Chapter 3: Chemical Lust
Rigby lay on the stained carpet of his bedroom, fetal-tight, as the chemical storm inside him raged. The single stolen can of MuscleMax™ wasn’t a homecoming; it was a sabotage. His gut wasn’t bloated with promise, it was a war zone. Sharp, twisting cramps seized him in waves, each one deeper and more violent than the last. A cold, clammy sweat soaked through his fur, pasting it to his skin.
Between the spasms, however, a different kind of heat bloomed.
It started as a low thrum in his groin, a persistent, unwanted buzz beneath the pain. His cock, soft and ignored for weeks, began to stiffen against his thigh. It was a traitorous response, a sick joke played by the very toxins shredding his insides. The sugary, chemical rush in his veins wasn’t just making him sick—it was hijacking his nervous system, rerouting agony into a cheap, dirty arousal. He let out a groan that was equal parts pain and pleasure, grinding his hardening length against the rough weave of the carpet. The friction was a bright, shocking contrast to the deep, internal wrongness.
He rolled onto his back, his loose stomach spilling to either side, trembling. His paw fumbled with the drawstring of his sweats. He needed to see it, to confirm this betrayal. He yanked the pants down to his thighs.
His erection stood thick and full, a stark, ruddy contrast against the pale fur of his belly. It looked alien there, jutting up from a body that felt broken. He wrapped a shaking paw around himself. The touch was electric, a jolt that made his breath catch. It felt too good, obscenely good, a pure sensory feedback that momentarily drowned out the cramping. He began to stroke, a rough, frantic rhythm. His hips bucked weakly off the floor.
“Fuck,” he hissed into the empty room. The TV was off. The only light came from the muted glow of a streetlamp outside his filthy window. He was alone with the corrupt, buzzing energy coursing through him. He imagined Chad’s voice, not from the card, but from the customer service line, low and approving in his ear. That’s it, brother. That’s the synthetic androgen boost. Feel that purity. Channel the purge.
He stroked faster, his paw slick with pre-come. The pain in his gut began to morph, diffusing into a general, overwhelming fullness that fed the frenzied need in his dick. He wasn’t masturbating to pleasure; he was trying to expel the poison, to climax the sickness out of his body. His other paw kneaded the tender, gurgling mass of his stomach, pressing in until a sour burp escaped his lips. The mix of sensations was horrifying and intoxicating.
He thought of the figure from his dream-memory, the one who’d called him heavy. But in his chemical haze, the memory twisted. Now, they weren’t leaving. They were underneath him, holding his soft sides, urging him on. You’re so full. So fucking dense. Use me. The fantasy was degrading and powerful. He pictured himself on top, his new weight pinning them down, his stomach pressing against them, his cock driving into them with a force he didn’t actually possess.
“Take it,” he grunted to the empty air, his strokes becoming punishing, a brutal up-and-down that bordered on pain. “Take all of it.”
The climax, when it came, wasn’t a release. It was a seizure. His body arched, every muscle seizing at once—the abdominal cramps, the erotic tension, all snapping in the same catastrophic instant. He cried out, a ragged, broken sound, as his cock pulsed in his fist, stripes of come arcing through the dim light to land hot and sticky across his own heaving stomach and fur. It was a violent, mechanical ejection.
He lay there for a long time, spent, the come cooling on his belly into a tacky film. The cramping had subsided. A hollow, chemical euphoria was all that remained, buzzing in his veins like cheap static. His body felt like a vessel someone else had used.
Sunlight, harsh and unforgiving, sliced through the gaps in his blinds the next morning. His head throbbed. His mouth tasted of metal and spoiled vanilla. He expected the nausea to rise, that familiar acidic tide, as he pushed himself up. He waited for it. It didn’t come.
He just felt full. Dense. Apathetic.
A heavy fist pounded on his bedroom door. “Rigby! We’re gonna be late!” Mordecai’s voice was muffled through the wood.
Work. The park. The thought of heaving his new body across the grounds, of faking enthusiasm for some idiot’s basketball game, made a cold sweat break out. He looked at the empty can on the floor. He looked at the box containing the other five.
“I’m sick,” he called back, putting a convincing rasp into his voice. He coughed, dry and hacking. “It’s bad, dude. Must be… something I ate.”
A pause. “The shake?” Mordecai asked, the suspicion clear.
“No, man, a burger. A bad burger. My gut is… it’s a warzone in here.” He groaned, slumping back against the bedframe for effect. He was a raccoon of many talents. Lying was one he’d never lost.
Another pause, longer. He could picture Mordecai’s face, the blue jay’s brow furrowed in conflict. “You need me to stay? Call a doctor?”
“Nah,” Rigby said, too quickly. He softened his tone. “Just… sleep. I think I just need sleep. You go. Hold down the fort.”
Silence stretched. Then, a resigned sigh. “Fine. I’ll tell Benson you’ve got the rot. Don’t… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He listened to the sounds of Mordecai getting ready, the distant click of the front door, the eventual rumble of the golf cart fading away. The quiet of the apartment settled around him, thick and complete. It was a permission slip.
He got up. His legs were steady. His stomach, while grotesquely full, didn’t revolt. He walked to the box and pulled out another can. The hiss was a welcome. He drank it slowly this time, savoring the chalky sweetness, the way it coated the lingering aftertaste of his own sick.
The predicted purge never came. No sprint to the bathroom. No retching over the toilet. His body just… accepted it. The density window, he thought, a real smile touching his lips for the first time in days. Chad was right. My system is optimized.
He pulled on a stained hoodie and ordered takeout. A large meat-lovers pizza. Extra cheese. A side of garlic breadsticks. Two liters of soda. He paid with a card he knew was close to its limit.
While he waited, he opened a third shake. He drank it like a celebratory toast. By the time the food arrived, he was buzzing, a pleasant, hazy fullness radiating from his core. He tipped the delivery guy with the last of his cash and took the steaming boxes straight back to his room.
He ate on the floor, the pizza greasy and perfect, the breadsticks buttery conduits for more salt and fat. He chased each bite with swigs of sugary soda, the carbonation mixing with the shake residue in a symphony of artificial flavor. He didn’t stop when he was full. He ate past it, into a territory of profound, immovable satiety.
His dick hardened again as he ate, a background hum of arousal unrelated to any thought. It was purely chemical, a side effect listed in tiny print on the can. He unzipped his fly without stopping his chewing, pulling himself out. He was half-hard, thickening rapidly in his greasy fingers.
He fucked his fist slowly, mesmerized by the contrast of the pleasure in his groin and the expanding pressure in his gut. He pictured the nutrition, the calories, the sheer mass flooding into his cells, making him solid, making him substantial. He came with a low grunt, his stripes painting the cardboard pizza box, his other hand still holding a crust.
He passed out there on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage, one paw resting on his swollen stomach, the other sticky and limp at his side. His sleep was deep and dreamless, a sugar-and-chemical coma.
The phone woke him. It was Mordecai. The screen glowed in the darkened room.
“Hey,” Rigby answered, his voice thick.
“You alive? You sound worse.”
“Just woke up.”
“Just woke up.” Rigby’s tongue felt thick, coated in the ghost of pepperoni and artificial vanilla. He blinked against the light stabbing through the blinds.
“You sound like shit,” Mordecai’s voice crackled, tinny and distant. “Did you puke yet?”
“Nah. I’m toughing it out.” Rigby’s gaze drifted to the empty pizza box, the congealed stripes of his own come dried on the cardboard. A fly buzzed lazily above it. “What’s up? Benson pissed?”
A long, static-filled sigh came through the phone. “Worse. Remember that corporate team-building retreat they sent us on last year? The one with the trust falls in the bug-infested woods?”
“The one where you got poison oak on your… yeah.”
“They’re doing another one. For ‘key personnel.’ Benson just sprung it. We’re already on the bus, Rigby. We’re, like, two hours out.”
Rigby sat up, a cold knot forming beneath the warm, sickly fullness in his gut. “What? When are you back?”
“That’s the thing, man.” Mordecai’s voice dropped, frustrated. “They’re being weird about it. ‘Open-ended schedule to foster deeper synergy.’ No cell service either. Some ‘digital detox’ crap. I’m calling from a payphone at a gas station while Hurley buys beef jerky. I don’t know when we’ll be back.”
The silence that followed was a physical weight. The buzzing fly landed on the crust of a forgotten breadstick. Rigby stared at it, the information slotting into the empty spaces inside him. No Mordecai. No one to witness the empty cans piling up. No one to ask about the walks.
“Hello? You still there?”
“Yeah.” Rigby’s voice was flat. “Just… sucks. Hope the trust falls don’t kill you.”
“Listen, Rigby. Seriously. Don’t do anything stupid. Eat the carrots. Just… walk to the kitchen and eat the damn carrots, okay?”
“Yeah. Carrots. Sure.”
The call ended. Rigby sat in the monumental quiet of his apartment. The hum of the refrigerator became a siren song. He pushed himself up, his body feeling leaden, and walked to the kitchen. He opened the crisper drawer. The bag of baby carrots was there, shriveled and limp next to a rotting head of lettuce.
He stared at them. Then he closed the drawer and opened the fridge door wider. The leftover shake from last night sat on the top shelf, condensation beading on the cold metal. He grabbed it. The hiss of the tab was louder than any word Mordecai had said.
That first day alone was a sacrament of neglect. He ordered two large breakfast combos from the diner down the street, eggs swimming in grease, pancakes soaked in syrup. He drank a shake with each meal, not as a chaser, but as a base layer. His stomach, which had shrunk slightly during his brief attempt at discipline, protested for the first few hours. It cramped, a tight fist of protest below his ribs.
He ignored it. He lay on the couch, one hand idly working under the waistband of his sweats. His cock was semi-hard, a constant, low-grade erection fueled by the chemical soup in his veins. He watched infomercials for ab gadgets, the muscular spokes-people’s promises washing over him. He didn’t fantasize about being them. He fantasized about being fed by them, about those perfect, sculpted figures carefully spooning more of the thick, creamy shake into his mouth.
By evening, his stomach had capitulated. The cramps were gone, replaced by a deep, yielding expansiveness. He could feel the new fat settling, a soft warmth layering over the old. He took a shaky, ecstatic breath, his hand moving faster on his dick. This was better than any walk. This was progress. He came with a shudder, biting his lip to stay quiet in the empty apartment, his seed splattering across the fresh, taut curve of his belly.
Day two blurred into day three. He stopped getting dressed. He wore only a pair of stretched, stained boxers that cut into the crease where his stomach met his thighs. The pizza boxes formed a architectural model on his floor. The shake cans, now emptied at a rate of four a day, made a leaning tower by his recliner.
The arousal was incessant. It wasn’t about pleasure; it was a biological hiccup, a side effect listed in tiny print. He’d be halfway through a milkshake he’d had delivered, the cold cream hitting his system, and his dick would stiffen, pushing insistently against the strained fabric of his boxers. He’d give in without thought, a greasy hand shoving down his waistband, jerking himself off with quick, brutal tugs until he came, his orgasm just another bodily secretion, like sweat.
He avoided mirrors, but he could see the change in the distorted reflection of the blank TV screen. The soft, empty folds of skin from his initial weight loss were filling in, becoming solid, smooth rolls. His face was rounder, his cheeks puffing out, burying his familiar mischievousness under a layer of plump, doughy fur. His breaths became shallower, more labored, just moving from the couch to the door for more deliveries.
On day five, he tried to put on the jeans he’d worn to the clinic. He couldn’t pull them past his knees. The denim dug into his swollen calves, the button a distant, laughable planet. He let them fall to the floor and stood there, naked from the waist down, his enormous gut hanging low, his cock a small, soft thing nestled in the thick fur at its base. He looked down at himself, at the sheer acreage of his own body. A strange, thick pride swelled in his chest, mingling with a shame so deep it felt like vertigo.
He didn’t try the jeans again. He lived in his boxers, the elastic now permanently rolled under the shelf of his stomach. He stopped answering his phone entirely, letting calls from unknown numbers—probably Benson, probably Mordecai from another payphone—go to voicemail. The world outside his windows ceased to exist.
A week after Mordecai’s call, Rigby stood in the bathroom, propelled by a rare, urgent need to piss. He finished, the stream forceful from the sheer volume of liquid he consumed, and caught sight of himself in the medicine cabinet mirror.
He froze.
The raccoon staring back was a stranger. His face was a full moon, his eyes reduced to bright, bewildered dots in the puffy fur. His neck had vanished into a solid column that flowed into his shoulders and a truly massive chest. His belly was a colossal, sagging dome, covered in a downy layer of fur, its lower curve shadowed and deep. His arms were thick, soft columns, and his thighs were pillars of pale flesh, rubbing together with every slight shift in his stance.
He had not just regained the fat he’d lost. He had surpassed it. The weight he had been at the clinic, the weight that had snapped the blood pressure cuff, now seemed like a memory of being slim. This was something new. This was a monument built from a week of total surrender.
He lifted a heavy paw and touched the cool glass, tracing the outline of his reflection. A familiar, unwelcome heat stirred in his groin. He looked down. His cock, thick and flush against the underside of his gut, was hardening, rising like a perverse flag over the ruins.
He didn’t fight it. He turned from the mirror, his breathing heavy, and lumbered back toward the living room, toward the waiting recliner and the last two cans of MuscleMax™. His hand drifted down, his thick fingers wrapping around his stiffening flesh as he walked. The motion was practiced, automatic, a part of the ritual now. The fat was back. All of it. And he was going to celebrate.
And he was going to celebrate. The last two cans of MuscleMax sat on the floor like a promise. He lumbered toward them, his heavy footsteps shaking the floorboards, his hand still working his now fully erect cock in a slow, possessive rhythm. He needed something more than his own fist this time. The greasy, frantic sessions of the past week weren’t enough. This was a landmark. He’d surpassed his own shame.
His eyes scanned the chaotic room. They landed on the heap of dirty laundry spilling from his closet door, a mound of fabric mostly comprised of stained towels he’d used to wipe up sweat and spills. An idea, feral and dim, sparked in his chemical-addled mind. He stopped jerking off, letting his dick spring free, bobbing against the massive curve of his gut.
He crouched with a grunt, his knees popping, and grabbed two of the largest, thickest towels. They smelled of old body odor and the faint, cloying vanilla of spilled shakes. He didn’t care. He dragged them to the center of the room, kicking aside pizza boxes and empty cans. He needed space.
On his knees, the hard floor digging into his flesh, he began to work. He rolled one towel into a tight, thick cylinder. He folded the other, creating a wide, padded sheath. He jammed the cylinder inside the sheath, creating a deep, tight pocket of fabric. He shoved his hand into it, testing the resistance. It was rough, unforgiving. Perfect.
He spat into his palm, a thick gob of saliva, and slicked up his aching cock. He spat into the dark, towel-formed hole, rubbing the moisture into the fabric. It wasn’t enough. He remembered a half-empty bottle of coconut oil he’d bought weeks ago in a fleeting moment of health-consciousness. He lunged for it, unscrewed the cap, and poured a generous, glopping stream into the towel’s core. It soaked in, creating a slick, warm cavern.
He positioned himself on all fours over his creation, his enormous stomach hanging perilously close to the floor. He guided the head of his cock to the oiled opening. The fabric was coarse against his sensitive tip. He pushed. The towels resisted, then yielded, swallowing him inch by rough, incredible inch. A choked gasp tore from his throat.
“Fuck… yeah… that’s it…”
He began to thrust, a clumsy, rocking motion of his entire body. The towels were an abrasive, perfect mockery of warmth. He fucked into them with hard, desperate drives, his hips slamming forward, his gut sloshing and jiggling with each impact. Sweat poured from his brow, dripping from his snout onto the filthy towels below. He was sweating like a pig, his breath coming in ragged, wet heaves.
His mind emptied of everything but sensation. The rough friction. The slap of his balls against the bundled fabric. The obscene, wet sounds of his own movement. The way his titanic stomach flopped and swayed, a separate entity attached to him, hitting the floor with a soft, heavy thud every time he drove forward. He was a beast, rutting into a mound of laundry on a floor littered with the evidence of his own decay.
“Take it… take all of it…” he grunted, his words slurring. He was talking to the towels. To the shakes. To the empty apartment. To Chad, his gainz guru, who was fucking him just as surely as he was fucking this pathetic fabric hole. His pace became frantic, punishing. The world narrowed to the hot, tight tunnel and the volcanic pressure building in his groin.
With a final, shuddering roar, he came, his orgasm a violent expulsion that pulsed into the sodden towels. He collapsed onto his side, his cock slipping out with a soft, wet pop, twitching against his thigh. He lay there, panting, swimming in a haze of animal satisfaction and profound, soul-crushing emptiness. The smell of sex, sweat, coconut oil, and rotten food filled his nostrils.
He didn’t move. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the frantic beat of his own heart slow.