Chapter 7: The Feed & Fuck
The mattress, a continent of memory foam, surrendered deeper beneath her. Wendy lay sprawled across it, the morning sun cutting through the blinds to stripe the new, shocking terrain of her body. The blanket Jace had draped over her hours before was now a lost token, buried somewhere in the valley between her belly and thighs. She was naked. The air in the room tasted of salt-dried sweat and sex, but underneath it was something else, a faint, metallic sweetness she couldn’t name.
She felt the difference before she fully saw it. The bed, the new, industrial-grade one Jace had assembled, felt smaller. Her arms, when she stretched, seemed to reach farther, the meat of her upper arms pressing heavily against the sides of her own torso. She lifted a hand, turning it before her face. The fingers were thicker, the palm broader, a strong, fleshy paddle. A deep, pleasant ache resonated in her bones, a cellular hum of expansion.
The front door clicked open. She heard the rustle of a paper bag, his footsteps—light, familiar—then a pause in the living room.
“Wendy?”
“In here,” she called. Her voice was the same, but it seemed to come from a larger chamber in her chest.
He appeared in the doorway, a brown paper bag in one arm. He’d showered at his place, dressed in clean jeans and a grey t-shirt that clung to his compact frame. His eyes traveled over her, and she watched his journalist’s mind record the data. The widening of his pupils wasn’t just arousal; it was assessment.
“You went out,” she said.
“Baker’s Delight opened at six. Got the good stuff.” He held up the bag. “Raspberry cream puffs. Chocolate éclares. Those bear claws you mentioned.” He approached the bed, which now came up to his mid-thigh. He had to place a hand on the mattress and hoist himself up to sit beside her mountainous hip. The bed groaned a profound, bass-note complaint. “You’ve… grown.”
“You noticed.”
“It’s kind of hard to miss.” He didn’t sound afraid. He sounded captivated. He reached out and laid his hand on the swell of her stomach. His entire hand, spread wide, covered a laughably small portion. “Does it hurt?”
“No. It feels… full. Like I’m packed tight.” She shifted, a seismic event on the mattress. “What’s in the bag besides pastries?”
He blinked, then gave a wry smile. “You don’t miss a trick. A notebook. A tape recorder. I was going to ask you about the series.”
She looked at the bag, then at him. The hunger uncoiled, a twin serpent: one in her gut, one lower down. “Feed me first,” she said. Her tone brooked no argument. “Then we’ll talk.”
A slow smile spread across his face. He understood the game. He opened the bag, and the scent of baked sugar, yeast, and vanilla cream flooded the room, mixing with the musk of their earlier exertions. He pulled out a raspberry cream puff, the size of his fist. The powdered sugar dusted his fingertips.
“Open,” he said.
She obeyed, her mouth opening wide. He didn’t just place it in; he pushed it in, his fingers tracing her lips, smearing icing. She closed her mouth around it, and the shell shattered, the cold, rich cream bursting over her tongue. She moaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure. As she chewed, she let her legs fall open, a deliberate, slow movement that made the mattress tilt. Her hand drifted down between her thick, meaty thighs. Her fingers found her clit, already swollen and slick.
Jace’s breath hitched. He watched her hand work, her eyes locked on his as she swallowed the first pastry. “Another,” she demanded, cream at the corner of her mouth.
He fumbled for an éclair, the long choux pastry filled with dark chocolate cream. He held it to her lips. She took half of it in one bite, the chocolate smearing across her chin. Her fingers moved faster, a rough, circular rhythm. The sound was wet, obscenely loud in the sunlit room.
“Stuff me full,” she growled around the mouthful. Her belly let out a long, low gurgle, a cavernous echo of the food hitting the bottomless pit. “Feed my face while I fuck myself.”
He was hard, visibly straining against his jeans. He fed her the rest of the éclair, then a bear claw, flakes of almond and glaze catching in the dense hair between her legs. He watched, mesmerized, as she gorged and masturbated, her body a temple of consumption. Her tits, heavier and fuller on her chest, jiggled with the motion of her arm. The fatty shelves of her stomach rolled and settled with each massive breath.
She finished the bear claw, licking his fingers clean with a rough, hungry swipe of her tongue. “Your turn,” she panted. “Get your cock out. I want to taste it while I come.”
He scrambled out of his jeans and briefs, his erection springing free. He knelt on the bed, shuffling forward until he was positioned above her face. She didn’t wait. Her huge hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, guiding him into her mouth. She took him deep, her mouth a hot, sucking cavern. He cried out, his hands tangling in her hair.
Below, her fingers worked furiously, plunging in and out of her own soaked cunt now, the squelching sounds mingling with her greedy sucking. The stimulation was everywhere—sugar on her tongue, salt of his skin, the tight, familiar coil in her core winding beyond bearing. She looked up at him, his face twisted in pleasure, and she redoubled her efforts, bobbing her head, taking him all the way to the back of her throat.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, the words vibrating around his cock. “I’m gonna fucking drown.”
That was all it took. With a shout, he erupted, pulsing hot jets of come down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, greedily, as her own orgasm detonated. It was a blackout surge, a convulsion that made her back arch clear off the bed, her massive body forming a trembling bridge. Her cunt clenched on nothing, gushing wetness onto the sheets beneath her. She screamed, the sound muffled by his still-throbbing cock.
He collapsed beside her head, spent. She released him with a final, wet pop, panting, cream and come smeared across her chin. The room stank of sex, sweat, and pastry.
For a long time, only their ragged breaths filled the space. Finally, Jace reached for the discarded paper bag. He pulled out a small, black notebook and a slim digital recorder. He placed them on the nightstand, next to a sweating glass of water that seemed doll-sized now.
“The series,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I want to call it ‘The Gravity of Living.’ It starts with you.”
She turned her head to look at him. The post-coital haze was fading, replaced by a sharp, clear apprehension. “You saw all that. You just… recorded it in your head. Didn’t you?”
“I’m a reporter. It’s what I do.” He met her gaze. “But this isn’t about scandal. It’s about scale. About what it means to occupy space in a world that wants you to shrink. The logistics. The psychology. The hunger.” He glanced at the empty pastry bag. “All of it.”
“People will laugh. Or vomit.”
“Some will,” he admitted. “But others will see themselves. Or they’ll see a person, not a spectacle.” He paused. “We can set boundaries. You read everything. You have final say. No photos unless you want them.”
She stared at the ceiling. The sun had moved, the stripes of light now lying across her gargantuan breasts. She felt his seed inside her stomach, his come in her belly. He was inside her in every way possible. The thought of his words, his analysis, joining that intimate colonization was terrifying. Yet, a part of her, the part that had screamed while coming, wanted it. Wanted to be seen, documented, understood in her terrifying new reality.
“Ask your questions,” she said quietly.
He clicked the recorder on. Its red light glowed like a tiny, cyborg eye. He picked up his notebook. “Okay.” He took a breath, shifting into a professional gear that was, in its own way, another kind of intimacy. “Logistics first. You work at First Mercantile Bank. Tell me about the chairs.”
She let out a short, sharp laugh. “They broke. For years. I’d sit down, and crack. Plastic, wood, didn’t matter. I became a preemptive apology. ‘Sorry about the chairs.’ They finally special-ordered one from a company that makes furniture for… for large people. Steel frame. No arms. It sighs when I sit down. My teller station is at the end. They had to move the next station over two feet so I could get in and out.”
He was scribbling, not looking at her, letting her talk. “And the clients? Reactions?”
“The old men call me ‘young lady’ and don’t know where to look. The women, sometimes they get this pinched look, like they’re afraid it’s contagious. Kids just stare. Once a little boy asked his mother if I was a building.” She smiled, a bitter twist of her lips. “I liked that. A building is solid. Useful.”
“And the hunger? When did it start?”
The question hung in the air. The red light glowed. She closed her eyes. “It was always there. A quiet hum. Then it became a whisper. Then a shout. Now… now it’s the fucking bassline to everything. I eat and it’s like throwing sand into a black hole. The pleasure is real, but it’s gone the second I swallow. Then it’s just… emptiness, waiting for the next thing to fill it.” She opened her eyes, looked at him. “Until you. You fill a different hole. It… it sticks for a while.”
He stopped writing. Looked at the recorder, then reached over and clicked it off. The light died. “Off the record,” he said, his voice soft. “This… growth. What do you think it is?”
Tears, hot and sudden, pricked her eyes. “I don’t know. It feels… metabolic. Like my body’s finally gotten the fuel it’s been screaming for and it’s just… building. Making more of me. Like I’m under construction.”
He put the notebook down, slid off the bed, and walked around to her side. He knelt on the floor beside her, his face level with her stomach. He leaned forward and pressed his ear against the stretched, warm skin of her lower belly. He listened.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice thick.
“Listening to the construction site.” He stayed there, his cheek flush against her. “It’s loud. Gurgles and shifts.” He turned his head and kissed her there, a soft, lingering press. “You’re the most fascinating thing I’ve ever known.”
The tenderness was worse than the lust. It cracked her open. A sob escaped her. He climbed back onto the bed, curling his body against the colossal curve of her side, holding her as she shook. He didn’t offer platitudes. He just held on.
When the storm passed, she felt hollowed out and, somehow, larger. The aches in her bones had deepened. She glanced toward her closet. The full-length mirror on the door reflected a sliver of the bed—the wave of her hip, the cliff-face of her thigh. It looked like a landscape from a dream.
“Jace,” she whispered.
“Hmm?”
“I need to see. All of me. Help me up.”
It was a production. He had to get off the bed, brace himself, and pull. She rolled, heaved, planted her tree-trunk legs on the floor. The wood creaked ominously. When she stood, upright, the room seemed to shrink. The ceiling was definitely closer. She had to be pushing eight-four, eight-five. Her head felt light, the blood rushing to adjust. She waddled to the mirror, Jace following like a dinghy behind a tanker.
She saw herself.
The woman in the glass was a titan. Her shoulders were broad, a mountain range draped in living flesh. Her breasts were colossal melons hanging to her mid-belly, which itself rolled outward in two distinct, heavy shelves before descending toward the dense thatch of hair between her thighs. Her ass was a wide, breathtaking parabola of flesh that seemed to have its own gravitational field. Her thighs, thicker than Jace’s torso, were etched with new stretch marks, silvery threads on the canvas of her skin.
She saw the awe on his face in the reflection. And she saw her own. Not horror. Not yet. A kind of stunned reverence.
“The story,” she said, her voice a low rumble. “You can write it.”
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his hands unable to meet across the girth of her waist. He looked at their reflection—the impossible juxtaposition. “Thank you.”
Her stomach let out a roar, a sound of tectonic plates shifting. The emptiness rushed back in, sharper, hungrier. The brief satiation from the pastries and his body was utterly gone. She looked away from the magnificent monster in the mirror and down at the top of his head.
“Now,” she said, the hunger coating the word in desperation, “order more food. Everything on the menu. I’m… I’m not finished.”
“I’m… I’m not finished.”
He didn’t question it. He pulled out his phone, ordered two of every large pizza from Gino’s, three orders of garlic knots, and two liters of soda. Then he called the Chinese place down the block and repeated the process. When he hung up, the quiet felt anticipatory, charged. Wendy remained before the mirror, her breath fogging the glass.
“It doesn’t stop,” she said, not looking at him.
“No.” He stepped closer, his reflection a smudge against her monument. “It doesn’t seem to.”
The food arrived in waves, carried by wide-eyed delivery drivers Jace met at the door. He paid in cash, tipping heavily, stacking the steaming boxes on the kitchen counter until the Formica disappeared. The apartment filled with a greasy, competing symphony of smells—oregano, soy sauce, fried dough.
Wendy ate at the table, which groaned under her elbows. Jace served as busboy and waiter, fetching plates, opening boxes, refilling her cup. She consumed with a silent, terrifying focus. A large pizza vanished in minutes, the crusts snapped like twigs between her stronger teeth. She dunked entire garlic knots into cups of marinara, swallowing them in two bites. She shoveled lo mein into her mouth with plastic forks that bent under the weight of the noodles.
He took notes, mental ones. The way her jaw worked, a powerful piston. The way her throat convulsed with each massive swallow. The sheer tonnage.
She finished the last container of sweet and sour chicken, licking the red glaze from her fingers. She sat back. The chair emitted a sustained, plastic creak of distress. Her stomach, visibly distended, pressed against the edge of the table, pushing it forward. She looked sated, for a moment. Then her eyes, dark and insatiable, found his.
“Now you,” she said.
He understood. He cleared the table, shoving the mountain of empty boxes onto the floor. He came to her, unbuckled his belt. She didn’t move from the chair. She simply spread her legs, which now scraped against the table’s underside. The air between them was thick with the smell of her feast. He positioned himself, entering her where she sat, her cunt hot and slick and still loose from their earlier fucking. He braced his hands on the back of the chair, which rocked dangerously with each thrust.
“You’re my good little feeder, aren’t you?” she grunted, her hands gripping the mounds of her own belly.
“Yes.” The admission was punched out of him with each drive forward.
“You love watching me become this.”
“God, yes.”
“Then fuck your creation. Fuck the monster you’re making.” Her voice was a guttural command. She clenched around him, a deliberate, muscular contraction that made him see stars.
He came quickly, violently, spilling into her with a choked shout. She smiled, a slow, heavy-lidded expression of pure ownership. The chair legs squealed against the linoleum.
That was how it began.
Over the next three months, they were almost inseparable. Wendy grew in girth because Jace fed her. He fed her with intention, charting her caloric intake like a dedicated researcher, fascinated by the direct correlation between input and her shocking, weekly expansion. He was not alone. Delilah, the broad-shouldered manager from Gino’s with a sleeve of tattoos and a no-nonsense demeanor, started delivering personally after the third massive order. She’d stay, perched on a clean corner of the counter, smoking a cigarette and watching Wendy eat with a kind of appraising awe.
“You gonna fit that whole thing, Gerburger?” Delilah would ask, pointing a chipped nail at a meatball sub the size of a forearm.
Wendy would just grunt, unhinging her jaw, and take half of it in one bite. Sauce would drip. Delilah would laugh, a sharp bark, and push another carton of fries toward her. “Atta girl. Earn that.”
Jace realized Delilah was feeding her, too. Feeding the phenomenon. It was a cycle: his articles, published weekly in the Chronicle, drew a strange, quiet audience. Some were horrified. Some were fascinated. A few sent letters, care of the newspaper, addressed to Wendy. One contained a gift certificate to a plus-size boutique that had long since stopped carrying her size. Delilah read every installment. She became part of the ecosystem, another source of fuel and bleak acceptance.
Wendy grew so much she gained a quarter of her original weight. The numbers on the industrial scale Jace rented blurred together. The change was everywhere. Her thighs, once thick pillars, now met in the middle with a soft, constant whisper of flesh. Her double belly became a triple shelf, the lowest fold resting heavily on her thighs even when she stood. Her ass widened, pushing the boundaries of doorways, requiring a conscious sidle. She outgrew her clothes. The stretchy leggings split at the seams with a sound like gunshots. The vast tank tops became crop tops, then straining bandeaux before being retired to the rag bin.
Movement became harder. The simple act of rising from the bed was a five-minute ordeal of rocking and grunting. Walking from the bedroom to the living room left her winded, her breath sawing in the vast chamber of her chest. The floorboards in the apartment developed a permanent dip along the path from bed to bathroom to kitchen, a valley worn by her immense weight.
Jace would come and clean her apartment regularly. He did laundry, scrubbed the bathroom, took out the towers of garbage. He even bathed her if she had trouble. The bathroom was the greatest logistical challenge. She could no longer fit in the tub, even sitting. He bought a heavy-duty garden hose attachment for the showerhead and a commercial wet-vac to suck the water from the floor. Bathing her was an hour-long ritual. He’d start at her neck, soaping the broad, sloping plains of her shoulders, working down over the continents of her back. He’d wash between the folds of her stomach, his hands slipping in the suds, careful and thorough. He’d kneel, wiping down the colossal tree-trunks of her legs, cleaning between her toes, each one as big as his thumb.
She was often silent during these ministrations. One afternoon, as he was rinsing her, his hands sliding over the taut, water-beaded curve of her hip, she spoke.
“You’re my caretaker now.” It wasn’t a question.
He looked up, water streaming down his face. “I’m your partner.”
“A partner fucks you. A caretaker wipes your ass.” Her voice was flat, resigned. “Which one are you doing right now?”
He turned off the water. The drip from the showerhead was the only sound. He met her gaze. “I’m touching you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.” He leaned forward, pressing his lips against the slick, cool skin of her stomach. “Even if it’s with a washcloth.”
She cried then, huge, silent sobs that made her entire body quake. He held onto her, getting soaked, until it passed.
That night, she demanded him with a ferocity that felt like a storm. She was propped against a fortress of pillows, her body a mountain range under the sheets. “I want to feel it,” she snarled. “I want to feel you, and I don’t want to move.”
He climbed up, navigating the topography of her. He positioned himself between her thighs, which rose around him like warm, fleshy walls. Her cunt was a hot, hidden valley. He pushed inside, and the sensation was overwhelming—heat, tightness, the profound pressure of her surrounding him. She hooked a leg over his back, the weight of it immense, pinning him to her.
“Fuck,” he gasped, buried to the hilt.
“You’re my fucking caretaker,” she whispered, her voice fierce in his ear. “So take care of this. Make me come so hard I forget what I am.”
He obeyed, pistoning into her, his hands gripping whatever handfuls of flesh he could find. The bed’s protests were a rhythmic drumbeat. She met him thrust for thrust, a rolling, seismic motion from deep within her core. Her nails dug into his back. “Harder. Don’t you dare treat me like I’m breakable.”
He fucked her with a desperate, driven intensity, each slam a punctuation mark in their bizarre, shared sentence. She came with a sound like tearing fabric, her inner muscles clamping down in a series of prolonged, brutal spasms that forced his own orgasm from him. He collapsed onto the steaming landscape of her chest, his ear pressed against skin that hummed with the relentless machinery of her metabolism.
She stroked his hair, her fingers like sausages. “The article tomorrow,” she said, her voice a vibration in his skull. “What’s it about?”
“Logistics,” he mumbled, exhausted. “How the world isn’t built for you. Doorways. Chairs. Cars.”
“Cars.” She snorted. “Haven’t seen the inside of one in two months.”
“I know.”
They lay in silence. Her stomach gurgled, a long, liquid sound of emptiness returning. It was ten o’clock. She’d had a meatloaf, five pounds of mashed potatoes, and a family-sized cherry pie three hours ago.
Jace didn’t move. He just listened to the hunger announce itself, a familiar, demanding ghost in the room. He closed his eyes. He’d need to call Delilah soon. The night wasn’t over.