Chapter 29: Protein Protocol
The precinct dining hall smelled of steamed vegetables, grilling meat, and the underlying, ever-present note of industrial cleaner. Naruto stood in line, feeling the loose, soft waistband of his gray sweatpants riding low beneath the firm, heavy curve of his stomach. The tactical pants Karui had ordered were already too snug; these were a temporary surrender, a confession in cotton fleece.
He didn’t make it to the buffet.
“Detective Uzumaki.” The voice came from above and behind, three voices blending into one cheerful, authoritative choir. He turned, his head tilting back, and then further back. Ayame, Suzume, and Tsubaki stood over him, a wall of newly-developed muscle in uniform blue. Their growth had been accelerated, a testament to Temari’s intense regime and their own fierce dedication. Their shoulders now strained their shirts, their necks thick and powerful, their legs pillars of strength. They were, each of them, taller and broader than any male officer in the precinct save Kiba, and their collective presence was a physical weight on the air.
“Mandatory nutrition training,” Ayame said, her smile bright. She hefted a large shaker bottle, its contents a thick, beige slurry. “Sergeant’s orders.”
“We’re your trainers today,” Suzume added, flexing an arm casually. The biceps swelled, a perfect, hard apple beneath her sleeve.
Before Naruto could process a protest, they moved. They didn’t grab him—they enveloped him. Ayame knelt, her knees hitting the linoleum with a soft thud, but even on her knees, her eyes were level with his. She wrapped her arms around his back, pulling him into the solid, warm wall of her chest. The breath left him in a soft oof. Suzume and Tsubaki flanked him, pressing close. He was surrounded, immersed in the scent of their sweat, their shampoo, the clean cotton of their uniforms stretched over formidable flesh.
Tsubaki produced a long, fat straw and plugged it into the shaker. “Open,” she instructed, her voice a gentle command.
The straw was presented to his lips. He took it. The three recruits pressed closer, their bodies forming a living, breathing cage of muscle and soft uniform fabric. Ayame’s arms tightened in a comforting, inescapable hug. He sipped. The protein shake was profoundly rich, cloyingly sweet, and dense as paste. It coated his tongue and slid down his throat, leaving a heavy trail.
“Good,” Suzume murmured, her hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, her fingers sinking into his hair. “All of it.”
He drank. The shake seemed bottomless. His stomach, already full and soft from a relentless week of careful feeding, began to protest, a dull ache of expansion. He tried to pull away, but Ayame’s embrace was absolute. Her chest was a firm mattress against his face, her arms bands of secure pressure. He was being consumed by their care.
Across the hall, similar scenes unfolded with a quiet, efficient joy. Temari was seated on a bench, Kiba’s immense form cradled in her lap as if he were a beloved, oversized child. One of her tree-trunk arms supported his back, her hand splayed over the vast expanse of his side. With the other, she held a shaker to his lips, her expression one of fierce tenderness. “Slow, my love,” she rumbled, her voice vibrating through Kiba’s body. “There’s no hurry.” He nuzzled against her collarbone, drinking obediently, a portrait of perfect contentment.
Everywhere, female officers guided, held, and fed their partners. It was not chaotic, but orderly. A profound, unspoken ritual. The cacophony of the dining hall had softened into a hum of low, encouraging words, the sound of swallowing, the occasional soft groan of satiation.
Naruto’s shaker finally emptied. He gasped around the straw, his belly a taut, prominent sphere under his sweatshirt. The three recruits released him slowly, reluctantly. Ayame rocked back on her heels, standing in a smooth, powerful motion that made him feel like he was watching a mountain rise.
“Excellent compliance, Detective,” Tsubaki said, her eyes shining with something more than professional approval.
“You should… sit,” Suzume suggested, her gaze drifting to his midsection. “Digest.”
They steered him, not unkindly, to a table. He sank onto a bench, the wood groaning. His hands came to rest on the shelf of his stomach, feeling it rise and fall with labored breath. He watched the room swim, a sea of powerful women and their comfortably substantial partners. He felt a strange, languid peace within the enforced surrender.
The double doors to the kitchen burst open. Karin waddled through, a tray held aloft in her hands. At 7‘5“ and over five hundred pounds, she moved with a slow, majestic inevitability, her pear-shaped body a symphony of immense, jostling curves. Her pale, freckled skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat. Her red hair was piled high. The tray bore a towering club sandwich, a mountain of fries, and a chocolate milkshake the size of a flower vase.
She navigated the room with the unerring certainty of a planet in its orbit, her wide hips brushing chairs aside, her enormous rear and belly leading the way. She didn’t excuse the low, rolling belch that escaped her as she walked, nor the soft, chair-creaking sigh that followed. She arrived at Naruto’s table and placed the tray before him with a solid thunk.
“Lunch,” she announced, her voice a lazy drawl. She squeezed her bulk onto the bench opposite him, the wood protesting violently. Her own stomach, a cascading series of soft, deep rolls, settled on the table like a rising dough, obscuring the lower half of her body from view. Her bosom, immense and heavy, rested on its upper slope. She looked at him, her eyes half-lidded. “You looked hungry.”
“Karin, I just had a whole shaker of…”
“That was a supplement,” she interrupted, waving a pudgy, dismissive hand. “This is food. Eat. You’re shrinking.” She picked up a fry, dipped it in ketchup, and leaned forward, extending it across the table. The movement made her body shift and settle, a tidal adjustment of flesh. “Open.”
Helpless, caught in the tractor beam of her lazy command, he did. The fry was crisp, salty, perfect. He chewed slowly. Karin watched him, feeding him fry after fry, then chunks of the sandwich, then holding the cold, sweating milkshake glass to his lips. Each swallow was a conscious effort, a packing of already-occupied space.
“Good boy,” she mumbled around a bite of sandwich she’d taken for herself. A deep, rumbling fart escaped her, a bass note lost in the dining hall noise. She didn’t flinch. “See? We’re digesting together.”