The Growing Success of Amber

Chapter 1 - 1. The Transformation (April/May 2015)

April 25th. Amber is drunk again. The last two weeks have been a blur of pitch decks and party-hopping. She's been in PR since uni, the last three years at Barnes&Bagles (B&B), a small agency with a creative edge.

Until recently, Amber Andrews had been a ghost-hard-working, high-quality, always on time, completely invisible. Then came Amboglia: the most important pitch in B&B's history.

Amber worked around the clock. They passed the initial hurdles and qualified for an in-person presentation at the FTSE 100 company's Mayfair HQ. Amber led the charge. A few weeks later, B&B landed the contract-worth half their annual turnover.

Overnight, she wasn't just another consultant; she was *the* consultant. The center of attention. And she fucking loved it.

After the team celebration, the party never really stopped. Drinks with old colleagues, clients, friends of friends... Most nights ending late. Born in sleepy Falmouth, Amber found the new pace intoxicating. It didn't hurt her work; if anything, she was sharper, running on pure adrenaline. She was on a roll.

Tonight is night twelve. It's Friday, so Amber goes all-in. She and her workmate Mel start with red wine at a restaurant, then champagne at a wine bar. By the time they meet Sam and Fiona at the club, they're both tipsy. After a few rounds of shots, they're hammered, grinding at the center of the dance floor.

Sam and Fiona, nursing their drinks, watch in disbelief. When did quiet Amber get... *hot*? The mousy bun was gone, replaced by honey-blonde hair that fell past her shoulders. The sensible blouses? Tonight, one was unbuttoned low enough to be an SEC violation, revealing the swell of C-cup breasts. She'd shed her jacket, and her tight trousers did nothing to hide a perfectly shaped ass. She had a body that business-casual was designed to neutralize.

Amber catches some guy staring. Their eyes lock. A little flirtation across the crowded room. Feeling bold, she moves closer, her dancing becoming even more seductive. A few minutes later, her ass is swaying inches from his groin. He doesn't seem to mind. His hands find her hips, pulling her into him. She can feel how hard he is against her. They laugh, she flirts drunkenly, soaking up the validation.

But it's just a game. After a few dances, she gives him a teasing smile, blows a kiss, and grabs Fiona's hand, pulling her toward the exit.

On the way home, they stumble into a McDonald's. Amber orders a large meal with extra onion rings and a doughnut. Fiona just stares. Amber demolishes it in minutes.

"Jesus, Amber," Fiona laughs. "Are you unhinging your jaw for that?"

Amber giggles, words slurring slightly. "All that dancing made me starving."

"I'd need to be stoned out of my mind to eat that much," Fiona says, wide-eyed.

Amber just smirks. "Is that an offer?"

Back at Amber's flat, a joint is lit and passed. Then another. The weed kicks in fast. Amber pours them both heavy-handed vodkas with a splash of coke. "Bottoms up."

Soon they're both wrecked, giggling on the sofa. The munchies hit Amber like a freight train. Without a word, she orders three large pizzas on her phone. When the doorbell rings twenty minutes later, Fiona bursts out laughing.

"You actually did it!"

"Damn right," Amber says, mouth already full.

The boxes are empty in no time. They're both stuffed, but Amber has easily eaten the most.

Fiona eventually passes out on the sofa. Amber throws a blanket over her and stumbles to her bedroom. The vodka and weed are having a knife fight in her skull, but underneath it all, she's achingly turned on. Her hand slides down, finding the damp heat between her legs. She brings herself to orgasm, again and again, before sleep finally takes over.

* * *

Amber wakes around ten. As usual, she's hangover-proof-just ravenous. It's how her body processes a heavy night. She orders breakfast delivery before hitting the shower, then cracks a window to air out the lingering smell of weed and pizza before waking Fiona.

Just as Fiona starts stirring, the doorbell rings. The delivery guy hands over three heavy bags, and Amber tips him generously.

When Fiona shuffles into the kitchen, she stops. The table looks like a continental breakfast buffet had a violent collision with a full English. Bacon, eggs, sausages, toast, ham, cheese, pastries-most of them chocolate.

"Holy shit, Amber," she says, her voice raspy. "Did you order for a rugby team?"

Amber just grins, already piling food onto a plate. "My body runs on a simple algorithm: party hard, eat harder. It's my cure."

Fiona sighs, pressing her fingers to her temples. "My cure is usually two advil and a gallon of self-loathing. Maybe I've been doing it wrong."

They eat. Fiona starts cautiously, but the food and coffee slowly bring her back to life. Amber eats with an uninhibited appetite, feeling the pleasant stretch in her stomach with every bite. An hour later, they're both stuffed. Fiona pushes herself up from the table, groaning softly. The aftermath of a sixteen-hour bender is written all over her face.

Once Fiona's gone, Amber collapses onto the sofa with her laptop and a couple of leftover pastries. The satisfaction is almost primal, a deep physical contentment that quickly curdles into that now-familiar restlessness. The heat rises in her again. Not as urgent as last night, but a low, persistent hum. It's a strange new feature of her biology, wired in somewhere between the Amboglia win and the endless nights out.

Her hand slips under the blanket. As she lies there, half-watching some show on netflix, her thoughts drift. Not to the handsome stranger at the club, but to Fiona. To watching her resistance crumble last night-the hesitation giving way to laughter, the cautious sips turning into gulps, the way she'd devoured her food once the weed hit.

Amber has always clocked Fiona's body. The blue-eyed brunette is shorter, maybe 5'4", but probably weighs the same, packing her curves into a denser, softer frame. Where Amber's ass is firm and athletic, Fiona's is fuller, her hips swaying with a weight that office chairs were never meant to handle. And her breasts-definitely a D-cup, maybe a DD, straining against a black top that was trying its best.

Last night, Fiona carried it all with the quiet unease of someone who has a high-performance vehicle but is terrified to take it out of first gear.

Amber feels a flicker of something-not just envy, but a kind of creative frustration. It's a waste. A goddamn shame. She pictures peeling back the layers of self-consciousness, one drink and one bad decision at a time. *A few more nights like last one,* she thinks, a slow smile spreading across her face. *And we'll see what's really under there.* The thought is the last thing on her mind as she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Amber wakes a few hours later, buzzing. Mel has texted: *Round two?* Amber doesn't hesitate. She's already planning her outfit.

The white jeans are a struggle, a second skin that promises everything and hides nothing. She pairs them with a top cut low enough to be a declaration of intent, using a little makeup to highlight the cleavage. Tonight, she's not just going out; she's going hunting.

She meets Mel at a small bar at eight. Mel is a vision in green, a different species of predator. Standing at 5'9", her fiery red hair is a warning sign. Her body is a testament to pilates and a carefully managed calorie deficit, all lean muscle and sharp angles. The dress clings to her B-cup breasts, the fabric thin enough to outline her nipples. Her most arresting feature, however, is her ass-improbably wide and curved for such a slender frame, a feature the dress is engineered to showcase.

They order drinks and trade war stories from the night before. Mel confesses to a tactical relapse with an ex. "I was drunk, lonely, and horny," she says with a shrug. "He's useless for anything but sex, so it's a victimless crime."

Amber raises an eyebrow. "You sure he sees it that way?"

"Honestly? I don't care."

The conversation flows, each drink loosening their tongues. After her third, Amber's stomach rumbles. "I'm getting peckish," she announces.

Mel grins. "Fancy, or our usual dive?"

The choice is easy. The pizzeria has an all-you-can-eat buffet. It's cheap, which leaves more money for important things.

Both girls hit the buffet hard, but Mel taps out after her second plate. Amber, however, is just getting started.

"That pepperoni is hitting the spot. I think I'll have another slice," she says, already getting up.

Mel waves a hand dismissively. "God no, I'm stuffed. I'll get more wine."

Tipsy and full, the walk to the buffet is an effort. Amber grabs two more slices of pepperoni, then spots a fresh gorgonzola pizza. *Fuck it.* She adds two slices of that as well.

Mel's eyes widen when Amber returns with a plate piled high. "My god, woman. Where do you put it all?"

"The gorgonzola was a surprise," Amber lies, a little taken aback herself. This ravenous hunger is new, another symptom of her transformation. She has to admit, she enjoys it-the sheer indulgence, the freedom. The thought alone makes her wet.

They gossip about work, about the men. Mel mentions that Richard Stern, a senior partner, has been giving her attention.

"Richard as in *tall, dark, and daddy-issues* Richard?" Amber asks, leaning in.

Mel just giggles.

Amber doesn't even notice as she polishes off all four slices. Ten slices in total, plus the wine and pre-drinks. She's stuffed like a christmas turkey, the waistband of her jeans digging into the swell of her stomach. The alcohol and food make her feel heavy, but it's a pleasant, grounding sensation. She craves a joint to ease the pressure and amplify the buzz. Mel is easily convinced.

They smoke a fat joint each on the way to the club. The weed hits just as they walk in, and they head straight for the bar for shots. On the dancefloor, Mel is quickly claimed by a guy who seems mesmerized by her ass. Amber doesn't care. She's already spotted him. John. The guy from last night.

Tonight, there's no escape. She makes a direct line for him. The conversation is pointless shouting over the bass. She learns his name is John. He's rich. Good enough. They dance. She grinds against him, presses her breasts against his back at the bar, lets her hand wander. She stumbles, he catches her, and in that moment of clumsy intimacy, she kisses him. He responds instantly, his tongue meeting hers. She feels his hard cock press against her bloated belly and moans into his mouth.

Suddenly, she pulls away, turns, and starts to twerk, the white jeans straining. John's hands find her hips, pulling her tight against him. She's hornier than she's ever been. She needs to be fucked. Now.

Grabbing his hand, she leads him out of the club and into the small, dark park around the corner. The cold air is a shock. She throws her arms around his neck, kissing him hungrily before dropping to her knees. She unzips him, fumbles past his briefs, and wraps her mouth around his cock. The thrill of it-drunk, stoned, in public with a stranger-is intoxicating.

"Fuck me," she whispers, pulling him into another deep kiss.

He struggles with the button on her jeans. They're so tight she has to suck in her stomach for him to pop it open. He slides them down, his hands tracing her soft belly, her hips, her ass. She turns and bends over, presenting herself. He pulls down her panties, grabs her cheeks, and fills her from behind.

He fucks her with a steady, punishing rhythm. His hand finds her clit, rubbing in small circles. He teases her, bringing her to the edge before stopping, his other hand gripping her hip, thumb pressing into the soft swell of her stomach. Finally, he lets her go, and she explodes, a raw scream swallowed by the park's darkness as he empties his load deep inside her.

They collapse on a nearby bench. She struggles back into her jeans, the damp fabric clinging to her skin.

"That was fucking amazing," she says, pulling out two joints. "I need a smoke after sex. After sex like *that*, I need something stronger." He takes one without hesitation.

The weed hits, and she gets talkative, asking about his life. He's a lawyer from a family of old money-ceo mum, cfo dad, houses in new york, provence, verbier. As he gets high too, the conversation turns.

"So, Mr. Hampstead," she says, her tone flirty. "Why did a posh boy like you fuck a girl like me in a park?"

High and caught off guard, he's honest. "Because you were there, and you have a fantastic ass."

They both laugh. He admits he's not looking for a relationship, just casual fun. The idea thrills her.

"So what else did you find attractive?" she asks, giving him a sultry look.

"I'd be lying if I didn't mention your tits," he admits.

She cups her breasts, pushing them up. "And these?" she purrs. "It's okay. Think of it as casual touching."

The moment his hands are on her, a jolt of pure electricity shoots through her. "There's more you can touch further down..." she moans. His fingers find her clit, and it only takes a few minutes before she's screaming again, shaking in one of the strongest orgasms of her life.

As they come down, the munchies hit. For the second night in a row, she ends up at McDonald's. She doesn't just eat; she annihilates two Big Macs, two large fries, and a cheeseburger. John just watches, bemused.

They exchange numbers before getting separate Ubers.

"For tactical emergencies," she grins.

"My line is always open," he replies, the perfect salesman.

***

After every weekend comes Monday. It's April 28th, two weeks since the Amboglia contract landed, and Amber's been riding a wave of adrenaline and hedonism ever since. Now, it's time to deliver.

The new workload requires new blood. The first to arrive is Jordan, an analyst. He's tall, maybe 6'3", with dark hair and an easy smile. At forty-four, he's twelve years her senior, but he has the restless energy of a younger man. He's a numbers prodigy, divorced with two teenage kids, and carries himself with a quiet confidence that Amber finds immediately compelling.

The first phase of the project is a deep dive into research. They spend long hours in a conference room, debating methodology and drowning in data. They fall into an easy rhythm, ordering takeout and eating at their desks. The long hours breed a comfortable intimacy, punctuated by flirtatious banter.

"So, the divorce?" Amber asks one day over a shared container of pad thai.

Jordan pauses, chopsticks hovering. "We drifted. The woman I married wasn't the woman I was married to twenty years later. Or maybe I wasn't the same man. The attraction just... evaporated. Sounds harsh, but it's the truth."

"Midlife crisis?" she probes.

"Nah, nothing so dramatic," he shrugs. "Just a slow erosion. We wanted different things. She found god; I found I'd rather go to the pub."

The weeks blur into a routine: work, eat, work more. The workload kills any chance of weeknight partying. Her life shrinks to the office and her flat. On weekends, however, she cuts loose. She and Fiona hit the clubs, get drunk, get high, and eat everything in sight. Fiona crashes at her place, and they spend the mornings mainlining netflix and demolishing snacks, sometimes cracking beers before noon. Amber revels in the total surrender, ending each night the same way: a frantic, indulgent release before passing out.

By the third week, the routine is set. Amber and Jordan share at least two meals a day. It's usually a buffet place nearby-no waiting, no fuss. At first, she doesn't notice, but soon seconds become the rule. Then thirds. Jordan, a quiet enabler, sometimes fetches her a fresh plate without being asked. He's taken over ordering their late-night dinners, always surprising her with something interesting, something extra. He's a foodie, and he seems to enjoy feeding her.

One Wednesday, she finally leaves the office at nine-thirty. The thought of drinking alone is bleak.

"That's it for me," Jordan says, stretching.

"Or," she grins, "you could join me for a drink. Don't say no. You're my last hope."

He laughs. "The agency's rising star, asking out a divorced dad? You must be desperate."

"If you'd rather stay here and talk to the spreadsheets, be my guest," she shoots back.

They end up at a nearby bar. He returns with two frozen strawberry daiquiris. "So," he says, a playful look in his eye. "What's your relationship with alcohol?"

"I like getting hammered," she says, matter-of-fact. The honesty surprises him. "That warm, spinning feeling. Losing your inhibitions. It's like pressing pause on reality." He doesn't judge, just listens, his calm demeanor making it easy to talk.

The next Thursday, they leave work "early," hitting the bar by eight. His kids are coming for the weekend, so he's in the mood for more than one drink. Four drinks each later, they're both tipsy. She's also completely stuffed from a large dinner and the mountain of snacks Jordan had brought to the office. The combination of being full and drunk ignites that familiar, low-burning arousal. If he'd made a move, she would have taken him right there. But he doesn't. He says goodnight, and they walk their separate ways.

Back in her flat, the first thing she does is unbutton her trousers. The waistband is digging into her painfully. They feel less like clothing and more like a hostage situation. She peels them off with a sigh of relief. Has she gained weight? Six weeks of indulgence had to leave a mark, but this much?

She stands in front of the full-length mirror. Her belly, once flat, is now soft and rounded. Her breasts seem fuller, straining against her bra. Her face is maybe a little softer around the jawline. She steps on the scale, watching the numbers spin before settling.

151 pounds.

A sixteen-pound gain. In six weeks.

The number is shocking. Mortifying. And yet... as she looks at her reflection, at the new softness, the undeniable swell of her stomach and hips, a different feeling surfaces beneath the horror. A strange, perverse flicker of arousal. She runs a hand over her belly, feeling its new weight. It's not a math problem of pluses and minuses. It's a physical fact. A testament to her appetite. She turns off the light, gets into bed, and surrenders to it.