Chapter 2: First Sip
The package arrived on a Tuesday, the cardboard box slightly damp from the morning drizzle. Angelina tore into it before Ben could even set his keys down. Inside, nestled in crinkly brown paper, were six thick glass bottles—deep cream-colored liquid swirling inside like melted ice cream.
She unscrewed the cap of one before he could warn her about expiration dates or instructions. The smell hit her first—rich, buttery, like warm caramel and heavy cream.
"Jesus," Ben muttered, leaning in. "That smells like dessert."
She took a sip.
Her whole body shuddered. It was *good*. Thicker than any protein shake she’d ever had, coating her tongue with something sweet and decadent, lingering like a dessert she couldn’t place.
Ben watched her, fingers tapping the counter. "Well?"
She licked her lips. "Tastes like… I don’t even know. Like if cheesecake was a drink."
He frowned, reaching for the bottle. She jerked it away.
"Hey—"
"I’m not done." She chugged half of it in one go, her throat working greedily. The cold sweetness spread through her, heavy and satisfying in a way that made her toes curl.
Ben exhaled, rubbing his temple. "You’re supposed to follow a dosing plan or something, right?"
She ignored him, draining the last drops. A thick, creamy residue clung to the glass. She scraped it with her finger, sucking it clean.
Ben’s throat bobbed.
The bottle clinked on the counter. Angelina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing hard. "I’m having another one."
"Ange—"
"They’re *mine*."
His mouth snapped shut.
—————
By the third day, she was drinking two a day. By the end of the week, three.
Her appetite twisted. She woke up craving buttered toast slathered in condensed milk. Ate whole blocks of cheese while standing at the fridge. Ben caught her mid-morning, spoon-deep in a jar of clotted cream, her lips shiny with it.
"You okay?" he asked, voice careful.
She scraped the spoon against the bottom of the jar. "I’m *hungry*."
His gaze flicked to her hips, her thighs. She’d caught him staring more lately—not in the way he used to, quick and guilty. Now it was deliberate. Like he was memorizing something.
She liked it.
—————
The changes came slow, then all at once.
First, her bras got tight. The cups dug into her skin, the straps straining. She spilled out of her favorite lace one, the seams groaning as she bent to pick up a dropped pen.
Then her jeans. The denim bit into her waist, her thighs pressing against the fabric like they were testing its limits. She had to wiggle into them now, yanking the zipper up with a frustrated huff.
Ben watched from the bed, his fingers stalling on his phone. "You need new clothes."
She glared at her reflection, hands smoothing over the curve of her hips. "Not yet."
She wanted to *see* it.
—————
One night, she caught him staring at her naked back in the bathroom mirror.
She turned, slow, letting the light catch every new swell. "What?"
His fingers flexed at his sides. "You’re…"
She arched an eyebrow. "Spit it out."
He swallowed. "Bigger."
A thrill shot through her. She stepped closer, until her hips nearly brushed his. "Say it again."
His breath hitched. "You’re bigger."
She grinned.
—————
The scale confirmed it. Ten pounds in two weeks.
Angelina stepped off, staring at the number. Her heart hammered.
Ben hovered in the doorway, chewing his lip. "That’s not all muscle."
She ran her hands down her sides, fingertips tracing the soft new weight. "I know."
His gaze darkened.
She took another sip of her shake, licking the cream from her upper lip. "Good."
Good.
The word hung in the steamy kitchen air, a challenge and a promise. Ben didn’t look away. He just nodded, slowly, like he was accepting a new set of rules.
Angelina turned back to the fridge, the linoleum cool under her bare feet. She poured another glass of whole milk, her reflection warped and expansive in the stainless steel door. She drank it in three long gulps, a white mustache clinging to her lip.
Her favorite jeans, the dark-wash ones that used to slip on easy, were the first to protest. They’d become a morning ritual of breath-holding and strategic lying-on-the-bed. The button threatened to ping across the room every time she sat down.
“Those look…” Ben started over breakfast, a spoon suspended in his yogurt.
“Tight,” she finished for him, her voice a low hum of satisfaction. She speared a sausage link, watching the fat gleam. “I know.”
She wore them until the seam along her inner thigh gave a thin, strained whine. A pale sliver of new skin peeked through the blue denim. Ben’s eyes caught it immediately, his fork freezing midway to his mouth.
“What?” she said, feigning innocence while stretching her leg out. The denim groaned in protest.
“Nothing.” He looked back at his plate, but a flush crept up his neck.
Her t-shirts were next. The soft cotton stretched taut across her shoulders, the sleeves tightening around her biceps. She caught herself posing in the mirror again, fingers tracing the unfamiliar slope of her deltoid, the rounder curve of her pec beneath the fabric.
Ben bought her a loose, drapey cardigan as a surprise. “For comfort,” he said, holding it out like a peace offering.
She slipped it on over a tank top. The sleeves were long, the knit heavy. She rolled them up once, then twice, her forearms thick and defined underneath. “It’s nice,” she said, not missing the way his gaze dropped to where the sweater failed to conceal the new, proud swell of her chest.
“You’re outgrowing everything,” he murmured later, folding a pile of her laundry. A simple gray t-shirt looked miniature in his hands.
“I’m not outgrowing it,” she corrected, taking the shirt from him. She held it up against herself. The hem now sat a good two inches above her navel. “It’s shrinking.”
He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“It’s the dryer,” she insisted, a sly smile playing on her lips. “It runs hot.”
She pulled the gray shirt on anyway. The cotton strained across her back, the neckline cutting into the base of her throat. She could feel every thread, every stitch holding on for dear life.
In the living room, she reached for a high shelf to grab a book. The movement was simple, automatic. A sharp, decisive rip tore through the quiet. She froze, arm still extended.
Ben looked up from his phone. “What was that?”
A cool draft kissed the skin of her lower back. She lowered her arm, slowly, and twisted to feel the damage. Her fingers found a long, jagged tear along the seam of the shirt, right where it had stretched across her lat muscle. The fabric gaped open.
She turned to face him, the torn shirt a definitive declaration. Ben’s eyes widened, drinking in the exposed skin, the undeniable evidence of her expansion. He didn’t say a word. He just stared, his breath shallow, utterly captivated.
Angelina looked down at herself, at the failing cloth, and smiled.