Chapter 1: The Departure of the Soft
The rain had finally stopped, leaving the downtown streets slick and gleaming under the neon. Jack Bormann walked with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his stomach growling. He’d missed the food truck, and the only sign glowing in the wet alley ahead was a buzzing, rusted thing that read The Pigherd’s Bar and Grill.
He squinted. Below the main text, smaller, grinning letters promised: EAT LIKE A PIG.
“Charming,” he muttered to the empty alley. But the smell wafting out the propped-open door was undeniable—rich, savory, an aroma of seared fat and roasted herbs that bypassed his brain and spoke directly to his gut. He went in.
The heat and noise hit him first. Laughter, the sizzle of a griddle, classic rock playing just a little too loud. The place was a dive, but a busy one. And then he saw the waitstaff.
Jack froze just inside the door, his tired green eyes widening. The women moving between the tables weren’t just tall; they were monumental. Six feet minimum, clad in tiny black shorts and tight, branded tank tops that showed off powerful shoulders and arms curved with defined muscle. They moved with an easy, intimidating grace, balancing laden trays like they were weightless.
“Sit anywhere, sweetie,” a voice said, smooth and deep as cream.
He jerked his head up. She was standing right beside him, having appeared without a sound. Platinum blonde hair swept over one shoulder, ice-blue eyes looking down from what felt like a great height. She had to be in her late thirties, with laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and a smile that was both kind and unnervingly knowing. A name tag on her impressive chest read Greer.
“Uh,” Jack managed, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “Thanks.”
He slid into a worn vinyl booth, the seat sighing under him. The menu was a laminated sheet, sticky at the edges. Everything was named after cuts of pork or barnyard themes. The 'Sowbelly Slammer'. The 'Trough Fries'. The 'Pigherd’s Perfect Patty'.
Greer appeared again, materializing with a glass of water. “First time?”
“Yeah. Is it that obvious?”
“We get to know our regulars,” she said, her voice a low hum that vibrated in his bones. “You look hungry. Really hungry. Long day?”
“Construction. Demo on an old pharmacy. Dusty work.”
“Muscle work,” she corrected, her gaze briefly assessing his lanky frame. “You need feeding. The Perfect Patty. Double order of Trough Fries. And a Hog’s-Head Stout. Trust me.”
He did, inexplicably. “Sold.”
“Good boy.” The words were casual, tossed over her shoulder as she walked away, but they landed in his chest with a peculiar warmth.
The beer came first, dark and sweet. The food followed, a platter that covered the table. The burger was a masterpiece of grease and glory, stacked with cheese, a fried egg, and something called “bacon jam.” The fries were crispy thick-cut planks, buried under pulled pork and melted cheddar.
Jack took a bite. And almost groaned. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. Every flavor was amplified, richer, saltier, more perfectly fatty than any food had a right to be.
“See?” Greer was there, leaning a hip against the table, watching him eat. A satisfied look was on her face. “Told you. A growing boy needs his fuel.”
He nodded, mouth too full to speak. He ate with a focus that felt new, shoveling in the food, washing it down with the malt-sweet stout. The noise of the bar faded. His thoughts, usually a restless swirl of bills and boredom and what-next, quieted into a single, pleasant hum of consumption. The world shrank to the plate, the next bite, the approving nod from the giant blonde woman who periodically refilled his glass without being asked.
When the platter was clean, he sat back, bloated and dazed. A profound, heavy contentment settled over him. His muscles felt soft and liquid.
“Dessert?” Greer asked. “Our mud pie is legendary.”
“I couldn’t,” he sighed, patting his stomach.
“Next time, then,” she said, her smile promising there would be a next time. She left the check.
He paid in cash, leaving a too-large tip. As he stumbled back into the cool night air, the alley seemed less threatening. The buzzing sign was friendly now. EAT LIKE A PIG. He’d done just that. He felt great. He’d be back tomorrow. The decision was simple, effortless.
He didn’t see Greer watching him from the window, her arms crossed, a small, private smirk on her lips.
He came back the next day. And the day after that. Within a week, it was his routine.
He’d shuffle off the site, his body aching in a new, deeper way—not from labor, but from a creeping fatigue. His thoughts would turn, with single-minded urgency, to the Pigherd’s. To the burger. To the fries. To the deep, approving sound of Greer’s voice.
“There’s my hard worker,” she’d say, already pouring his stout as he slid into his usual booth.
He’d stopped looking at the menu. She just knew. The plate would arrive, bigger each time, it seemed. An extra scoop of bacon jam. A third fried egg. A mountain of cheese-drenched fries.
“You’re filling out,” she mentioned one evening, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder as she cleared his plate. Her hand was strong, the pressure firm and lingering. “All that potential, starting to show. Good.”
Jack looked down at himself later, in his apartment’s streaky mirror. His t-shirt was tighter across the belly. The sharp lines of his collarbones were softening under a new layer of padding. He poked the yielding flesh. It felt… good. Solid. Nourished. A sign he was being cared for. He stopped doing his half-hearted evening push-ups. What was the point? His real work was done at the site. His reward was waiting for him at the Pigherd’s.
One night, about three weeks in, he was halfway through his second stout, waiting for his usual order, when he saw them.
The door to the kitchen, the one marked PRIVATE, swung open. Greer stood there, holding it, her expression serene. Three men walked out, led by two other amazonian waitresses in bikini tops and sarongs.
The men were enormous. Not fat in a hard way, but swollen, bloated, their skin taut and glossy. They wore only simple loincloths. Their faces were blank, peaceful, eyes glassy and fixed on nothing. Their mouths moved slowly, as if still tasting some last morsel. They moved with a slow, obedient shuffle, following the waitresses who guided them with light touches on their backs, murmuring low, soothing words.
They moved through the empty back of the bar and towards the rear exit.
Jack’s beer mug hovered an inch from his lips. He stared.
Greer’s eyes slid over and met his. Her smirk returned, brief and undeniable. She gave him a slow, almost imperceptible wink, then turned her attention back to her charges, ushering them out into the alley.
The door swung shut.
Jack set his mug down. His heart was thudding, a sluggish, distant rhythm. What had he just seen? Some weird performance art? A bet?
His thoughts, thick from the beer and the daily feast, tried to grapple with it and slipped. The image—the docile, bloated men, the gentle, commanding women—it was strange. But then the kitchen door swung open again, and the beautiful, familiar smell of his Perfect Patty wafted out, carried by Greer herself.
She set the heaping plate before him. “Here you go, my dear. Extra jam, just how you like it.”
The question died on his tongue. The aroma flooded his senses. The concern evaporated, replaced by a craving so intense it was a physical ache. The earlier image softened at the edges, blurring into irrelevance.
“Thanks, Greer,” he mumbled, already picking up the burger. It was heavier than ever. Juices ran down his wrists.
She stroked his hair once, a quick, possessive gesture. “Eat up. You need your strength.”
He did. He ate until his vision hazed with pleasure, until the world was just this warm, salty, perfect taste. He ate until he couldn’t move.
Later, as he waddled out the front door, too full to even think of the bus, he decided to cut through the back alley to shorten his walk home. The air was cooler there, the only light the sickly yellow glow of a single streetlamp and the flickering neon from the Pigherd’s sign.
He heard the low purr of an engine.
At the far end of the alley, a black van with tinted windows idled. Its back doors were open. Under the grimy light, he saw the same two bikini-clad waitresses helping the three bloated men inside. The men climbed in with compliant, clumsy movements, their expressions still blankly content.
One of the waitresses closed the doors with a solid thump. She turned, and for a second, her gaze locked with Jack’s from across the distance. She didn’t look surprised. She looked… expectant.
Then Greer stepped from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a rag. She didn’t see Jack lurking in the deeper shadows by the dumpster. She watched the van pull away, a smile of deep satisfaction on her face. She wiped a last, invisible spot off the door handle, her eyes glancing down the alley—past Jack, through him—as if surveying future territory.
She turned and went inside, the door clicking shut, leaving Jack alone with the buzzing sign and the puddles that reflected the grinning, too-human letters.
EAT LIKE A PIG.
His stomach, painfully full, gurgled. He thought, with a sudden, crystal-clear longing, of tomorrow’s burger. The image of the van faded, replaced by a mental picture of Greer’s approving nod. He walked home, his steps slow and satisfied, his mind already tasting the bacon jam.
He walked home, his steps slow and satisfied, his mind already tasting the bacon jam.
The usual two-mile trek felt longer. His breath came a little heavier, a soft wheeze harmonizing with the click of his heels on the pavement. A dull, pleasant ache had taken up permanent residence in his lower back. He adjusted his belt, his fingers fumbling over the notch he’d moved out two weeks ago. The leather dug into the soft shelf of his belly.
Halfway home, under the pooling light of a broken streetlamp, he stopped. He needed a second. He leaned against a cold brick wall, the solidity of it a relief. He closed his eyes, swallowing against a sudden, rich burp that tasted of cheese and dark beer. The world was quiet here, just the distant hum of the city and the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He felt enormous. Grounded. Like he was melting into the sidewalk.
Across the street, in the deep shadow of a laundromat doorway, Greer stood perfectly still.
She’d followed him out. It was a new ritual, this nightly surveillance. She watched him struggle now, a fond smile playing on her lips. Her ice-blue eyes tracked the way his shoulders had rounded, how his once-lanky frame was blossoming into something softer, more substantial. The construction jeans he still wore were straining at new points of tension.
Her gaze lingered, appreciative and possessive, on the curve of his backside. The fabric was pulled taut, smooth and full. A significant, ripe development. Her personal project was coming along beautifully. The lazy stroll, the frequent stops, the unconscious hand splayed on his lower back—all the signs were there. The foundations were being laid, quite literally. She wanted him big, and she liked what she saw.
Jack pushed off the wall and continued, oblivious.
He fumbled with his keys at his apartment door, his movements clumsy. Inside, he didn’t bother with the light. He went straight to the fridge, opened it, and stared at the contents. A withered carrot. A half-empty bottle of generic ketchup. A plastic container of leftover rice that had seen better days.
It all looked like gray mulch. Like dust.
He shut the door. The hunger that gnawed at him wasn’t for this. It was a specific, deep craving for complexity—for the umami punch of the bacon jam, the unapologetic fat of the griddle-seared beef, the carbohydrate avalanche of the trough fries. His mouth watered painfully. He thought of the cool, smooth stout. He thought of Greer’s voice saying, “Good boy.”
He crawled into bed, his full stomach making it hard to find a comfortable position. He slept deeply, dreamlessly, but woke exhausted, as if the digestion of that meal had been a Herculean labor.
Work the next day was a haze. He moved slower. His foreman, Dave, a man built like a fire hydrant, squinted at him across the dusty shell of the pharmacy.
“You feeling alright, Bormann? You’re moving like you’re underwater.”
Jack straightened up, a twinge in his back. “Just a little stiff, Dave. Didn’t sleep great.”
“You’re eating alright? You look… puffy.”
“I’m eating fine,” Jack said, a defensive heat rising in his cheeks. “Really good, actually.”
Dave shrugged, turning back to his clipboard. “Suit yourself. Just don’t drop a load of drywall on your foot.”
The day dragged. Every swing of the sledgehammer felt like he was moving through syrup. His thoughts were a single, repeating loop: Quitting time. Burger. Stout. Greer.
When the whistle finally blew, he was the first one to the site’s rusted-out lockers. He didn’t shower. He just pulled his hoodie on over his dusty t-shirt and walked out, his body pulling him toward the Pigherd’s with the inertia of a guided missile.
Greer was waiting. His booth was clear. A Hog’s-Head Stout was already sweating a ring onto the paper coaster.
“Rough one today, sweetheart?” she asked, not waiting for an answer as she set down a basket of fried pickle spears. “On the house. You need your electrolytes.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, sucking the hot, briny batter off his fingers. It was good, but it was just a prelude. The main event was coming.
When the Perfect Patty arrived, it was a revelation. The bun was thicker, buttered and grilled to a profound golden brown. The patty itself seemed wider, spilling over the edges. Three eggs stared up at him, their yolks like amber planets.
“We got a new bacon jam supplier,” Greer confided, leaning close. Her perfume was clean, like linen and fresh-cut wheat. “Local honey. Black pepper. I thought of you as soon as I tasted it.”
He looked up at her, touched. “Really?”
“Of course,” she said, her voice dropping to that bone-resonant hum. “A dedicated customer deserves the best. Now eat. Enjoy what you’ve earned.”
He took the first bite. His eyes fluttered shut. It was better. It was richer, deeper, the sweetness complex and the pepper giving it a gentle, warming heat. A low, involuntary groan vibrated in his chest.
From her post by the coffee station, Greer watched the sound move through him. She watched his jaw work, his throat bulge as he swallowed. She watched his free hand drop to rest on the swell of his stomach, patting it gently as he chewed. And as he shifted in the booth to reach for his stout, she watched, with quiet, surgical precision, the way his body now completely filled the space. The way his growing ass strained the worn denim, creating a perfect, heavy curve against the vinyl seat.
Her project was on schedule.
Her project was on schedule.
The weeks bled together into a rhythm of dust, fatigue, and profound, greasy satisfaction. Jack’s world had contracted to a simple, pleasing loop: the aching drudgery of the site, and the Pigherd’s waiting at the end of it like a promised land. He stopped going to the grocery store entirely. His fridge was a barren, humming tomb. Why bother? Nothing there could compare.
He’d taken to wearing the same few items—stretchy basketball shorts and vast, faded band t-shirts that hid the initial spread. But the changes were becoming undeniable, impossible to cloak in soft cotton.
Tonight, the usual booth felt smaller. His thighs pressed against the underside of the table. When he leaned forward to sip his pre-poured stout, a distinct, firm roundness in his lower belly made contact with the table’s edge. He didn’t pull back. The pressure was a reminder. A proof.
“Two Perfect Patties today,” Greer announced, not asking, as she set down the platter. It was a landscape of food. Two massive burgers, a leaning tower of trough fries sprinkled with pork cracklings, a side of fried mac-and-cheese bites. “Big boy needs a big meal. I heard you hefted the new mixer into place all by yourself.”
He had. It had taken twenty minutes of straining, his vision spotted with red, while Dave watched with a frown. But Greer made it sound heroic.
“Yeah,” Jack puffed, a strange pride warming his chest. “Wasn’t easy.”
“Nothing worth having is,” she purred, her hand resting on the back of the booth, just above his shoulder. “Now. Eat.”
He started. The first bite was always a shock to the system, a glorious jolt that quieted every doubt. The second bite was a deepening commitment. By the fifth, he was in the flow state, a machine of consumption. He used his fingers, abandoning the pretense of cutlery for the fries. Greer didn’t bring napkins anymore. She brought a small, damp, warm towel, which she left folded next to his stout.
She drifted away to serve others, but her attention was a laser on his back. From the shadowed service station, she watched. This was her favorite part.
His breathing grew heavier, a wet, ragged sound underpinning his chewing. Sweat beaded on his temple, glistening in the low light. The first burger vanished, and he paused, taking a long, gulping drink of the stout. He belched, a deep, unresonant sound, and patted the solid dome of his stomach with a greasy hand. It protruded now, a clear, rounded shelf that stretched the black fabric of his t-shirt. The vintage band logo across his chest was distorted, pulled wide.
He began the second burger.
This was where the true artistry showed. Hunger was gone, replaced by a driven, blissful compulsion. Every mouthful was a conscious effort, a swallowing push against a body pleading for mercy. His jaw worked slowly. His cheeks flushed with the effort. His free hand roamed his burgeoning belly, kneading it absently as if to make room.
Greer watched with lust.
It was a cold, possessive heat. Her eyes tracked the journey of his hand over the curve of his gut. She saw the way his navel, once an innie, was now a strained, shallow dip under the pressure. She saw the moment the final button on his basketball shorts gave up.
It happened as he reached for a final handful of crackling-topped fries. He leaned, just slightly, and there was a sharp, plastic ping. The button shot across the booth, skittering off the laminate table and landing on the floor. A thread popped. Then another. The worn strain-seams along the sides of the shorts hissed, splitting open for an inch, then two, revealing the pale, tight-stretched skin of his hip and the elastic band of his underwear beneath.
Jack froze, a fry halfway to his mouth. He looked down, his expression dazed, confused by the mechanical failure of his clothes.
Greer didn’t move to help. She stayed in the shadows, her breath catching. This was the unveiling. This was truth.
He shifted, trying to adjust, and the ripping sound continued, fabric giving way under the relentless expansion. The t-shirt was next. The side seam near his ribs tore with a dry rip, a dark line appearing against the print. The hem rode up, no longer able to contain the swell of his stomach, which now spilled out over the ruined waistband of his shorts, a pale, rounded globe glistening with a light sheen of sweat.
He looked bloated, overfilled, bursting at the seams. He looked perfect.
He set the fry down slowly. He looked across the room, his eyes glassy, seeking her. Not in panic, but in a foggy, dependent need. What was he supposed to do now?
Greer moved then, smooth as a shark. She approached with the warm towel in one hand and a fresh, folded garment in the other. It was dark grey, soft-looking.
“Shhh, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice a balm. She didn’t acknowledge the ruined clothes, the exposed flesh. She simply began to wipe his hands with the towel, cleaning each finger with slow, meticulous strokes. “That just means you’re outgrowing the old you. It’s a good thing.”
He sat still, pliant, letting her minister to him. The shame that might have flared was smothered under her matter-of-fact tone and the heavy, sedative warmth in his gut.
“Here,” she said, sliding the folded fabric onto the table. It was a pair of drawstring trousers, large and soft, made of a forgiving, stretchy material. “A gift. For our best customer. The bathroom’s just there. Go on. Change into something comfortable.”
Jack took the trousers, his fingers clumsy. He stood, and the damage was fully apparent. The shorts hung open, useless. The t-shirt was a torn rag. He clutched the new pants to his chest, a shield.
“Thank you, Greer,” he whispered, his voice thick.
“Of course, my dear,” she said, her smile finally reaching her ice-blue eyes. She gave his swollen flank a firm, approving pat. The touch burned through the torn fabric. “Now hurry back. I have a slice of mud pie warming for you. You’ve earned it.”