Chapter 3: While the Cats away
The silence in the house was a physical thing, thick and unfamiliar. For three days, the only sounds had been the groan of the floorboards under Derrick’s own weight, the hum of the refrigerator, and the relentless, chewing noise in his own head. Amy was at the Emerald Coast Classic, a regional bodybuilding show she was certain to dominate. Her absence was a paradox—a relief and a terror. The constant pressure to perform, to consume, was gone. But without it, he was adrift, a balloon cut loose, slowly sinking.
He stood in the kitchen, staring into the open fridge. She’d pre-prepared everything. Meals in Tupperware, each labeled with his name and a time in her precise, aggressive handwriting. Derrick – Lunch – 1pm. Derrick – Post-Dinner Snack – Must Eat. He’d eaten the 1pm lunch at three, the chicken and rice tasting like ash. The snack, a giant protein shake blended with peanut butter and oats, still sat on the counter, sweating condensation. His stomach, a perpetually tight drum, gurgled in protest.
The doorbell rang.
He jumped, the sound shockingly alien. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Waddling to the front door, his loose basketball shorts whispering against his thickened thighs, he peered through the peephole.
Zoe stood on the porch, a cooler bag slung over one shoulder. Even through the fisheye lens, her physique was alarming. She was almost as wide as the doorframe, her deltoids rounding into cannonballs, her quadriceps bursting from the hem of her tight shorts. Her dark hair was in a ruthless pixie cut, emphasizing the sharp angles of her jaw. She was smiling, a flash of white teeth.
Derrick’s heart did a clumsy stumble. Zoe was Amy’s gym friend, her only real friend. He’d only met her a handful of times, each encounter leaving him feeling more inconsequential. She’d look him over with a cool, appraising stare that felt less like a judgment and more like a measurement.
He opened the door. “Zoe. Hey.”
“Hey, Derrick. Amy asked me to check on you.” Her voice was lower than he remembered, a smooth, smoky alto. She didn’t wait for an invitation; she stepped past him, her shoulder nearly brushing his chest. She carried the scent of coconut oil and something sharper, chemical. “Make sure you’re staying on plan. She’s killing it, by the way. Texted me a video. She’s gonna take the overall.”
“That’s… great,” Derrick muttered, closing the door. He felt colossal and useless in his own hallway.
Zoe marched into the kitchen, setting the cooler bag on the counter with a thud. She spotted the untouched shake. Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes narrowed. “Skipping snacks, big guy? That’s not how this works.”
“I was getting to it,” he said, the defensiveness in his voice pathetic even to his own ears.
“Sure you were.” She opened the cooler. Inside were not bodybuilding meals. There were two large, foil-wrapped parcels, a container of something that looked like thick, white sauce, and a box of pastries from the same bakery Amy frequented. “Amy’s plan is for maintenance. But she’s not here. So we’re doing my plan for today.”
Derrick stared. “Your plan?”
“Yep.” She unwrapped one foil parcel. It was a massive, grease-soaked cheeseburger, stacked with two patties, dripping with cheese and a special sauce that oozed out the sides. The smell hit him—grease, salt, pickles—and his mouth watered instinctively even as his guts clenched. “See, Amy likes the… the softness. The gradual curve. I’m more interested in the logistics. The full-tilt bloat. The actual heft.” She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the way his t-shirt strained over his belly, the hem riding up. “You’ve got a good frame. We can really hang some mass on you.”
The casual, clinical terminology chilled him. Hang some mass. Like he was a rack in a butcher shop. “Zoe, I don’t think…”
“Sit,” she said, pointing to the kitchen table. It wasn’t a request. It was the same tone Amy used when the boxes of donuts came out, but flatter, devoid of the coiled sexual heat. This was pure, procedural dominance.
He sat. The chair complained under his weight.
Zoe placed the burger on a plate in front of him, then the container of white sauce. She popped the lid. It was a cold, rich, garlic aioli. She dumped the entire container over the burger, smothering it. “Extra calories. Helps it slide down.”
She pulled up a chair opposite him, sitting backwards on it, her muscular arms resting on the chair back. She just watched. “Go on. Amy said you’re a good eater. Show me.”
The first bite was a tidal wave of flavor so intense it was almost painful. Salty, fatty, creamy, acidic. He chewed, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. It was delicious. That was the worst part. It was fucking delicious, and he was so tired of grilled chicken.
“That’s it,” Zoe murmured, her voice encouraging but utterly detached. “Don’t think. Just fuel the machine.”
He powered through the burger, bite after bite, the aioli coating his lips and fingers. The sheer volume of food was staggering. By the final mouthful, he was breathing heavily, his eyes slightly glazed. A profound, aching fullness settled in his core.
Zoe didn’t give him a moment. She unwrapped the second foil parcel. Another identical burger. “Double.”
“Zoe, I can’t,” he gasped, hand on his stomach. “I’m gonna be sick.”
“You won’t,” she said simply. She leaned forward. “You know, Amy talks about you. All the time. She’s so proud of how obedient you are. How pretty you’re getting.” She picked up the second burger and held it to his lips. “Don’t make me tell her you were difficult for me. That you couldn’t handle it.”
The threat was exquisite. The idea of disappointing Amy, of being spoken about as a failure between these two colossal women, was a more potent motivator than any appetite. He opened his mouth. She fed him the first bite, her fingers brushing his lips. She fed him the next. And the next. She was faster than Amy, more relentless. No caresses, no whispered praise. Just steady, rhythmic feeding.
He finished it. He didn’t know how. The world had become a narrow tunnel of chewing and swallowing, his stomach distending into a hard, painful sphere. He slumped in the chair, sweat beading on his forehead. He felt grotesque, immobile.
“Good,” Zoe said, business-like. She stood and retrieved the box of pastries. She opened it to reveal six eclairs, the chocolate glaze gleaming, the cream filling practically bursting from the ends. “Now for the conditioner. This’ll soften everything up, make it settle nice.”
He shook his head, a weak, desperate motion. Words were beyond him.
Zoe picked up an eclair. Instead of handing it to him, she came around the table. She stood beside his chair, looking down at him. Her proximity was overwhelming. She was taller than him now, too. Not as tall as Amy, but close. The sheer density of her was different—wider in the shoulders, thicker in the neck. “Open up, buttercup.”
Tears of frustration and sheer physical distress welled in his eyes. He opened his mouth. She didn’t just place the eclair in it. She pushed it in, the cream smooshing against his palate. He gagged, then choked it down.
She fed him another. The sweetness was nauseating after the salty fat of the burgers. His stomach sloshed audibly. After the third eclair, he clutched the table edge. “Stop. Please.”
Zoe paused, studying him. Her cool appraisal shifted then, warmed by something new. A spark of genuine interest. She looked at his tear-streaked face, his bloated body, his utter defeat. A slow, different smile spread across her face.
“You know,” she said softly, putting the eclair box aside. “Amy’s thing is feeding. She likes the worship. The softness.” She stepped closer, her legs bracketing his knee. “My thing is a little different.”
With a casual, terrifying motion, she undid the button and fly of her own gym shorts. She pushed them, and her compression leggings, down just enough.
Derrick’s brain short-circuited. Between her legs, thick and heavy, was a cock. It was fully, aggressively erect, jutting out from a thatch of dark hair. It was massive, easily nine inches, thick-veined and ruddy, crowned by a broad head that gleamed. Beneath it hung a heavy, full sac.
“I like the contrast,” Zoe said, her voice husky now as she gave herself a slow, possessive stroke. “The harder I get, the softer you get. It’s chemistry, really.”
Derrick could only stare, horror and a shock of unwanted, illicit arousal twisting together in his gut. This was impossible. This was a nightmare.
“Amy doesn’t know about this part,” Zoe confided, leaning down, her free hand gripping the back of his chair, caging him in. “This is our little secret. She just wants you fat. I want you… altered.” From her pocket, she produced a small, unmarked pill bottle. She shook out a tiny, pale blue pill. “Estrogen. Helps redistribute everything. Makes the skin soft. Kills that pesky male ego right at the source.” She held it out. “Take it.”
“No,” Derrick whispered.
Zoe’s hand shot out and grabbed his jaw, her fingers digging into his fleshy cheeks with pinpoint strength. She forced his mouth open and placed the pill on his tongue. Then she grabbed the half-finished protein shake from the counter, pressed the bottle to his lips, and poured. “Swallow.”
He swallowed, the chalky liquid carrying the tiny pill down.
“Good girl,” Zoe breathed, and the pronoun punched the air from his lungs.
Before he could process it, she was moving. She yanked his basketball shorts and underwear down to his knees with a single, rough pull. He was exposed, half-hard beneath his swollen belly—a humiliating, autonomic response. She didn’t seem to care. She spat into her hand, slicked herself, and then, without ceremony, positioned herself.
“This is the best part,” she said, and pushed inside him.
The pain was immediate, searing, a sharp, tearing invasion. He cried out, a strangled sound. She was too big, too dry, too much. She grabbed his love handles, her fingers sinking into the soft fat, using them as handholds to pull herself deeper. She didn’t move like Amy, who used friction and rhythm to command a response. Zoe just took space, filling him up, stretching him past any point of tolerance.
“See?” she grunted, her composure fracturing into raw hunger. “You’re just a container now. For food. For this.”
She began to fuck him in earnest, her hips pistoning with the same relentless efficiency she’d used to feed him. Each thrust drove a grunt from him, shook his bloated frame, made the fat on his belly and chest tremble. The pain began to blur, mixed with the overwhelming fullness from the food and the shocking, degrading intimacy of the act. He was a vessel, being stuffed at both ends.
Zoe’s breath grew ragged. Her muscular body, a powerhouse of synthetic testosterone and ruthless discipline, worked over him. “Gonna fill you up,” she promised, her voice guttural. “Make sure it takes. Gonna put a baby in that gut.”
The crude, impossible words tipped him over an edge. Shame, disgust, and a warped, dizzying thrill erupted in a confusing wave. Against everything, he came, untouched, a weak, shameful spatter on his own stomach, his body betraying him completely.
It seemed to trigger her. With a final, deep stab, she stilled, buried to the hilt. He felt a hot, distinct pulse inside him, then a flood of wet heat as she came. It felt endless, a deep, internal dumping. She held herself there, grinding, milking herself into him.
When she finally pulled out, it was with a soft, wet sound. She straightened her clothes, the picture of composure again, aside from a faint sheen of sweat on her temples. Derrick sat there, ruined, dripping, his body a landscape of pain and foreign wetness.
Zoe looked at him, her eyes satisfied. She reached over and patted his belly, now looking even fuller, strained tight as a drum. The cum inside him felt like a lead weight, a counterfeit pregnancy.
“There,” she said, her voice back to its cool, smoky normal. “That’ll help it all settle. You’ll sleep great.” She picked up the box of eclairs. “Finish these. I’ll tell Amy you were a perfect angel.”
She let herself out. The silence rushed back in, louder than before.
Derrick didn’t move. The ache was deep, pervasive. The pill was in his system. Zoe’s cum was in his guts, a visceral claim beside Amy’s. He looked at the remaining eclairs. Slowly, mechanically, his hand moved. He picked one up. He brought it to his mouth. He took a bite. The cream was cloying, the pastry stale. He chewed. He swallowed.
He ate another. His stomach, impossibly, accepted it. The fullness was now a permanent state of being, a truth written in flesh and shame. He was a container. And he was full.
And he was full.
The feeling didn’t leave. It fossilized. When he woke the next morning on the couch, having been unable to climb the stairs, the ache was still there—a deep, settled heaviness in his gut and a raw, bruised throbbing between his legs. The empty eclair box sat on the coffee table like a crime scene exhibit. He shuffled to the bathroom, his movement a slow, sideways shuffle, and avoided the mirror.
The doorbell rang at exactly 1 p.m.
His heart seized. He knew. The waddle to the door was louder, clumsier, his thighs chafing with every step.
Zoe stood there, same cooler bag, different clothes. Her arms looked thicker. “Hey,” she said, brushing past. “You look packed. Good.”
“Zoe, you can’t—”
“I brought pulled pork sandwiches.” She was already in the kitchen, the foil tearing. “And coleslaw. A whole tub. And a peach cobbler. The kind with the thick crust.”
The specificity was torture. He stood in the doorway, paralyzed. “I can’t do yesterday again.”
She turned, her expression flat. “It’s not a negotiation. Your wife entrusted me with your conditioning. Now sit.”
The word conditioning now carried a vile, double meaning. He sat. The chair groaned a deeper, more strained protest. She fed him the first sandwich, her movements efficient. The meat was sweet and vinegary, the bun sodden with sauce. It was good. He hated how good it was. She watched him chew, her eyes analytical.
“Open wider,” she said during the second sandwich, and before he could process it, she’d pulled her shorts down. She was already hard. “Saves time. Multi-tasking.”
He gagged, a piece of pork falling onto his shirt. “No, please, not there—”
Her hand was on the back of his head, firm, insistent. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just protein. Another kind.”
The stretch of his jaws was a different pain, acute and humiliating. She fed herself into his mouth, her grip tight in his hair. The taste was metallic, salt-skin, utterly alien. He choked, tears springing to his eyes as she pushed deeper, hitting his throat. She held herself there, her hips giving shallow, relentless thrusts against his face. The sandwich, half-chewed, was a paste in his cheeks. He couldn’t breathe.
She used him until she was satisfied, then pulled out with a soft pop. She tucked herself away, casual as zipping a jacket. “Finish the sandwich. Then the cobbler. I want the whole thing clean.”
He ate through blurry vision, the flavors all ash now. She didn’t touch the coleslaw. Instead, she made him lean forward, his distended belly pressing against the table edge, and took him from behind. It was quicker this time, harder. The pain was sharper, a known quantity now, layered over yesterday’s bruising. She came with a low grunt, the hot flood inside him feeling even more voluminous. She left him slumped over the table, his face in the cobbler pan, sticky peaches smeared on his cheek.
“See you tomorrow,” she called from the door.
He didn’t sleep. He floated in a hellish, half-aware state, his body a foreign landscape of aches and pressures. The scale in the bathroom corner whispered to him. He hadn’t stepped on it since Amy left. He was afraid.
The doorbell at 1 p.m. was a death knell.
This time, she didn’t bring a cooler. She brought two large pizza boxes and a six-pack of heavy, malty beer. She also carried a digital scale, the kind with a wide, industrial platform.
“Weigh-in day,” she said, her voice bright with false cheer.
Derrick stood frozen in the living room, wearing only the strained basketball shorts. He felt the air on his skin, the terrible, hanging weight of his own breasts, the soft roll over his waistband that hadn’t been there three days ago.
“Zoe, I don’t want to.”
“It’s not for you. It’s data.” She placed the scale on the floor. “On. Now.”
He stepped on. The numbers flickered, climbed, settled. His breath hitched. The number was impossible. It was a weight he associated with small cars, with industrial machinery. A soft, digital beep confirmed it.
Zoe let out a low whistle. “Five hundred and eighteen pounds.” She looked up at him, a genuine, terrifying pride in her eyes. “You’re over five hundred pounds of waddling fatboy. In three days. That’s impressive work.”
The word fatboy hung in the air, a final, clarifying label. It wasn’t a tease. It was a diagnosis. He whimpered, a high, broken sound in his throat. The physical proof was a psychic annihilation. He had ballooned, his skin shiny and tight, new stretch marks like lightning bolts across his hips and belly.
“Celebration pizza,” she said, popping open a beer. “You’re having all of it. And the beer. Carbs help with the water retention. We want to keep that number climbing.”
He ate the pizza, slice after slice, washed down with the lukewarm beer. She didn’t fuck him this time. She made him kneel on the deep-pile carpet, the fibers scratching his knees, and fed herself into his mouth again. He had become proficient at this, his jaw aching open, his throat relaxing against its will. He focused on the ceiling, on a faint water stain shaped like a bird. He dissociated. The only sounds were her rough breathing and the wet, rhythmic noises of her use.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She ignored it, chasing her finish. It buzzed again, insistently. With a final thrust, she pulled out, leaving him coughing on his knees. She checked the phone, a smile touching her lips.
“Amy,” she said. “She won her class. She’s coming home tomorrow.”
The words should have been a rescue. Instead, they were a sentence. He pictured her walking through the door, her muscles hard and defined, her eyes taking in what he had become in just four days. The sheer, catastrophic difference.
Zoe tucked herself away, looking down at him with something akin to pity. “Better rest up, big guy. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. Your wife’s gonna want to see all her hard work.” She patted his cheek, her hand lingering. “And mine.”
She left him there, kneeling in the crumbs and the silence, the scale’s digital display still glowing with the impossible number, a beacon of his ruin. The house felt different. Smaller. Or maybe he was just so much bigger.