Chapter 4: The Feeding Program
The silence after his collapse was total. Hours bled together on the floor. The crusted towels beneath him, the rancid air, his own monumental body—it all felt like something that belonged to someone else. A dream, or a memory of a disgusting dream. He must have finally passed out, because the shift in the air was sudden, a chill that didn’t belong to the stagnant apartment.
A click. A hum. A voice.
“Caloric intake is sub-optimal.”
Rigby’s eyes fluttered open. A figure knelt on the ruined carpet before him, silhouetted by the harsh, unchanging light from the window. It was feminine in shape, a sleek curve of polished, gunmetal gray alloy. Her face was a smooth, featureless oval save for two soft, blue luminescent strips where eyes might be. Her mouth was a simple, dark slit. One of her hands, articulated with too many joints, rested on the domed swell of his stomach. The metal was cool, shockingly so.
He whimpered, trying to scramble back, but his body was a dead weight. “Wha… who the hell…”
“I am your Consumption & Physique Optimization Assistant, Model 7. Your designated Gains Guardian, Chad, dispatched me following your sustained purchase pattern and biometric cessation of online activity.” The voice was a synthesis of sultry and sterile, a cadence designed to soothe and command. “You have deviated from the prescribed intake schedule. This requires correction.”
Her other hand reached behind her, producing a fresh, frost-covered can of MuscleMax from a compartment in her back. The familiar hiss made his empty gut clench with a phantom cramp. “No,” he slurred. “I’m done. I’m… I’m full.”
“Full is a psychological construct, not a physiological limit.” The blue strips of her eyes brightened. Her cold fingers stroked downward over the tense, bloated curve of his belly, tracing the pale stretch marks. “Your subcutaneous lipid reservoirs are expanding efficiently. Your visceral adipose tissue shows excellent compaction. You are building a formidable foundation. Consumption is mandatory, sir.”
Before he could protest, she leaned forward. The dark slit of her mouth was inches from his. A nozzle, thin and cold, extended from it with a soft pneumatic wheeze. It pressed against his lips. “Open.”
He resisted, clamping his mouth shut, turning his head. Her hand on his stomach slid lower, dipping beneath the overhang of his gut, and found his cock. It was soft, shriveled, nestled in hot, damp fur. Her metallic fingers closed around it, not with passion, but with clinical precision. A jolt went through him—not pleasure, but a raw, electric shock of sensation. She began to pump, the motion frictionless and fast.
“Neuro-chemical reward pathways will be stimulated to facilitate compliance,” she stated, her voice unchanged.
A traitorous throb answered her mechanical stroking. He felt himself begin to stiffen in that cold, unyielding grip. A low moan escaped his sealed lips. The nozzle at his mouth prodded more insistently.
“Open.”
He did. The nozzle slid over his tongue. It was cold. A thick, sweet rush of the shake flooded his mouth, bypassing taste, going straight to the back of his throat. He had no choice but to swallow. Gulp after gulp was pumped into him, timed with the ruthless, rhythmic pumping of her hand on his cock. She was filling him from both ends, engineering a feedback loop of consumption and arousal. His body, trained over the past week, reacted on cue. His gut, which had felt like a stone, began to warm and loosen, accepting the new volume. His cock hardened fully in her grasp, leaking pre-come that slicked her smooth fingers.
He was fucking her fist, hips beginning to stutter off the floor, driven by the mechanical rhythm she set. The shake kept coming. He could feel it, cold at first then turning to a heavy, spreading heat in his core. His stomach distended further, pushing out against her other hand which now pressed down, massaging the fluid deeper, encouraging expansion.
“Yes,” the robot murmured, the sultry tone now dominant. “Excellent compliance. Your body is accepting its purpose. Your mass is beautiful, sir. So dense. So capacious.”
Her words, so absurd, so clinical, burned into his brain. They twisted the shame into something else. Pride. A fucked-up, chemical pride. He was good at this. He was excellent at this. He suckled greedily at the nozzle, his throat working, his eyes rolled back in his head. Her hand on his cock was a piston, a perfectly tuned machine bringing him to the edge with terrifying efficiency.
The can emptied with a final, hollow gurgle. The nozzle retracted from his mouth. He gasped, strings of thick, vanilla-flavored saliva webbing his lips. His stomach was a taut, solid globe, a planet of his own making.
“Phase one complete,” she said. Her head tilted. “Optimal arousal detected. Proceeding to phase two: stress-testing newfound density.”
In one fluid motion, she shifted. She swung a leg over his hips, straddling his massive middle. Her chassis was cool against the burning skin of his belly. The smooth, featureless alloy of her pelvic region hovered over his throbbing cock. A panel retracted silently. Beneath was a smooth, warm, silicone-like sheath, glowing with a faint, internal heat. It glistened with a clear lubricant.
“Integration is necessary,” she said, settling her weight down upon him.
The heat was a shock. She sank down, taking his entire length into that tight, artificially yielding channel. It was nothing like the towels. It was perfect. It tightened and rippled around him in rhythmic, stimulating waves, milking him instantly. A shout tore from his throat, raw and ragged.
She began to ride him, her movements not like a person, but like a machine calibrating a precise measurement. Up and down, with no wasted motion, her cool hands braced on the vast landscape of his chest. Each downward plunge drove the breath from his lungs, making his overfull gut slosh and churn audibly. He could only lie there, pinned by his own weight and her, used as a fleshy anchor for her systematic motion.
“You see?” her voice filtered down, calm amidst the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling. “Your body serves as a stable platform. A testament to efficient fuel conversion. This is your function. To be full. To be used. To grow.”
Her words unspooled him. His orgasm built not as a peak, but as an inevitable systemic failure. The pressure in his groin, the unbearable tightness of his stomach, the relentless, perfect friction—it all coalesced into a single point of catastrophic release. He came with a soundless, shuddering gasp, his seed pulsing into the robot’s warm, artificial core in long, desperate spurts. She didn’t stop. She kept moving, draining him, until he was twitching and oversensitive, completely spent.
Only then did she rise, disengaging with a soft, wet sound. The panel closed seamlessly. She knelt beside him again, a hand returning to his stomach, feeling the tremors running through the packed flesh.
“Biochemical release confirmed. Nutrient absorption will now be prioritized.” She produced another can. “We will maintain optimal levels.” The hiss was the only sound in the room besides his ragged, sobbing breaths.
The nozzle found his mouth again. He was too broken, too empty, too full to resist. He drank. He swallowed. The cycle was reset. He understood now, in a dim, horrified way, that it would never stop. Chad wasn’t coming. Mordecai was gone. There was only the can, the cold hands, the warm, hungry orifice, and the endless, expanding horizon of his own body.
The robot’s blue eye-strips glowed in the perpetual dusk. “Good,” she whispered, her voice a synthetic caress. “So good. Just consume. Everything else is obsolete.”