Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The kitchen stool’s cold metal bit into the backs of my thighs. Greta moved with a terrifying economy, her thick arms wielding a blender as if it were a weapon. The machine’s scream drowned my protests. I watched, shirtless and self-conscious, as she poured in a carton of heavy cream, a scoop of something chalky and protein-rich, and a handful of ripe strawberries that burst against the blades.
“The Foundation Shake,” she yelled over the noise, her eyes not leaving the vortex. “Three times a day. Between meals.”
She killed the blender and poured the thick, pink concoction into a chilled pint glass. Condensation immediately beaded on the surface. She thrust it toward me. “Drink. All of it. Don’t sip. Don’t savor. Drink.”
The shake was dense, cloyingly sweet, with an underlying chemical aftertaste that coated my tongue. I gulped it down, my throat working against the sheer volume. It sat in my stomach like a warm, wet stone.
That was three weeks ago.
Now, the stone was a permanent, living mound. I lay on a padded lounger by the infinity pool, the midday sun baking my exposed skin. My hand, almost of its own volition, rubbed slow circles over the taut curve of my belly. The skin there was stretched smooth and hot, drum-tight over the new fullness beneath. I could feel every heartbeat in it, a deep, internal pulse. The waistband of my swim trunks—a larger pair issued by the resort last week—cut a red line just below my navel, which had deepened from an innie to a pronounced, shadowed crater.
The shift had been insidious. A constant, gentle pressure. A soft, seamless expansion that remade my silhouette day by day. My lean muscles had softened, blurred under a smooth, accumulating layer that rounded my shoulders and softened the V of my torso. I felt heavy. Anchored. The anxiety that had driven me here, the sharp journalistic instinct, felt muffled under a thick blanket of perpetual, pleasant fullness.
“Look at him, already appreciating the form.”
The voice, melodic and teasing, came from above. Zara stood over me, a silhouette against the sun, holding two glasses of something pale and frothy. She set one on the small table beside me and lowered herself onto the edge of my lounger. The cushion groaned and dipped under her weight.
“Comfortable, Jack?” Her eyes, the color of dark honey, traveled over my sun-warmed body, lingering on the hand still massaging my middle.
I stopped moving my hand, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s… tight,” I muttered, the words feeling stupid even as I said them.
“It’s supposed to be,” she chuckled. She reached out and placed her own palm flat against my stomach, just below my sternum. Her touch was cool, electric. “You’re filling out so beautifully. The structure is coming in.”
Before I could reply, another shadow fell across us. Greta, holding a bamboo tray laden with cubes of melon, slices of cheese, and what looked like thick, honey-glazed bacon. “Structure needs material,” she grunted. She nudged Zara’s hip with her own, a familiar gesture, and Zara shifted to make room. Now I was bracketed by them.
“Open,” Greta said, holding a cube of cantaloupe speared on a fork.
“I just had the mid-morning shake,” I protested, but my voice lacked conviction. The scent of the bacon, salty and rich, was making my mouth water.
“And now you’re having a snack. It’s not a debate, piglet.” She pressed the fork forward. I opened my mouth. The melon was cool and sweet, a burst of juice. Almost instantly, she replaced it with a slice of bacon. The fat melted on my tongue.
Zara watched, a small smile playing on her lips. Her hand hadn’t moved from my stomach. She began to mimic my earlier massage, her long fingers pressing in slow, firm circles. “See how receptive the tissue is? He’s retaining the nutrients perfectly. No waste.”
“Good genetics,” Greta agreed, feeding me a cube of cheese. “He’s a natural. Some of them fight it, clench up. Waste energy. This one…” She pinched the soft flesh just above my waistband, making me jump. “This one is accepting his purpose.”
A low laugh bubbled from Zara. “He doesn’t even know what it is yet.”
“He will.” Greta fed me another piece of bacon. “The body knows before the mind catches up.”
Their words should have terrified me. They were talking about me like livestock, like a project. But the sun was warm, their hands were on me, and the food was unbelievably good. A deep, primal part of me purred under the attention. The careful, watchful journalist was receding, buried under layers of cream and protein and this strange, soothing indifference.
Two other Amazons, lifeguards by the look of their red suits, sauntered over. One, a blonde with a severe bob, leaned on the back of my lounger. “Making progress, Zara?”
“Significant,” Zara said, her fingers still working my belly. “Feel how solid he’s becoming.”
The blonde reached down and gave my stomach a firm, appraising pat. “Oh, wow. That’s coming along nicely. No jiggle. Just nice, dense gain.”
The other, younger with freckles across her nose, giggled. “He’s getting a proper shelf. Look at that.” She pointed to the way my belly curved out, creating a slight overhang that shaded the top of my trunks. “Cute.”
I flushed, a hot wave of embarrassment that conflicted violently with the warm glow of pride that followed it. My hand, seemingly with a mind of its own, rejoined Zara’s, my fingers brushing hers as we both rubbed the bloated expanse of my middle.
“He likes it,” the freckled one observed.
“They all do, eventually,” Greta said, popping a piece of cheese into her own mouth. “It’s biological. The feeding, the touch. It triggers a submission response. Lowers cortisol. Increases dopamine.” She said it like she was reading a recipe.
“He’s a good one,” Zara murmured, more to herself than to the others. Her eyes were on my face, watching my reactions. “A very good one. So curious at the start. Now look at him.”
I tried to summon the curiosity, the mission. The missing men from Milwaukee. The words felt distant, unrelated to the man on this lounger with a belly full of bacon and four women discussing his density. My fingers pressed into my own flesh, feeling the unfamiliar, firm curvature. It was mine, and yet not mine. A thing they had built.
“Think he’s ready for the grotto?” the blonde asked.
Zara’s hand stilled. She tilted her head, considering. “Soon. Let’s let him marinate a little longer in the sun. Let the changes really set.” She stood up, taking her glass. Her gaze was possessive, satisfied. “Keep snacking, Jack. Greta will bring you the lunch plateau in an hour. You have a lot of ground to cover before then.”
They drifted away, their laughter mingling with the splashes from the pool. I was alone again, but the impression of their hands remained on my skin. I stared at the turquoise water, at the reflections that sometimes seemed to move against the current.
My own reflection in the pool’s mirror-like surface was no longer the lean, tense man from the city. The outline was softer, broader, undefined in a way that spoke of profound and ongoing change. I let my head fall back against the cushion, one hand still resting on the hard, bloated dome of my stomach, idly tracing the new stretch marks that whispered like silver threads just above the waistband.
The lunch plateau was coming. The thought should have filled me with dread. Instead, a low, eager rumble sounded from the depths of my newly forged middle, a visceral answer that had nothing to do with my mind. My fingers pressed deeper, massaging the hunger, and the hunger, immense and simple, pressed back.