as if pushed from within; sitting down, she felt her backside spreading further over the chair, and her thighs, round and fat, now met along nearly their whole length, chafing and sometimes peeling. She sighed — first in surprise, then in mild worry — but continued taking the pill, still hoping for a reversal. By the end of the first month, the scale showed 82 kilos: twenty kilos more than before the pill, and her body was speaking a new language, soft and heavy.

In the second month, the progression took on a near-cruel pace. In ten weeks, she reached 100 kilos. Her belly was no longer just a bulge but a mass that extended, sagging, forming a warm apron of flesh that jiggled when she walked; she became skilled at lifting it with one or two hands to put on her shoes or see her feet. Her breasts had grown so large they overflowed across her torso, her ribs compressed, her back hollowed by their weight. Her buttocks had turned into wide, firm cushions, filling chairs and sometimes forcing her to sit sideways to avoid bursting seams. Her calves and thighs had swelled so massively she had to spread her legs wider just to walk, each step sending waves of flesh colliding and echoing. Her face, too, had changed: cheeks rounded, lips plumper, and the beginnings of a double chin accentuated a visage her friends now called “softer” — but she, in the mirror, no longer recognized her profile.

By the third month, the scale passed 130 kilos. Simple gestures grew complicated: standing up from the couch became an effort that took a full minute, walking more than a few meters left her sweating and breathless. Her belly now formed layers, rolls piling atop one another, creasing when she sat — and those folds were warm, alive with subtle friction. Her breasts, now immense, pressed together in the center, rolling over the top of her stomach with their sheer weight; custom-made bras were required to contain them. Her butt was so wide it snagged on chair backs when she bent down; her thighs smacked together with a dull thud, the constant rubbing leaving her skin irritated, sensitive. Her arms, once slender, now carried folds that swung loosely when she reached out. Her face, round as a ball, had cheeks swelling into her eyelids and lips so thick they seemed slightly swollen — she touched them and felt the fat under her skin, springy, soft.

The fourth month marked a turning point in sheer obviousness: 162 kilos. She had to overhaul her entire wardrobe; clothes tore, zippers burst. Sitting was no longer neutral; it was a controlled collapse, every seam and stitch straining under pressure. Her belly was now monumental — when she leaned forward, it rolled and spread across her thighs in a hot, sometimes damp mass that formed a physical barrier between her and the world. Her breasts, heavier than she’d ever known, swung with her breathing and spawned back pain; a bra was relief as much as a reminder of her burden. Her thighs were two massive pillars, smooth-skinned, their fat folds filling under her fingers like warm dough. Her ankles, once slim, now bore bulges that softened the transition into her feet; finding shoes became a quest. Her face, long the mirror of her anxieties, was now bloated — lips plump, cheeks like cushions, multiple folds beneath her chin. People looked at her differently; some with curiosity, others with a pity she found harder to bear than surprise.

The fifth month, the increase continued, almost mechanical: 192 kilos. Walking long distances was a trial. Stairs left her gasping, each climb a small muscular collapse followed by slow recovery. Her thighs collided so forcefully the heat from friction forced her into wearing shorts to avoid wounds. The weight of her breasts and belly pressed on her internal organs; sleeping on her back was uncomfortable, sleeping on her side required adjustments. Her hips formed lateral bulges that bounced when she turned; her now vastly proportioned butt formed a natural seat that absorbed furniture and claimed space. Her face, rounded to the extreme, gave her an almost youthful air of softness, but she felt every layer of fat as a loss of her former identity.

By the sixth month, the scale finally reached the number that made her falter and accept the truth: 212 kilos — a net gain of 150 kilos since the first pill. Her body was transformed into an ensemble of volumes: a monumental belly falling in heavy, hot layers, breasts so huge they sometimes rested atop her stomach, thighs that parted only by a thin groove even when spread, buttocks with their own gravity, and a face so full her features drowned beneath cheeks and pulpy lips. Every movement triggered a choreography of friction and rolls — flesh striking flesh, squeezing, settling back. The sensations were strange: sometimes painful — pressure, pulling, back aches —, sometimes voluptuous, a persistent warmth, a softness under her touch both foreign and intimate. She felt she inhabited another body, heavy as a house, imposing as a presence.

That was when the letter arrived, official and cold. The company selling the pill acknowledged a “formulation error” and admitted that some batches had the opposite metabolic effect: instead of burning fat, they had triggered massive lipid storage. The letter was careful, measured, but it contained an offer: as an apology, a package would be sent with a “corrective formula” guaranteed without nasty surprises. The parcel arrived a week later; inside, a small vial and a clinical notice promising stabilization, then gradual normalization. She held the capsule between her fingers and thought of all she had lost and gained — not just in flesh, but in stories, in gazes, in reinvented limits.

That night, after stroking her many-folded belly, after feeling the heaviness of her breasts and the constant rub of her thighs, she swallowed the new pill. The initial sensation was strange: a coolness that began in her throat and slowly descended, like a gentle current. In the following days, she felt a slight easing in her chest — as if the tissue were resting — and breathing became a little less oppressive. Her belly remained dense, present; nothing vanished overnight. Days alternated between relief and nostalgia, gratitude and a gnawing worry for the unknown. The company spoke of “progressive rebalancing,” but for her, the question was no longer about returning to a number on a scale: it was about learning to live in this new body, to work with its limits, its pains, its comforts.

She had wanted to disappear into the ideal of a more “acceptable” body, and through a pill taken in hope, found herself confronted with the reality of an amplified one. With every caress, every fatigue, she read a story: one of loss, of gain, and of a strange acceptance from deep within. The apology letter had offered a promise; the corrective pill had given a slight reprieve. But in the end, what remained was the new sensation of her own weight, the intimate knowledge of flesh beneath her fingers, and the fragile, determined decision to find a way to inhabit this volume, to listen to it, and perhaps, to make it home.

She moved heavily toward the kitchen, each step sounding like a mini earthquake. At the doorway, she took a deep breath, grabbed her two enormous melons (each weighing 5 kilos), and tried to squeeze her massive ass through the threshold, which seemed on the verge of giving way with every push. She finally made it, didn’t hesitate to fill a glass of water, and swallowed the pill. A wave of fatigue struck! Before collapsing, she quickened her pace toward the bedroom, her hips knocking a chair and the table, her breasts slapping her sides with each step. Reaching her bed, she almost leapt into it, out of breath.

⸻

The three nights following the first corrective pill were hell.
Barely had she swallowed it that she felt unwell, but nothing prepared her for what was to come. Lying in bed, she writhed, unable to sleep more than an hour. Her body burned. Her forehead was drenched in sweat, her sheets stuck to her wet skin. Pain came in waves: stomach cramps, pulling in her hips, a migraine hammering her skull. Every joint creaked, as if her whole body were being squeezed, compressed, drained.

The second night was worse: she woke screaming, convinced something was crawling under her skin. Everything hurt — her arms, her legs, her back — but especially her stomach, which seemed to hollow out. She got up for water, and when she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, her eyes widened: her face looked slimmer, her cheeks less full, almost sunken.

The third night completed the process. Gasping, hair plastered with sweat, she thought she would die from how her body vibrated. She awoke at dawn, naked, her sheets soaked as if she had come from a pool. Trembling, she dragged herself to the scale. The numbers lit up, and she froze: 162 kilos. She had lost 50 kilos in three nights.

But it wasn’t a uniform loss. Staring in the mirror, she understood the horror and bizarreness of what had happened. Her hips had shrunk, much narrower. Her butt had literally lost half its bulk, from enormous overflowing cushions to a backside still wide, but almost ordinary compared to before. Her belly too had retreated: no longer hanging to her knees, it now stopped mid-thigh. Her cheeks had slimmed, her lips returned to a natural, less swollen look.

But her chest… hadn’t moved an inch. Her breasts remained colossal, cup size Q, each weighing nearly 13 kilos. Set on this suddenly slimmer body, they looked even larger, disproportionate, unreal. She lifted her hands to weigh them — but their mass exceeded her strength. She burst out laughing, nervously:
— “No way… they stayed… these monsters!”

She then realized the pill worked. It melted fat. So why not accelerate the process? A dangerous thought arose: what if I doubled the dose?

Without thinking, she pulled out two capsules, set them in her palm. But when she reached for water, she realized she had none left. The only liquid was a half-glass of milk she had left behind. She hesitated, shrugged:
— “Come on… it’s the same thing…”

She swallowed the two capsules with the milk.

The effect was immediate. A piercing pain shot through her chest and back, as if her ribs would snap. Her temples throbbed, a monstrous headache blinded her. She staggered, dropped her glass, which shattered on the floor. The room spun around her. She tried to grab the table, but her arms gave way. She collapsed in the kitchen, unconscious.

When she came to, the air still smelled of spilled milk. She sat up, head heavy, and caught her reflection in the oven glass. She froze.

She had changed. Her stomach was flat, firm. Not a trace of the bulges that had clung for so long. Her butt, reduced, was small but high, shaped like a fit girl’s. Her thighs, slim and muscular, parted slightly, revealing a gap she had never seen before. Her cheeks were hollow, her face sculpted. And her chest… reduced too, now a firm, upright 90B.

She touched her belly, her hips, then her breasts, incredulous.
— “Oh my god… this is… this is me? This is my body?!”
She burst into tears, laughing and screaming with joy all at once. She twirled, ran to her bedroom mirror, and confirmed: she looked like a fitness influencer, athletic and perfect, without a gram of fat.

All day, she glowed. She went out, admired her reflection in shop windows, felt admiring glances upon her. Her clothes hung loose, but she didn’t care. She had finally reached that impossible dream.

But that evening, returning home, she noticed on the table the rest of the milk she hadn’t finished. Smiling, unwary, she drank it in one gulp.

The reaction was immediate. A violent dizziness. The same pain as before, but this time concentrated in her chest. She screamed, dropped the glass, and felt a brutal surge inside her breasts. The flesh swelled at an insane pace, as if exploding from within. She staggered backward, clutching them, but they grew too fast for her to hold.

Her breasts shot from B to C, then to E, G, K… Every second, they swelled, inflated by an unstoppable force. They bounced, slammed into each other, threw her forward with their inertia. In less than a minute, they passed every known size, hitting and surpassing ZZZ. She screamed, panicked, yet fascinated:
— “This can’t be! They… they weigh a ton!”

And it was true: each breast seemed to weigh half her total body weight. Their mass dragged her forward, forcing her nearly to crawl to rise. Her arms trembled trying to lift them, but they were too heavy, too vast.

Then came the heat. An unbearable warmth rose from her chest to her throat. A soft, almost erotic heat. She gasped, body trembling. And suddenly, two powerful jets burst from her nipples. Milk. Thick, white, abundant, gushing with force. She screamed, but it was no longer fear. It was a cry of pleasure, of release. Each spurt made her shudder from head to toe, her legs giving out, as she laughed and cried all at once.

Milk spurted endlessly, in torrents, splashing the kitchen, flowing over her flat belly, soaking the floor tiles. Her breasts pulsed like two living fountains, swollen, heavy, overflowing. She caressed their taut skin, and each touch triggered waves of indescribable pleasure, almost orgasmic.

She stayed like that for endless minutes, panting, trapped in her own body turned into a fountain of flesh and milk. Her monstrous breasts dominated everything, too big, too heavy, yet also the source of an ecstasy she had never known. She realized, breathless, that the pill had awakened something uncontrollable. And this was only the beginning.

Summoning her last strength, with both arms, she grabbed her left breast and tried to bring the nipple to her mouth, from which drops still dripped one by one. Using leverage, she managed to lie on her back, the breast landing in front of her lips. Without hesitation, she pressed with all her strength as she sucked the nipple. A massive wave of milk gushed forth, and she gulped it down in one go.

She let the breast fall to the side, which slammed onto the floor and splashed the milk already covering it. She closed her eyes and surrendered.

When she woke, it all seemed like a dream — for her body was back to that of a fit girl. But one thing didn’t lie: the liters of milk all over the floor!