Chapter 6: Food-Fueled Fucking
The clean kitchen held its breath around them. The smell of sex and marinara hung in the air, a bizarre perfume. Jace washed the skillet, his movements easy. Wendy leaned against the counter, the robe loosely tied, watching the efficient play of muscle in his back. The silence wasn’t empty. It was a living thing, pulsing with everything they’d just done.
“I should go,” he said, not turning around. The words were soft, but they landed like stones.
Her heart clenched. Here it was. The polite exit. The morning after, extended through an entire day of shocking intimacy. Of course. Reality was a door she’d been waiting for him to walk through. She nodded, though he couldn’t see it. “Right. Of course.”
He turned off the water and turned around, drying his hands on the towel. He looked at her face, saw the shutters coming down. He crossed the space between them in two strides. “To get food,” he said, his voice firm. “My place has a cardboard box of stale crackers and a fossilized lime. Your fridge, while improved, is still a testament to single-serving despair.” He reached up, his hand cupping her jaw. His thumb stroked the soft skin under her eye. “I’m coming back. I’m just going to get us real groceries. And maybe a new bedframe.”
The relief was so violent it felt like nausea. She swallowed it down. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He kissed her, a quick, hard press of his lips. “What do you want? For real. Not what you think you should say.”
She thought of the cold pizza from the night before, still sitting in its box in the bedroom. She thought of the gnawing, ever-present hollow in her gut. “A pizza,” she said, the confession small. “A huge one. From Gino’s. The one with the pepperoni that cups and holds the grease.”
He grinned. “Perfect. I’ll be back in forty minutes. Don’t move.” He dressed quickly, gave her one more searching look, and let himself out.
The apartment was suddenly, deafeningly quiet. The clean floors seemed to mock her. She felt unmoored, her body still humming, her mind a riot. She waddled to the bedroom. The broken bedframe, a splintered monument to their first night, lay at a drunken angle. The empty pizza box from yesterday sat on the floor beside it, a single congealed slice remaining. She stared at it. A symbol of her old life. Lonely, secretive, consumed in the dark.
She didn’t want that anymore.
When Jace returned, his arms straining with grocery bags and a long, flat box from a hardware store, he found her in the living room. She had changed. Not into nice clothes, but into a vast, stretchy black tank top and a pair of leggings so stretched at the thighs they were nearly sheer. She looked comfortable. She looked like herself.
“The bedframe can wait,” he said, dropping the bags on the now-clean coffee table. He pulled out the pizza box first. It was enormous, the heat from it radiating through the cardboard. The smell of baked dough, spicy pepperoni, and melted cheese filled the room. He opened it. The pizza was a masterpiece of gluttony—thick crust, a lake of orange grease pooling in each pepperoni cup, cheese stretched into golden strings.
“Fuck yes,” Wendy breathed, her hands actually trembling.
Jace kicked off his shoes, grabbed a throw pillow, and lay down on the floor in front of the couch. He looked up at her, his eyes dark. “Sit,” he said, patting his chest.
She understood. A slow, hot thrill shot through her. She lowered herself onto him, her back against the couch, her immense weight settling over his torso and pelvis. He groaned, a sound of pure satisfaction, as the air was pressed from his lungs. He was pinned, utterly. His hands came up to rest on the mountainous curves of her hips.
“You’re crushing me,” he rasped, smiling. “It’s amazing.”
She reached forward, her body folding over him, and grabbed the first slice. It was almost too hot to handle. She lifted it, a curtain of cheese stretching from box to mouth, and took a huge, messy bite. The flavors exploded—garlicky sauce, salty meat, rich fat. An involuntary, guttural moan vibrated through her and into his body.
Beneath her, she felt him harden. The pressure of his growing erection pressed against the seam of her leggings, right at the cleft of her ass. She shifted, grinding down deliberately. He gasped.
“Eat,” he commanded, his voice tight. “And fuck me.”
She took another bite, chewing open-mouthed, grease coating her lips. With her other hand, she yanked the waistband of her leggings and his sweatpants down just enough. She reached between her own legs, guiding him. He was slick with pre-come. She positioned the fat head of his cock at her entrance, already wet for him. Then she sank down.
The sensation of being filled as the food hit her stomach was overwhelming. He was buried to the hilt inside her, her own weight impaling her on him. She cried out around a mouthful of pizza.
“That’s it,” Jace grunted, his hands sliding up to grip the enormous swell of her ass. He squeezed the massive cheeks, spreading them slightly. “Ride me. Use me. Fuck yourself on my cock while you eat.”
She began to move. It was a slow, grinding bounce, her huge body rising and falling on him. Each descent forced a choked sound from him and a shudder of pleasure through her. She ate ravenously, slice after slice, the grease from the pizza dripping from her chin onto his shirt, onto his neck. She was a machine of consumption, fucking and eating in a primal, synchronized rhythm.
His hands were everywhere. Gripping her ass, spanking the jiggling flesh hard enough to leave red prints. Sliding up under her tank top to knead the heavy, pendulous weight of her breasts. Pinching her nipples until she arched her back and swore.
“You’re so fucking deep,” she panted, cheese stringing from her mouth. “I can feel you in my guts.”
“You’re swallowing me,” he corrected, his hips bucking up to meet her downward grind. “Your cunt’s so hot and tight, it’s fucking milking me. Don’t stop eating.”
She grabbed another slice, folding it and stuffing half of it into her mouth. She was a mess. Grease and sauce smeared across her face, her chest. Her body was slick with sweat. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of their union, her noisy chewing, his ragged gasps for air beneath her colossal weight. Though some how she felt way bigger.
The pizza was half gone. Her stomach, pressed against him, was a taut, full drum. The pleasure was coiling again, a double helix of gluttony and lust. “I’m close,” she warned, her voice guttural, almost unrecognizable.
“Come all over my dick,” he growled. “Soak me. Let me feel you come while your mouth is full.”
He slapped her ass again, a sharp crack that echoed in the room. The sting pushed her over. The orgasm tore through her, a catastrophic unraveling that made her convulse. Her inner muscles clamped around his length in violent, rhythmic pulses. She screamed, the sound muffled by the food in her mouth.
It triggered his own release. With a shout that was more roar than words, he came, his hips jerking off the floor as he emptied himself inside her. His grip on her ass was iron-tight, holding her down as he pumped his seed deep into her clenching heat.
The aftershocks left them both trembling. Wendy finished chewing, swallowed, and then let her head fall back, spent. The empty pizza box was within reach. The remaining slices were cold. She didn’t care.
Gradually, their breathing slowed. The room came back—the lamplight, the smell of sex and pepperoni, the hard floor beneath them. Jace’s hands gentled, stroking the warm, sweaty skin of her hips.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She nodded, her body too heavy to move. “You’re… stuck.”
“I’m exactly where I want to be.” He shifted slightly, wincing as he slipped out of her. He tugged their clothing back into place. “We’re gonna need a shower. Again.”
Later, under the hot spray, he soaped her body with a reverence that made her throat tight. He washed the grease from her skin, the sweat from between her folds, kissing each part as he cleaned it. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to but again he noticed she was bigger.
In the freshly made bed—the new, sturdy frame assembled in a blur of his determined effort—they lay together in the dark. Her body was a vast landscape against his small, solid form. His head rested on the soft pillow of her upper belly, rising and falling with her breath.
The hunger was quiet. For now, it was a distant murmur, sated on more than food.
“Jace?” Her voice was a whisper in the dark.
“Hmm?”
“This can’t be real.”
He lifted his head, a darker shadow in the shadows. “Why not?”
“Because things like this… they don’t happen to me. I break beds. I eat whole pizzas in one sitting. I take up space.”
He leaned up and kissed the curve of her breast. “You do. And I fit perfectly in the space you make.” He settled back down. “Go to sleep, Wendy.”
She closed her eyes. For the first time in memory, the terrifying thought of tomorrow didn’t fill her with dread. It flickered, a small and fragile light, holding the shape of his body beside hers. The hunger was sleeping. But it was still there. And it had learned a new, more dangerous taste.
And it had learned a new, more dangerous taste. It woke her before dawn, a hollow twisting deep in her gut that had nothing to do with food. The solid warmth of Jace against her side felt alien. Wonderful, but terrifying. She stared at the unfamiliar ceiling of her own bedroom, the new bedframe silent and sturdy beneath them. He had done that. He had come back.
His breathing was a soft, even rhythm in the dark. She carefully extracted herself, the mattress groaning in relief as her immense weight shifted off it. She needed to move, to think. She pulled on her robe and padded into the living room. The clean lines of the space in the moonlight felt like a museum of someone else’s life. Her eyes went to the spot on the floor near the coffee table. The phantom smell of pepperoni and sex seemed to linger there.
She opened the refrigerator, its light a sterile blue intruder. The groceries he’d bought sat in neat rows: eggs, spinach, Greek yogurt. Virtuous, foreign things. Her fingers twitched toward the yogurt. She pulled it out, along with a spoon. She ate it standing at the counter. It was tart, clean. It did nothing. The hunger prowled, unsatisfied.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She jumped. He stood in the doorway, naked, his small frame silhouetted. He didn’t move to cover himself.
“The bed’s too quiet,” she said, the lie sour on her tongue. She put the yogurt down.
He walked to her, his bare feet silent on the clean floor. He took the spoon from her hand and scooped the last of the yogurt. He ate it, watching her. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He placed his hands on her waist, his touch firm through the thin robe. “Talk to me.”
The words felt like splinters in her throat. “This is a lot.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.” She pulled away, the robe gaping. “You see this… project. A fixer-upper. The fat girl with the fucked-up life. You get to be the hero. The good guy.” The old, venomous script poured out, fueled by fear. “It’s a novel fuck. It’ll wear off.”
His expression didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. He just crossed his arms over his chest. “Finished?”
Her breath hitched. “Maybe.”
“Good.” He stepped closer again, invading her space. “First, I’m not a hero. I’m a selfish bastard. I’m here because the sight of your ass makes my mouth water. I’m here because the sound you make when you come is the best thing I’ve ever heard. I’m here because I want to be.” He poked a finger into the softness of her belly. “This isn’t a project. This is a prize. My prize. And I’m keeping it.”
She stared at him, her heart hammering. The crude, possessive words should have offended her. Instead, they unraveled something tight in her chest. They felt real.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping. “I think you need to not think for a while.” He took her hand. “Come with me.” He looked up at her and she seemed even more enormous’
He led her not to the bedroom, but to the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. It was old, speckled with flaws. He positioned her in front of it, her massive body reflected in the dim morning light. He stood behind her, a stark contrast of compact muscle against her vast, soft landscape.
“Look,” he said, his mouth near her ear. “I want you to watch.”
He untied her robe. It slithered down her arms and pooled at her feet. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin. She wanted to look away, to hide the rolling hills of her stomach, the thick pillars of her thighs. He held her gaze in the mirror.
“Watch what I do to you.” His hands came around to cup her breasts, weighing them in his palms. His thumbs scraped over her nipples, and she saw her own eyes flutter in the glass. “See how perfect you are.”
He sank to his knees behind her. His hands slid down her sides, over the breathtaking curve of her hips, gripping the staggering swell of her ass. He spread her cheeks. The cool air touched her most private place. She whimpered.
“Watch,” he commanded again.
He buried his face between her legs from behind. His tongue was a hot, relentless point, licking a firm stripe from her entrance up to her clit. She cried out, her hands slapping against the mirror for balance. The sight was obscene—his head vanished between the massive globes of her ass, his shoulders working as he ate her out with brutal focus.
“Oh, God, Jace…”
“Eyes open,” he growled, his voice muffled against her flesh.
She forced herself to watch. To see the reality of it. This beautiful, fit man on his knees, devouring her. His tongue fucked into her, then circled her clit with dizzying speed. Drool and her own wetness shone on his chin. It was the most degrading, most empowering thing she’d ever seen.
Pleasure, sharp and electric, jagged up her spine. Her legs trembled. “I’m gonna fall.”
“No, you’re not.” He stood up swiftly, his own cock jutting against her lower back. He was rock hard. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and without ceremony, guided himself inside her from behind. The angle was deep, merciless. She gasped, watching her own mouth fall open in the mirror.
He fucked her like that, his hands clamped on her hips for leverage. Each thrust rocked her forward, her belly swaying, her breasts bouncing. The mirror shook. His eyes in the reflection were black with lust, locked on hers.
“See how you take me?” he grunted, his pace punishing. “See how your perfect, fat cunt swallows my dick whole?”
She could see it. The obscene, wet joining of them. The way her body yielded to him, accepted him, milking his length with each drive forward. The visual broke her. It shattered the last of her cerebral resistance. This was animal. This was real.
“Fuck me,” she begged, the words raw. “Fuck me, you bastard. Don’t stop.”
He obeyed. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. He pounded into her, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the quiet room. She could feel every ridge, every vein of him. The coil in her gut was a white-hot wire, fraying.
“I’m close,” he warned, his breath ragged in her ear.
“Me too.” She was teetering, the world narrowing to the sight in the glass and the savage fullness splitting her open. “Come in me. Fill me up. I want to feel it.”
With a final, brutal snarl, he slammed home and held. His body locked. She felt the hot, urgent pulse of his release flooding her depths. The feeling of him throbbing inside her, of being claimed so completely, triggered her own climax.
It tore through her without grace. A raw, screaming thing that clenched around him, wringing out every last drop. Her vision whited out at the edges. Her knees buckled, but he held her up, pressed against her, both of them shaking through the aftershocks, still joined, staring at their wrecked reflections.
Slowly, he softened. He slipped out of her. A trickle of his spend trailed down her inner thigh. He didn’t move away. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his own breathing gradually slowing. In the mirror, she saw his closed eyes, his face pressed against her back.
She saw herself. Flushed, sweating, thoroughly used. And she saw something else in her own eyes she didn’t recognize. A kind of weary, sated peace.
He finally stirred, lifting his head. He met her gaze in the glass. A slow, exhausted smile touched his lips. “Breakfast?” he asked, as if they’d just discussed the weather.
A laugh bubbled out of her, shaky and real. “Yeah,” she said. “But I’m making the eggs this time.”
“But I’m making the eggs this time,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
She turned from the mirror, the robe whispering against her skin as she picked it up. She didn’t put it on. She walked naked to the clean kitchen, the morning light now stark through the window. Jace followed, pulling on his briefs. He watched her wrestle the new carton of eggs from the fridge, her movements deliberate. The silence was comfortable, filled with the crack of shells on the bowl’s rim, the whisk scraping ceramic.
“Sunny side up?” he asked, hopping onto a cleared section of counter to watch.
“Over hard.” She poured the yellow scramble into the hot, buttered pan. It sizzled, the smell immediate and comforting. “Crispy edges. Everything should have a crispy edge.” She glanced at him. “You’re staring again.”
“I’m learning,” he said simply. He reached out, his hand resting on the curve of her hip. His fingers spanned a wider arc than they had yesterday. He didn’t remark on it. He just traced the new territory with his thumb. “You move differently when you cook. Like you own the ground under you.”
She flipped the eggs with a practiced jerk of the pan. “It’s the only thing I ever learned to do right.” The admission hung there, raw. She plated the eggs, a huge, golden portion for her, a smaller one for him. She set his plate on the counter beside his thigh, then leaned against the opposite counter to eat hers standing. The first bite was good. Simple. Real.
He ate quietly for a moment. “My editor called while I was at the store last night. Wants me to pitch a feature series. Human interest stuff.”
She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Yeah? What’s your angle?”
He looked directly at her. “You.”
The fork clattered against her plate. “Absolutely not.”
“Not like that.” He slid off the counter, coming to stand before her. He took her free hand. “Not a freak show. The opposite. A series on visibility. On people who exist outside the frames cameras are built to hold. Starting with a bank teller in a small city who has to order her shoes from a specialty catalog, who can quote Milton, and who has the most devastating smile I’ve ever seen.”
Her throat tightened. “I’m not a human interest story, Jace. I’m a cautionary tale.”
“You’re a person,” he insisted, his grip firm. “A person I see. I want to write what I see. With respect. With honesty.” He hesitated. “It would mean interviews. Time. Me being here with a notebook, sometimes. Not just… this.”
This. The sex. The eating. The raw, screaming privacy of it. The thought of his professional scrutiny made her skin crawl. It felt like an invasion of the only pure space she’d ever known. But another part, a tiny, starved part, whispered: He wants to tell people you exist.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Think about it.” He kissed her forehead, then returned to his eggs. “No pressure. Just an idea.”
She finished her food, the eggs like paste in her mouth now. The hunger, momentarily quieted, stirred again. It was different. Deeper. A hollow not in her stomach, but in her bones. She washed the plates, her body feeling strangely buoyant and heavy all at once. She reached for the top shelf to put away a bowl, a shelf she usually needed the step-stool for. Her fingertips brushed it easily.
She froze. She looked at her arm, stretched above her. It was longer. The flesh of her upper arm was fuller, rounder, straining the skin. She lowered it slowly.
“Everything okay?” Jace asked, drying the skillet.
“Fine.” Her voice sounded distant. She turned, and the world seemed subtly lower. The countertop felt farther down. When she walked toward the living room, her perspective was altered, the ceiling closer. A thick, deep ache settled into her joints, a feeling of expansion, of tissues stretching under a relentless, internal pressure. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was powerful. She felt a surge of need, hot and urgent, between her legs.
Jace came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. He had to reach up higher. He nuzzled the small of her back, now broader, a wider plane of flesh. “You feel… incredible,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to cup the heavier, fuller weight of her breasts. They spilled over his hands more completely than before.
She pushed back against him, grinding her ass against his groin. The casual, possessive touch ignited the strange new energy in her blood. “I need you,” she said, the words a low command. “Now. On the floor. Like last night.”
He didn’t question it. He let go, shoving the clean coffee table aside with a grunt. It screeched across the boards. He lay down, pulling his briefs off, his cock already stiff. “Come and get me.”
She didn’t lower herself gently. She turned and dropped, one knee landing on either side of his hips, her immense form towering over him. The floor vibrated. The shadow she cast completely enveloped him. Looking down at him, the difference in their size was more pronounced than ever. He looked like a doll beneath her. The sight sent a jolt of pure, predatory heat straight to her core.
She was so wet it dripped onto his stomach. She reached down, fisted his cock, and guided it to her. She didn’t sink onto it. She impaled herself on it in one brutal, downward slam.
“Christ!” he yelled, his back arching off the floor. She was so deep he could feel the head of his cock pressing against a place that had never been touched. Her inner walls were a vise, a hot, silken fist squeezing the breath from his lungs.
She began to ride him, a relentless, piston-like motion. Her thighs, thicker now, powerful, drove her up and down. Her belly, a vast continent of flesh, swayed and jiggled with each movement. The sounds were wet, meaty, primal. She leaned forward, placing her hands on the floor by his head, caging him in. Her breasts hung above his face, larger, heavier, the nipples brushing his lips.
“Suck them,” she growled.
He obeyed, taking one into his mouth, sucking hard, nipping with his teeth. The dual sensation of his mouth on her breast and his cock spearing her guts made her vision blur. She fucked him harder, faster, the new strength in her body a terrifying marvel. The floorboards protested. A picture frame rattled on the wall.
“You’re so… fucking… big,” he choked out between sucks on her breast.
“You feel smaller,” she moaned, the truth of it fueling her. She was a tidal wave, and he was the shore she was devouring. The pleasure built, a cresting wave of pressure that had less to do with her clit and everything to do with the profound, stretching fullness of him inside her expanding body. “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fucking break you.”
“Do it.” His hands scrambled to grip her ass, but he could barely get his arms around the new, wider hemispheres. He gripped what he could, his fingers sinking into the softness. “Come on my dick. Drown me in it.”
Her orgasm wasn’t a climax; it was an conquest. It tore through her with a force that made her scream, a raw, animal sound that shook the windows. Her cunt clamped down on him in a series of brutal, rhythmic pulses, milking him violently. She ground down, rotating her hips, forcing every last inch of him to bear witness.
He came with a shattered cry, his body seizing beneath her monumental weight. He spilled into her, his release feeling like a distant, warm trickle against the cataclysm of her own. She collapsed forward, careful to keep her weight on her forearms, her breath roaring in her ears. Her body felt huge, spent, magnificent. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest through layers of flesh.
They lay there, glued together by sweat and spend. Minutes passed. The sun climbed higher.
Finally, he patted her side weakly. “Wendy. Can’t breathe.”
She lifted herself off him, the separation a slick, shocking emptiness. She rolled onto her back beside him, staring at the ceiling that now seemed to press down just a little bit more. Her body felt alien. A conquered territory. She was larger. Unmistakably, undeniably larger.
Jace propped himself up on an elbow, looking at her. He didn’t look scared. He looked… fascinated. His eyes traveled the new expanse of her. He placed a hand on her stomach, his whole palm covering only a fraction of the curve.
“What’s happening to me?” she whispered, the fear finally seeping through.
He shook his head slowly, his journalist’s mind clearly whirring behind his eyes. But all he said was, “I don’t know.” He leaned over and kissed her shoulder, a point that seemed farther for him to reach. “But I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out.”
He got up, fetched a blanket from the couch, and draped it over her. He lay back down beside her, his small body a line of heat against the sprawling map of hers. The hunger inside her wasn’t gone. It was just changing shape, growing new, unknown teeth. And as she felt his breathing even out into sleep, she stared at the too-close ceiling, wondering what, exactly, she was going to become.