The Tablet

Chapter 1: You Need

The box on the front porch unsettles me with how normal it looks.

This story began four days ago. My girlfriend, Emily, had gone to bed. She wakes up early to go run, which usually puts her asleep around 9:30 PM, give or take a half hour.

She is quite a pull, with flowing, silky brown hair that complements her hazel eyes; in general, she's got the classic 'girl next door' look about her. Beautiful without having to try, no makeup required.

Still, there is a problem with her body. Don't misunderstand me; hers is conventionally far above average. She's lean with a tight waist that accentuates her toned backside, with enough thickness to be smacked and grabbed. Her breasts are big enough to be present but not distracting, jiggling just the right amount when you'd want them to. The problem is me - for as long as I can remember, I've been into fat girls. I've liked every kind over the years, from lightly chubby to morbidly obese.

I can't help but fantasize about how she'd look as a fatty. Her ass ballooning to two fat orbs fighting for space, causing a constant fat-girl waddle. Her tits becoming balls of fat struggling against gravity, merging with side-rolls. Her belly spilling out past her waistband, making me hoist it out of the way when we have sex. I even picture her face, as svelte as it is, becoming submerged in fat as a mark of her gluttony.

But those are just fantasies, and I've made my peace that sometimes that's all some things should be. She's not a girl that would be into that - a lifelong athlete, she couldn't take the body or the social role of being the 'fat one.' She's funny, quick, smart, and a joy to be around. I had no plans to ever even talk to her about gaining weight.

But what if I didn't have to ask her?

It was 1:30 AM. I work remotely and didn't have any meetings in the morning, so I took the opportunity to stay up. Fortunately my desktop was in my office, not in my bedroom, so I could browse unfiltered. I was masturbating; the video was an obese girl on all fours, quaking her ass side-to-side as she sucked down lard from a funnel. She was moaning, wheezing, even maybe snorting a bit, as the lard pushed down her throat.

It was hot, I came. But that's routine; what wasn't was the ad to the right of the video.

At the top of the banner, in soft blue text: Create the makings of your desire. Underneath in a darker blue: Do you want your dream?

The ad itself had no company markings, and stood out against the wash of porn-site advertising. It wasn't flashing or promising a girl from a town over. It almost felt... presented. Offered, like a gift.

Below the header was a perfectly square tablet, angled toward the viewer. Many sections spanned across the top, labelled with icons. It was easy to deduce the meaning of the different tabs: hair, eye, nose, body. Some were harder, like a brain and a clock. The tablet, currently set to the eye, was filled with sliders; iris color, width, height, set, shape. The list ran off the screen, but I could make out another: vision.

Below, the final text, in black: You need.

Taps of rain struck against the window. I felt almost mesmerized by the advert, despite it being perfectly still. Without full consciousness of the act, my cursor had drifted over it.

Something felt wrong. Oppressively, unmistakably wrong, like a weighted fog had poured into the room. Why was I thinking of Emily, asleep down the hall? Then it all came, like a presentation clicked through too fast: how we met, our first date, our first kiss, the first time we made love. Her parents. How proud mine were. Faster. Back to the beginning. What was that noise?

I clicked. All that remained were the sounds of soft rain.

A new page opened, replacing my current tab. It was blank except for a single word, glowing bright red against a pure black background.

CONGRATULATIONS.

Before I could think, the browser closed and I was returned to staring at the girl I had just come to; the ad was gone.

The clock read 2:07 AM. I cleared my browsing history and switched off the computer. It felt like my memories of the last half hour were faded and spent; what had I clicked on?

I climbed into bed. Emily stirred, half-awake.

"It's so late. What have you been doing?" She reached over and draped an arm across me. "And why are you so cold?"

She pulled the covers over me before I could answer. I told her I'd been working on a project, or gaming, one of the two.

She drifted back to sleep. I didn't.

By the next morning, the sequence had all but left my mind.