Chapter 1: Roommate's Ruin
The air in the dorm room was stale, thick with the ghost of pepperoni and the sour musk of gym bags left to ferment. Anne lay propped on her elbow on her unmade bed, a biology textbook open but unread in front of her. Her gaze wasn’t on the diagrams of mitosis. It was locked on Jack, her roommate, who was groaning on the frayed carpet between the beds.
He’d been complaining about stomach cramps all evening, shoveling down a third leftover slice of pizza while she watched, a faint smile playing on her lips. Now, he was on his back, his hands clawing at the fly of his jeans.
“Fuck, man,” Jack grunted, his voice strained. “What the hell was in that pizza?”
Anne didn’t answer. She just watched, her breathing slow and even. A seam in his denims split with a sharp pop. Then another. The fabric strained, distorted, as something beneath began to swell, pushing outward.
It wasn’t subtle. His cock, already half-hard from his own frantic rubbing against the constriction, began to inflate like some grotesque balloon animal. It thickened, lengthening, veins rising like cords under the skin, a throbbing, ruddy rod that pushed the remains of his fly apart. His balls drew up tight, then seemed to swell, growing heavy and full, each one soon the size of a softball, a dense sac that weighed him down.
“Oh, God… oh fuck…” Jack’s words dissolved into a wet, guttural squeal. He rolled onto his side, then onto his hands and knees. The changes kept coming. His shoulders broadened, the fabric of his t-shirt screaming as his deltoids and trapezius muscles bulged, knotting with raw power. His belly, soft from beer and late-night carbs, distended and hardened into a solid, hulking mass of gut.
He was panting, drool dripping from his lips to spot the carpet. He shook his head, a coarse, snorting sound erupting from his nostrils as he sniffed the air. His eyes, when they lifted and found Anne, were glazed with a primal, simple hunger. There was no Jack left in them. Just need.
“That’s it,” Anne whispered, finally closing her book. She sat up, letting her own shirt dip off one shoulder. She felt a warm, slick pulse between her own legs. This was what she liked. The watching. The seeing. The raw, unfiltered want.
He crawled toward her, his movements awkward, porcine, his massive new body dragging. His swollen cock swung heavily beneath him, dripping clear fluid onto the floor. He reached the edge of her bed and buried his snout against her bare calf, snuffling, grunting.
“You’re a fucking mess, Jack,” she said, her voice cool even as she spread her legs slightly. The scent of her, musky and sweet, seemed to drive him into a frenzy. He tried to clamber onto the bed, his weight making the frame shriek in protest.
She pushed him back down to the floor with a firm hand on his sweaty forehead. “Uh-uh. You stay down there.”
He whined, a high-pitched, desperate sound. She swung her legs off the bed and stood over him. Looking down at the beast he’d become, her pussy throbbed. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her cotton shorts and panties, sliding them down her hips in one slow motion. She kicked them aside.
“You want this?” she murmured, spreading her lips with her fingers, showing him the glistening pink. “This what you’re sniffing for?”
He answered with a choked squeal, lunging forward. She let him. His mouth was hot and wet and clumsy against her cunt, his tongue lapping in broad, sloppy strokes. It wasn’t skilled. It was animalistic, frantic, and it made her thighs tremble. She tangled a hand in his hair, grinding herself against his face, moaning as the coarse stubble on his cheeks scratched her inner thighs.
“Yeah,” she hissed. “Just like that. You’re just a hungry little pig, aren’t you?”
She ground her cunt against his face, feeling his nose flatten against her clit. His tongue was a thick, desperate muscle pushing inside her, fucking her in short, sloppy jabs. Drool and her own wetness slicked her thighs, his chin. The room filled with the sounds of it—wet, slurping, animalistic.
“Fuck yeah, just like that,” Anne gasped, her head rolling back. She looked down at him, at the monstrous shape of him on all fours, and a fresh wave of heat pooled in her gut. She could feel him changing. It wasn’t just his mind. It was his body, still shifting.
As he ate her out with a frantic, starving hunger, his own body continued to swell. His neck thickened, rolls of fat pressing out over the collar of his shirt. The hard, bulging mass of his gut grew softer, wider, beginning to sag toward the floor. It jiggled with each eager thrust of his tongue. He was growing fatter, bloated by the act itself, his skin stretching taut and shiny. He grunted into her, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through her core, and with each grunt, another inch seemed to add to his sides.
His jeans, already torn, split completely at the seams around his ass, which was spreading, becoming two enormous, pale hemispheres. The fabric fell away in ribbons. He was a hog at a trough, and she was his meal. The more he consumed her taste, her scent, the more his own body inflated, a grotesque feedback loop of gluttony.
“You love it, don’t you?” she taunted, her voice tight with her own building pleasure. “You fat fuck. Look at you. Can’t even get enough to breathe, but you won’t stop.” She shoved his face deeper, fingers twisting in his hair. “Gorge yourself. Make yourself sick on it.”
His fingers, now thick and sausage-like, clawed at her hips, leaving red marks. He was enormous, a mound of quivering, hungry flesh anchored to her by his mouth. The bed frame groaned as she braced against it, her knees going weak. She could feel the climax coiling, a tight spring in her belly.
“Gonna come, pig,” she warned, her breath coming in sharp hitches. “You better swallow every fucking drop.”
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue finding a brutal, perfect rhythm. The fat around his neck wobbled. That was all it took. The spring snapped.
Anne cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound that wasn’t pretty. Her body bowed, waves of pure sensation rolling through her as she came against his mouth. He kept lapping, drinking her down, his own fattening body shuddering as if he were the one receiving the pleasure. She rode the convulsions, milking every last shock, until her legs gave out and she slumped back onto the edge of the bed, spent.
Jack finally pulled back, panting. His face was drenched, his lips swollen. His body was a bloated parody of a man, a vast landscape of pale flesh barely contained by tattered clothes. He looked up at her, eyes still dark with a stupid, unsated hunger. A thick strand of spit and her juices connected his mouth to her thigh.
He sniffed the air again, then his gaze drifted lower, to his own monstrous erection, which stood painfully hard and eager, jutting out from the ruin of his clothes. He let out a low, questioning grunt.