Chapter 7: The Solitary Glutton
The silence in the park house was a physical presence. For the first time in weeks, Mordecai could hear the drip of the leaky kitchen faucet, the groan of the old water heater, the absence of Rigby’s wheezing breath. He stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, running his hands over his sides. He was back to his base weight—tall, lanky, the obscene, glistening bulk gone as if it had been a fever dream. Only the faint, silvery stretch marks across his hips and the loose, empty skin at his belly testified to the reality of what had happened. He felt light, almost dizzy with it. The gnawing hunger was a memory, a ghost.
“Okay,” he said to his reflection, his voice firm. “Okay. Rigby’s doing it. He’s at Eileen’s getting clean. I can do this. We’re done.”
He spent the morning cleaning. He bundled up the mountains of empty “Gains Unlimited” canisters, the crinkling wrappers from a hundred burgers, the pizza boxes stiff with congealed grease. He hauled the bags outside. The kitchen counter emerged, stained but clear. He opened a window. The fresh air smelled alien, alarming. He made a normal lunch—a sandwich—and chewed slowly, the flavors bland, the act mundane. The void inside him was quiet.
By three o’clock, the quiet had become a whisper.
By four, the whisper was a hiss.
It started in his jaw, a tightness, an ache to clamp down on something substantial. It spread to his gut, not a hunger pang but a deep, hollow vacancy that seemed to echo. The memory of satiation—the thick, choking fullness, the warm, chemical bliss—flooded his mind. His hands began to shake. He looked at the clean kitchen, at the empty counter, and it felt like a taunt.
“Fuck it.”
The words were out before he could stop them, a release. The decision was instant, absolute. He grabbed his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. He didn’t order a shake. He ordered ten. Two of every flavor “Gains Unlimited” offered, for delivery. Then he opened the food app. He didn’t browse. He tapped. Double cheeseburgers, eight of them. Large fries, four orders. A whole family-sized bucket of fried chicken. Two extra-large meat-lover’s pizzas. Jalapeño poppers, onion rings, a gallon of chocolate milk. He hit ‘confirm’ and threw the phone onto the couch as if it were burning him.
The delivery arrived in multiple bags, a shocking pile of plastic and grease-spotted paper on the doorstep. He hauled it all inside, his heart hammering with illicit excitement. He didn’t bother with plates. He ripped open the first shake canister—Chocolate Thunder—and dumped three scoops into a mixing bowl. He didn’t add water. He poured in the chocolate milk, stirring it into a thick, pudding-like paste. He lifted the bowl and gulped, the heavy sludge coating his throat, filling the void with immediate, sugary density.
He moaned around the rim of the bowl.
He ate between gulps. He tore into a cheeseburger, stuffing half of it into his mouth, the grease running down his chin. He followed it with a fistful of fries, salt and oil bright on his tongue. He drank another shake, this one vanilla, straight from the blender pitcher. He could feel it happening, faster than before. His metabolism, primed by the previous trauma, welcomed the onslaught with a terrifying eagerness.
A warmth spread from his core. A faint, familiar tightness began around his middle. He unbuttoned his jeans, sighing as his stomach, still flat but soft, pooched out over the waistband. He kept going. He ate two burgers in quick succession, then a drumstick, the crispy skin shattering between his teeth. He drank another shake.
The changes were visible within the hour. His belly, that empty sack of skin, began to plump. It wasn’t a bloat. It was a filling, a firming. It rounded out, pushing against his t-shirt, becoming a definite, protruding curve. A deep, pleasant ache settled into his growing middle. He rubbed it with a greasy hand, feeling the new firmness beneath the skin.
His chest prickled. He looked down. His pecs, once flat, were swelling, softening into two distinct, pudgy mounds. Moobs. The tightness in his t-shirt shifted from his belly to his chest. He stripped the shirt off, tossing it into the corner. He was sweating now, a slick sheen on his skin as his body worked furiously to store the avalanche of calories.
He was panting, but he didn’t stop. He opened a pizza box, the scent of pepperoni and cheese hitting him like a drug. He folded a slice and crammed it into his mouth. He drank another shake. His arms, resting on his thickening thighs, began to feel heavy. He squeezed a bicep. The muscle was still there, but now it was sheathed in a new layer of soft fat that jiggled under his fingers.
The hunger was back, but it was different. It was the chemical itch, the Adiposine-X singing in his bloodstream. It wasn’t in his stomach anymore. It was lower, a throbbing, insistent heat between his legs. His cock was hard, straining against the fly of his unbuttoned jeans. The fatter he got, the hotter the need burned.
He remembered the secret purchase from two days prior, when the delivery had been for a small, discreet box. He waddled to his bedroom—his walk already a wider, heavier gait—and fetched it from the closet. A cheap, silicone dildo, generic flesh tone. He brought it back to the living room nest of wrappers and boxes.
He stood over the couch, the silicone shaft slick in his trembling hand. The cushions were already permanently depressed by his and Rigby’s former weight, a greasy, fabric valley. He shoved aside a pizza box, sending a half-eaten crust tumbling to the floor. He placed the dildo upright on the center cushion, its base settling into the softness. He just stared at it, his new gut a warm, heavy weight hanging before him. His cock leaked onto the inside of his jeans.
He turned, his back to the waiting toy. He guided himself down, a slow, controlled collapse of newfound mass. The first touch of the silicone tip against his hole made him gasp. He paused, breathing ragged, his hands braced on the back of the couch. He could still stop. He could throw it out the window, call Rigby, try again. The chemical itch under his skin screamed no.
He let his knees buckle, letting his full weight sink down.
The intrusion was immediate, a blunt, stretching burn that stole his breath. He forced himself lower, the shaft impaling him, filling him in a way his own fingers never could. A strangled “Fuck!” ripped from his throat as he seated himself fully, the fake balls pressed tight against him. He was stuffed, speared on his own secret. He stayed there, immobilized by the deep, internal pressure, feeling his heartbeat in his ass.
The hunger in his gut and the hunger in his cock were one screaming need now. He reached blindly beside him, his fingers closing around the half-full pitcher of vanilla shake. He brought the rim to his lips, tilting his head back, and chugged. The cold, thick slurry poured down his throat as he sat impaled. He drank until his swelling stomach ached, until he had to stop to breathe, creamy liquid dribbling down his chin onto his heaving moobs.
Then he moved.
He lifted his weight just an inch, the dildo sliding partway out, a thrilling, filthy withdrawal. He sank back down, harder, forcing it back in. A grunt punched out of him. He did it again. And again. The rhythm was clumsy, brutal. Each downward slam jolted his frame, making his fat quiver. The slap of his ass against the cushion, the wet squelch of the toy inside him, the creak of the couch springs—they became a brutal music. “Take it, you fat fuck, take it,” he snarled at himself, fucking himself down onto the rigid plastic.
He rode it in earnest now, no longer just bouncing but grinding, circling his hips, working the dildo deep into his prostate. White-hot sparks shot up his spine. He grabbed a handful of his own distended belly, squeezing the firm, food-packed flesh, imagining it was someone else touching him, someone approving of his size, his filth. “Yeah, oh god, yeah, right there,” he babbled, the pace turning frantic.
His free hand dove into his open jeans, wrenching his cock free. He stroked in time with his frantic riding, his fist a tight, twisting vise. The dual assault was too much. The pleasure wasn’t pleasure; it was a systemic collapse, a neurological riot. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna—” He slammed down one final time, burying the dildo to the hilt, and his orgasm tore through him like a wrecking ball.
He came with a choked, guttural roar, jets of cum streaking his swollen stomach, painting the sparse feathers below his navel. His body clamped around the toy inside, milking nothing, spasming violently. He collapsed forward, his face pressing into the back of the couch, his massive gut squeezing against the cushion. He stayed there, spitted and shaking, for a long time. The only sound was his wet, ragged breath and the distant hum of the park-house fridge, still stocked with dozens of untouched “Gains Unlimited” canisters.