Chapter 2: Smothered by Growth
He woke with a gasp, his lungs searing as they pulled in clean, unobstructed air. The light was different. Soft, gray morning light filtered through the blinds, not the chaotic, dust-choked glow of broken fairy lights. He was in bed. Their bed. The sheets were tangled around his waist, damp with cold sweat. His body ached—a deep, bruised throbbing in his ribs, a soreness in his limbs as if he’d been trampled.
A dream. A fucking vivid, insane, brain-melting dream.
He turned his head. Chloe was beside him, sleeping on her stomach. Her bare back, pale and smooth, rose and fell with steady breaths. She was her normal, beautifully large self. The room was intact. The ceiling was whole. No plaster dust. No screams of straining wood.
A shudder of relief, so profound it felt like nausea, washed through him. He let his head fall back onto the pillow, staring at the familiar crack in the ceiling paint. Just a dream. The psychology of it was obvious—confessing his deepest shame, his mind manifesting it as a literal catastrophe.
Her voice, sleep-thickened and soft, cut through the silence. “Your heart is pounding so hard I can feel it through the mattress.”
He turned to look at her. She had turned her head, one dark eye open, watching him.
“I had… the craziest dream,” he whispered, his own voice raw.
“I know.” She shifted onto her side, facing him. The mattress groaned its familiar, comforting complaint. She reached out and placed her hand, her normal, wonderful hand, on his sternum. Her palm was warm. “It wasn’t a dream, Chad.”
The words, spoken so simply, froze the blood in his veins. “What?”
“The living room is destroyed. The ceiling is cracked open. The couch is… sawdust.” She said it like commenting on the weather. “I had to roll you out from under me. You were blue. I thought you were dead.” Her fingers traced the sore spot on his ribs. “I heard something snap.”
The memory of the pressure, the taste of salt and skin, the absolute darkness, rushed back with the force of a physical blow. It hadn’t been a dream’s abstraction. It was muscle memory. His body knew.
“You… you grew,” he breathed.
A slow, hungry smile spread across her face. It was the same smile from the living room. Possessive. Powerful. “Yeah. I did.” Her hand slid from his chest down his stomach, over the sheet tented at his hips. “And you loved it. Even when you were dying under me, a part of you was loving it.”
He had no denial. His erection, painful and insistent, was proof enough.
“It’s all real,” she murmured, scooting closer. The immense, warm heat of her body enveloped him. “And we’re just getting started.” She threw her leg over him, a movement that was already more dominant than before, an easy claim of territory. She sat up, straddling his hips, her back to him. The sheets pooled around her waist. In the gray light, the colossal, pale moons of her ass were a breathtaking landscape. The deep crevice between them was a shadowed valley.
“You know what I want,” she said, her voice dropping to a command.
He did. It was their ritual, her favorite thing. A submissive act that now felt like a key turning in a terrifying, magnificent lock. He nodded, his throat tight.
She lifted herself on her knees, then shuffled backward, her ass hovering over his face. The warmth of her radiated down. The scent of her sleep, musky and intimate, filled his nostrils. Then she lowered herself.
Not slowly. Not teasingly. With a direct, crushing finality.
The soft, heavy weight of her left cheek met his forehead. The right settled over his mouth and nose. The sheer mass of her blotted out the light, the room, everything. He was plunged into a warm, fragrant darkness. He opened his mouth, gasping, and his lips met not air, but the smooth, damp skin at the top of her crack. He could feel the tight, wrinkled pucker of her asshole just an inch from his nose.
“Lick,” she commanded, her voice muffled and resonant through her own flesh.
He obeyed. He pushed his tongue out, flattening it against her skin, and dragged it downward through the sweat-slicked groove. He found the tight, defensive knot of her rosebud. He circled it, then pressed the tip of his tongue against it.
She groaned above him, a sound of pure satisfaction. She ground down, rotating her hips, smearing his face deeper into her cleft. “Yes. Just like that. Get it nice and wet for me, baby. Tongue-fuck my dirty little hole.”
The obscenity, so filthy and direct, sent a jolt through him. He redoubled his efforts, licking and probing, his nose buried in the soft, giving flesh of her cheeks. The taste was intensely her—salt, sleep, and that deeper, earthy tang he’d dreamed about. He sucked and nibbled at the wrinkled rim, feeling it begin to relax and open slightly under the persistent wetness of his tongue. He fucked her with his tongue, shallow, insistent thrusts.
And then he felt it.
A deep, internal tremor, like a heavy engine turning over. The flesh under his mouth, which was already a suffocating weight, seemed to densify. The softness began to firm, not with muscle tension, but with a cellular expansion.
He made a muffled sound against her.
“Feel that?” she panted, her hips still grinding in a slow circle. “It’s you. You’re making it happen. Your fucking tongue on my ass is making me grow. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t. He was trapped, a willing prisoner. He licked harder, slurping at her hole, drinking her sweat as the pressure on his face began to increase. It was subtle at first—just a sense of fullness, of the valley he was buried in becoming shallower as the mountains on either side swelled outward.
Then the creaking started. Not the bed this time. It was the sound of her own body. A low, subcutaneous creak-pop as the bones of her pelvis, the very framework of her, began to expand to accommodate the new mass blooming inside her.
Her cheeks, already encompassing his entire head, bulged. The soft flesh pushed more insistently against his temples, his ears. The space for air vanished completely. He was breathing in the hot, humid, musky air trapped against her skin, air growing staler by the second. His tongue worked automatically, fucking the tight ring of muscle that now seemed to pulse against his intrusion with a life of its own.
“More,” she hissed, and it was a plea and an order. “I want to be huge. I want to fill this room. I want you to drown in me.”
The growth surged.
It was no longer subtle. It was a visible, audible takeover. The pale flesh mushroomed outwards, spilling over the sides of the bed. Her ass cheeks, each now larger than his torso, pressed together with a wet, smacking sound, sealing him in utterly. Sweat poured from her, no longer a scent but a condition, a hot saline broth he was steeped in. His world was reduced to the micromovements of his tongue against her asshole and the unbearable, building pressure on his skull.
The bed gave a shriek of protest. The metal frame, bent from her previous growth, torqued with a sharp screech. The headboard slammed against the wall.
Chloe cried out, a sound of ecstatic pain. “Yes! Oh god, it’s happening!”
Her hips widened, pushing the walls of the valley he was buried in even tighter. His nose was flattened. His jaw was forced open wide by the spreading pressure. His tongue was now stretched, pinned against her hole, which had begun to gape open slightly from the internal pressure. He tasted something darker, more intimate. The profound, interior taste of her bowels, a hint of salt and iron and deep, organic funk.
She was becoming the room. He could feel it through the mattress. Her thighs, swelling like rising dough, spilled off the bed and met the floor with twin, jarring thuds that shook the foundation. The dresser toppled over with a crash. The windows rattled in their frames.
The smothering was absolute. It was no longer just weight. It was a holistic envelopment. Her flesh pressed against every square inch of his face, a warm, living mold. It oozed into his ears, blocking all sound except the thunderous rush of her blood and the grotesque, wet squelch of her expansion. His tears mixed with her sweat. He couldn’t scream. His chest burned, trying to expand against the tonnage of her rear pinning him to the mattress. Blackness, deeper than the darkness of her flesh, began to crowd the edges of his consciousness.
He was dying again. Drowning in the ass of the woman he loved.
And a part of him, the deepest, most honest part, was rock-hard and screaming in blissful submission.
Her voice reached him, not through the air, but as a vibration transmitted directly through her colossal body into the marrow of his bones. “You’re mine now. Just a little toy under my big, fat, growing ass. This is all you are.”
He felt her shift, trying to get comfortable as she colonized the space. It was a minute adjustment for her. For him, it was cataclysmic. The specific point of her weight settled directly over his nose and mouth, a final, perfect seal.
He inhaled reflexively. His lungs pulled in nothing but the hot, viscous, sweat-and-musk-scented prison. The last of the air in his body escaped in a feeble bubble that popped against her skin.
His body spasmed, a final, weak twitch of surrender.
As the silence and the blackness claimed him, the last thing he perceived was the continuous, joyful, unstoppable creak of her expansion, a sound that promised she was nowhere near done.
His consciousness didn’t return with a gasp this time. It seeped back, a slow, thick syrup of sensation with no demarcation between body and not-body. There was only pressure, a uniform, warm, pulsing pressure on every atom of him. And heat. A profound, wet heat that felt internal and external all at once.
Sound was a low, liquid rumble, a digestive tremor that vibrated through his teeth, through what he thought were his bones.
He tried to open his eyes. There was no command to obey, no eyelids to part. There was only darkness, a rich, velvet blackness that felt pressed directly against his corneas.
Panic, that old, familiar lightning bolt, attempted to flash. It had nowhere to go. It dissipated into the warm, encompassing medium that held him. He tried to twitch a finger. The neural signal fired, but there was no answering jerk of a digit. Instead, he felt a corresponding, subtle rippling in the substance surrounding what had been his hand. It was like flexing a muscle that was no longer his own, yet still connected to his will.
Chloe’s voice came then, but not through air. It resonated inside the chamber of her own flesh, a submerged, goddess-like echo that traveled through the fluid and tissue directly into the heart of him. “There you are. I can feel you waking up in there. Are you cozy, baby?”
He tried to speak. To form the word ‘no’, to scream ‘help’. His jaw, if it still existed, did not move. Instead, a new connection fired. A tremor passed from the core of him outwards, a vibration that made the warm, wet walls press in gently.
She moaned, a sound of deep pleasure that shook his universe. “Oh, fuck. That’s it. Talk to me like that. Use your new voice.”
This was the absorption. It wasn't a violent consumption. It was a gradual, total assimilation. The boundaries were dissolving. The colossal cheeks that had smothered him were no longer external masses pressing inward. They were becoming the entirety of his world. His skin, starved of air, was softening, its pores opening, beginning to exchange fluids with hers at a cellular level. He could feel the fat cells of her body, vast and engorged from her growth, pressing against him, not with impact, but with a slow, osmotic insistence.
His clothes had been the first to go, fibers dissolving in the acidic sweat and immense pressure. Now, the top layers of his own epidermis were sloughing away, merging with the seamless, pale landscape of her ass. His bones, the snapped rib a dull, forgotten ache, were losing their rigidity. The calcium was softening, becoming malleable, their structure gradually spreading to reinforce the impossible architecture of her pelvic girdle, which continued to creak and expand.
He felt a fresh wave of her growth, but this time from the inside. It was a tidal surge of new mass, a billion fat cells dividing and swelling simultaneously. The pressure intensified, but it no longer crushed. It reshaped. What had been the space occupied by his head was now simply a deeper, specially-contoured pocket within her right buttock. His thoughts swam in a nutrient-rich fluid that was part her lymphatic system, part his liquefied cerebral matter. Memories of his old life—the office, his name, his face—floated like disconnected photographs in the warm oil, beautiful but irrelevant.
Her dominance was total, biological, and absolute.
“You’re making me so fucking fat, Chad,” she whispered, and he felt the words as a delightful contraction all around him. “Every little bit of you is turning into more of me. My ass is eating you up. It’s all I am now. Just this huge, perfect ass with you inside it forever.”
The fusion accelerated. His nervous system, unraveling, was being rewired into hers. A fresh, shocking bolt of pleasure shot through the nebulous shape of his being—it was her pleasure, her sensation as she rhythmically clenched the immense globes of her posterior, masturbating with the entire mass of her lower body. The clench sent thrilling, compressive waves through him. He was the sensation.
He had no mouth, but he could taste. A constant, rich, salty-sweet flavor that was the essence of her adipose tissue, her marrow, her sweat. He had no nose, but he could smell the intimate, primal perfume of her deepest bodily processes, a smell that was now his own atmosphere. He had no eyes, but he could see the faint, internal phosphorescence of her cellular energy, a constellation of chemical fires in the private darkness.
Outside, the room finally gave up. The walls, stressed beyond any tolerance, buckled inward with a prolonged, grinding roar. Wood splintered. Metal conduits shrieked as they twisted. The bedframe, a mangled pretzel of iron, vanished under the relentless, spreading expanse of pale flesh that no longer recognized any boundary. Chloe’s body filled the space, then began to press against the structural supports of the apartment building itself. Her growth was slower now, fed by the steady conversion of Chad’s body mass into her own, a sustainable, permanent expansion.
She sighed, a continent settling.
Inside her, where Chad used to be, a final, quiet integration occurred. The last stubborn knot of his individual consciousness, the ‘I’, unraveled and diffused. It wasn’t death. It was a perfect, silent capitulation. His identity became a flavor, a unique texture woven into the tremendous fat and muscle of her left buttock—a slight, pleasurable density she would always feel when she sat down, a ghost of a smile in her flesh.
Chloe felt the last ripple of otherness fade into pure, seamless self. She flexed again, a monumental clench that made tons of flesh quiver and sent dust sifting down from the destroyed ceiling high above her. A deep, contented smile spread across her face, which now rested sideways against what was left of the crumbling far wall.
“Mine,” she breathed into the ruins, the word final and complete. The conquest was over. The fusion was total. She settled in to enjoy the profound, endless comfort of her own impossible size.