Chapter 10: Feeding the Beast (And the Soul)
The number 1,650 glowed in the humid bathroom air, a silent, electric verdict. Wendy stepped off the scale, the reinforced floor joists groaning a familiar song of strain. The step itself was a labor, a shifting of continental mass. She felt the weight in her knees, in the ache deep in her bones. The hollow feeling was still there, a vast, internal cavern, but its edges were blurred by a new, pervasive sensation: sheer, unadulterated bulk.
She looked at her reflection in the steam-fogged mirror, a colossal, blurry phantom. Jace was already at the custom tub, a monstrous porcelain and steel basin that looked like it belonged in an animal clinic, twisting the taps. The roar of water echoed off the tile.
“Come on,” he said, his voice tight with a focused energy. “We need to get you clean. Can’t have you chafing.”
Clean. The concept felt distant. Her skin was a map of sticky territories—dried syrup, sweat, the salty residue of his worship. She waddled the three steps to the tub’s edge, her thighs brushing together with a sound like wet sandpaper. Getting in was a ritual of grunts and careful leverage. She turned, gripped the steel support bars, and lowered herself backwards. Water, hot and instantly clouded, sloshed over the sides in a wave, soaking Jace’s socks. He didn’t flinch.
She settled, her immense body displacing a small lake. Her flesh billowed over the edges of the tub, a soft, pale dough rising over a bowl. Her double belly formed two separate islands, the lower one submerged, the upper one resting on the surface like a beached whale. Her breasts floated, massive and buoyant. There was no room for water; there was only Wendy.
Jace rolled up his sleeves. He grabbed the industrial sponge, a dense, yellow brick of foam, and a bottle of creamy, unscented wash. He began at her shoulders, his movements methodical, almost clinical. He scrubbed the broad plain of her back, his small hands working in circles, digging into the thick layer of flesh to reach the skin beneath. The sponge slid over the slope of her shoulder, down the immense roll of her side. He was thorough, rinsing, soaping, rinsing again.
But his clinical detachment began to fray as he worked his way down. When he reached the summit of her hip, his breathing changed. He soaped the sponge again and pushed it into the deep, dark crevasse where her belly met her thigh. It was a canyon of flesh, perpetually damp, a hidden, sensitive geography.
Wendy groaned, a low, seismic rumble. Her head lolled back against the tub’s rim. “Harder,” she muttered. “Feels like a bakery’s exploded in there.”
He obliged, pressing the sponge deep into the fold, working it back and forth. The intimacy of it was profound. This wasn’t arousal; it was maintenance. A necessary, grotesque tending to the monument he was helping her build. He cleaned the underside of her belly shelf, the skin there pale and delicate. He moved to the other side, repeating the process, his arm submerged to the elbow in the warm, soapy water between her body and the tub wall.
He worked his way up her front, over the staggering swell of her stomach. He cleaned around her navel, a deep, stretched pit. He soaped her floating breasts, lifting each heavy weight with a strained arm to wash beneath, where heat and moisture gathered. Her nipples, dark and wide, hardened under the rough texture of the sponge. A sharp gasp escaped her.
Jace’s eyes flicked up to hers. The clinical mask was gone, replaced by that familiar, dark heat. He dropped the sponge. It landed with a soft plop against her thigh. He used his hands, slick with soap, to cup her breast, his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles around her areola.
“You missed a spot,” Wendy growled, her voice thick. She didn’t look at him. She stared at the ceiling, her jaw set.
“Where?” His voice was a whisper.
She spread her thighs. The movement was limited, a slight shift that created a small valley in the water between the monumental slopes of her legs. The water there was clearer. Between the soft, inner flesh of her thighs, glistening and pink, was her cunt, swollen and exposed from the heat, the tiny curls of hair plastered dark.
He didn’t need a second invitation. He pushed the floating islands of her belly aside, a gesture of shocking intimacy, and wedged himself between the tub and her body. He lowered his face to the water’s surface and then beneath it.
The sensation was a white-hot bolt. The hot water, his hotter tongue, a dual assault on her most sensitive flesh. He didn’t come up for air. He ate her like a drowning man finding oxygen, his mouth sealed over her, his tongue driving into her opening, licking and sucking with a desperate, aquatic rhythm. Bubbles escaped from his nose, tickling her inner thighs.
Wendy’s hands, vast and clumsy, came down on his head, not pushing him away, but holding him there, grinding herself against his submerged face. The water churned. Her groans echoed off the tiles, deep and guttural. “Yeah… right there, you little… fuck… right there!”
He came up gasping, water streaming from his hair and nose. He was panting, his lips puffy. “Taste like soap and you,” he rasped, and went back down.
This time, his fingers joined, two pushing up inside her while his tongue focused on her clit. The stretch was nothing to her now, but the angle, the relentless pressure, the obscene wet sounds amplified by the water—it coiled the tension in her gut tighter and tighter. Her climax built from the depths, a slow-rolling wave of pressure that had nothing to do with subtlety. It was a physical eruption. Her body arched, what little it could, and she roared, a raw, animal sound that shook the bathroom fixtures. Water sloshed in a huge wave over the tub’s edge, flooding the floor around Jace’s knees. She clenched around his fingers, pulsing, her thighs trembling, threatening to trap his head in a vice of flesh.
When she finally stilled, he emerged, slick and breathless. He stood on shaky legs, water pouring from his jeans. He looked at her, a waterlogged idol in her porcelain altar, her chest heaving.
“Out,” she panted. “Get me out.”
Drying her was an even more Herculean task than washing. He used towels the size of small blankets, blotting the endless landscape of her skin. She stood, a dripping colossus, while he knelt, drying her legs, her feet, the treacherous, deep folds. He powdered them with cornstarch, his hands gentle in the crevices. The air grew thick with the smell of clean skin and baby powder.
He led her, naked and immense, to the bedroom. She didn’t lie down. She stood before the bed, her back to him, a mountain range silhouetted against the dim light.
“Jace.”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to fuck me. Right here. Right now.”
“How?”
“Figure it out.”
He understood. He moved the sturdy step-stool they used for her to access high shelves beside the bed. He climbed it. From this height, his pelvis was almost level with the incredible swell of her buttocks. He reached out, his hands sinking into the cool, powdered softness of her ass. He pulled her back towards him, just an inch. He fumbled with his wet jeans, freed his cock, which was hard and aching. He guided himself, pressing the head against the slick, swollen entrance he’d just been devouring.
He pushed. Even with the step, it was an awkward, straining angle. He had to lean forward, his chest pressed against the sheer cliff of her back, his feet braced on the stool. He slid into her, an inch, then two, then deeper. She was so wet, so impossibly deep and soft. He was engulfed, a tiny man trying to fuck a goddess.
He found a rhythm, short, driving thrusts that made the step-stool creak dangerously. His balls slapped against the under-curve of her ass. Each impact was a soft, wet smack.
“Is that all you’ve got?” she taunted, her voice a low rumble he felt through his chest. “All that feedin’ and you fuck like a tired kid.”
It ignited him. He grabbed two handfuls of her ass, his fingers digging into the fathomless softness, and fucked her harder, faster. The stool skidded on the floor with each thrust. He was grunting, animal sounds, each one punctuated by a drive of his hips.
“You’re nothing!” he spat, his voice cracking with effort. “Nothing but a fucking hole! A warm, fat hole for me to fill! You hear me? You’re my hole!”
“Yes!” she screamed, the word tearing from her. “I’m your hole! Your fat, useless hole! Stuff it! Ruin it!” She began to grow bigger,
Her words were the final trigger. His control shattered. With a broken cry, he slammed into her one last time, his body going rigid as he came, pouring himself into her depths in hot, pulsing jets. He collapsed forward, his face buried between her shoulder blades, his arms wrapped around the vast girth of her middle, clinging on as his orgasm subsided.
They stayed like that, connected, breathing in ragged unison. The only sound was the drip of water from the bathroom and the groan of the floorboards under their combined weight.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A trickle of his release mixed with her own fluids dripped down her inner thigh. He stepped down from the stool, his legs weak. He looked up at her. She hadn’t moved. She just stared at the wall, her expression unreadable.
“The goal,” she said, her voice flat, empty. “It’s not just a number anymore.”
“I know,” he said, wiping his mouth.
“It’s gonna change everything. I can feel it.” She finally turned, a slow, monumental rotation. Her eyes, when they found his, were not those of a victorious queen. They were the eyes of someone staring into a deep, dark well. “I’m not gonna fit, Jace. Not through the door. Not in the car. Not in the world.”
He reached out, placing a hand on the cool, vast curve of her stomach. “Then we’ll make a new world,” he said, and the quiet certainty in his voice was more terrifying than any filthy promise he’d ever whispered.
He meant it. The next morning, the world began to shrink. It started with the doorway. Wendy turned sideways, a practiced maneuver, but the familiar wooden frame caught the new, outermost curve of her hip. She paused, stuck for a beat, before pushing through with a grunt. A long, pale smear of plaster dust marked the paint where she’d rubbed against it.
“We’ll need to take the door off the hinges,” Jace said, observing from behind her. His tone was practical, like noting a grocery list item.
Wendy didn’t answer. She lumbered into the kitchen, her focus on the cathedral of food he’d constructed on the table. The spread was grotesque in its abundance. Two whole rotisserie chickens sat beside a vat of mashed potatoes dense with butter and cream. A baking dish of lasagna, its cheese crust bubbling from the oven, steamed next to a stack of buttermilk pancakes. A pitcher of heavy cream and a bowl of brown sugar stood sentinel.
“Two thousand requires fuel,” he said simply, pulling out her chair. It groaned in advance.
She ate. Not with the frantic greed of before, but with a steady, grim determination. She dismantled a chicken with her fingers, shoveling moist meat and salty skin into her mouth, swallowing with efficient gulps. She forked lasagna in dense, chewed blocks, following it with swigs of cream straight from the pitcher. Her body worked like a furnace, metabolizing, converting, storing. Jace watched, refilling plates, wiping grease from her chin with a tenderness that belied the scene.
During a pause, as she sucked cream from her thumb, he reached across to move the empty chicken tray. His hand brushed her wrist.
He stopped.
He looked at her hand, then at his own. He placed his palm flat against hers. Her fingers, once merely plump, now enveloped his completely. The width of her wrist nearly matched the span of his hand. This wasn’t just fat. The underlying structure had changed, thickened, as if her very skeleton was expanding to support the terrible, wonderful mass.
“Jesus,” he breathed, not with fear, but with awe. He looked up at her face, seeing the stronger line of her jaw, the broader set of her shoulders beneath the cascading flesh. “Wendy.”
“What?” she said, her mouth full.
“Give me your hand.” He stood up. She regarded him with dull curiosity and lifted her arm, a slow, weighty movement. He grasped her hand with both of his. Then, he placed his feet on the chair and leaned back, letting his full weight hang from her single upturned palm.
Her arm didn’t tremble. Her expression didn’t change. She held him there, suspended, his body dangling like a child’s from a jungle gym. She could lift him with one hand. He was small compared to her. Not just in weight, but in scale. A doll. A toy.
A sharp, electric thrill shot through him, straight to his groin. He dropped down, his knees weak for a new reason.
“You’re getting bigger,” he whispered. “Stronger.”
A flicker of something passed behind her eyes—not joy, but a deep, primal recognition of power. She looked at her own hand, flexing the massive fingers. “Guess I am,” she said, and reached for the lasagna dish, dragging it toward her with ease.
The feeds became more aggressive, more engineered. He blended sticks of butter into her milkshakes. He folded cans of coconut cream into her oatmeal. He bought protein powder meant for bulk-building athletes and mixed triple-scoops into everything. The scale became their altar. 1,730. 1,815. 1,900. The numbers leapt, defying biology.
Her clothes were the first casualties. Stretchy leggings split at the seams with a sound like gunshots. T-shirts strained across her back, the armholes tearing when she moved. Soon, she lived in a single, vast bedsheet he’d fashioned into a toga, the fabric struggling to contain the shelf of her breasts, the planet of her belly.
The sex changed too. It was less about fucking now, and more about her using him.
One afternoon, the gray light leaching through the dirty windows, she was sprawled on the reinforced couch, a half-eaten family-sized bag of cheese puffs balanced on her stomach. She was watching him tidy, a pointless endeavor. “Jace.”
He turned.
“I’m bored. Come here.”
He approached. She didn’t move from her reclined position. She simply opened her legs. The sheet fell away, revealing the dark, warm heart of her. She was always wet now, a constant slickness born of relentless fullness and hormonal tide.
“Eat,” she commanded, her voice a lazy rumble.
He knelt on the floor, his face level with her immense mound. The smell was musky, deeply female, layered with the salt of her sweat. He leaned in, his tongue finding her clit with practiced ease. He licked, slow circles, then faster flicks.
She didn’t moan. She watched him, her hand dipping into the bag of cheese puffs. She ate them one by one, the crunch loud in the quiet room. Her other hand came to rest on the back of his head, not guiding, just resting there, a heavy, possessive weight.
“Deeper,” she said, around a mouthful of snack.
He pushed his tongue inside her, fucking her with it. The taste was overwhelming, a tangy, complex musk. He reached up to knead the sprawling softness of her inner thigh.
“Uh-uh,” she chided softly. “Hands on the floor.”
He obeyed, placing his palms flat on the carpet. He was now just a mouth servicing her, his body hunched in subjugation. He redoubled his efforts, slurping at her, devoting himself to the single task of her pleasure. Her breathing hitched. The crunching stopped. Her hand fisted in his hair, holding him tight against her.
Her orgasm, when it came, was a slow, rolling quake. A deep, guttural “uh” that vibrated through her frame and into his mouth. She clenched around his tongue, a series of rhythmic pulses. She held him there until the last tremor passed, then pushed his head away, not ungently.
“Okay,” she sighed, a post-coital cigarette without the cigarette. She resettled herself, the couch groaning. “You can finish cleaning.”
He stumbled to his feet, his face slick, his cock aching and trapped in his jeans. He was just a tool she’d used. The realization was the most potent aphrodisiac he’d ever known.
Day bled into night. The world outside the apartment ceased to exist. Deliveries piled up outside the door. Jace became a porter, hauling in boxes of groceries, supplements, buckets of ice cream. He stopped going to work. His editor’s calls went unanswered, then stopped.
One evening, standing naked on the scale, Wendy watched the numbers flicker and lock. 2,147.
Silence hung in the bathroom, thick as the humidity from her constant heat. She’d done it. She’d surpassed the goal. The hollow feeling yawned wider, deeper.
“It’s not enough,” she said, her voice echoing off the tiles. It wasn’t a complaint. It was a diagnosis.
Jace, wiping steam from the mirror to see her reflection, met her eyes. The quiet certainty was still there, but it had hardened into something fanatical. “I know.”
He walked to the tub, not to draw water, but to retrieve something hidden behind it. A new, unopened container of protein powder, this one labeled for serious mass gain. The bucket was industrial, the size of a small trash can.
“We go until you’re full,” he said, hefting it onto the counter. “However long it takes. However big you get.”
Wendy stepped off the scale. The floor trembled. She looked at the bucket, then at her own vast reflection, a creature of limitless appetite and growing power. She looked at Jace, her tiny, devoted enabler.
“Okay,” she said.
And the feeding began again.