Chapter 9: The Grocery Store Display
The digital glow of the cargo scale had faded from the back of her eyelids, but the number—1,450—was seared into her mind like a brand. It floated in the dark of her bedroom, a red neon specter. Wendy shifted, a continent of flesh adjusting its tectonic plates, the industrial frame beneath her shrieking in protest. The smell of chocolate and sex still hung in the air, cloying and sweet. Jace was a warm, solid line against her back, his breathing deep and even. She’d screamed herself raw into the pillow, her body convulsing around him as he’d chanted my giant girl, my perfect, heavy girl into the rolls of her neck. Now, in the quiet, the old shame crept back in, cold and familiar.
“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” his voice mumbled, thick with sleep. A hand slid from her hip to rest on the tremendous curve of her lower belly, his entire arm barely spanning the width of it.
“Can’t help it,” she said, her accent roughened by exhaustion. “Feels like I’m… dunno. Like I’m takin’ up all the air in the world.”
“Good.” He nuzzled the space between her shoulder blades. “Means there’s more of you. I like that.”
She huffed, a sound that stirred the dust motes in the sunbeam now cutting through a gap in the curtains. “You’re fuckin’ deranged, you know that?”
“Probably.” He stretched, his joints popping. “I’m also starving. Come on. I want pancakes.”
“Pancakes,” she repeated, the word a foreign currency. Breakfast was usually a regretful glance at a fruit yogurt, consumed standing at the counter, a punishment for the night before. The concept of more food, so soon after the fountain, the cakes, the sheer volume of it… it made her stomach clench with a desire so sharp it felt like fear.
“Yeah. The kind that soak up a whole stick of butter. And syrup. Lots of syrup.” He slid out from the covers, the cool air hitting her back. She watched him, this compact, muscled man moving with an ease she could barely remember. He didn’t flinch at the landscape of her body revealed in the morning light—the deep valleys, the vast, soft plains. He just smiled at her, a real one, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Move that magnificent ass, Gerburger. I’m cookin’.”
The kitchen was a disaster zone from the previous night’s festivities. The chocolate fountain, now cold and crusted, sat like a defeated monument in the center of the table. Empty cake trays, smeared plates, and bowls littered every surface. Jace waded through it all, humming. He cleared a space on the stove with a sweep of his arm.
Wendy lowered herself into her reinforced chair at the head of the table, its wooden groans a familiar song. She watched him, this alien creature of efficiency in her chaotic universe. He pulled flour, eggs, a quart of buttermilk from the fridge.
“You don’t have to—” she started.
“I want to,” he interrupted, cracking eggs one-handed. “I like feeding you. It’s… it’s honest.”
She fell silent, picking at a dried drip of chocolate on the tabletop. The sizzle of butter in the cast iron pan was a comforting sound. The smell that followed—rich, golden, fatty—made her mouth water uncontrollably. A deep, visceral rumble echoed from her guts, a sound that seemed to vibrate the floorboards.
Jace heard it. He glanced over his shoulder, a wicked grin on his face. “Talkin’ to me already? I heard that.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, but a smile tugged at her lips.
He piled the first pancake, thick and fluffy and the size of a dinner plate, onto a platter. He brought it to her, set it down, and without a word, uncapped the maple syrup. He didn’t drizzle. He poured, a steady, amber waterfall that pooled and shimmered, soaking deep into the porous surface. He slid the platter closer. “Eat.”
It was a command, but softly given. She picked up her fork, the gesture feeling absurdly delicate. The first bite was a revelation. The sweetness, the salty butter, the sublime, spongy texture. A low moan escaped her. She didn’t care. She forked a massive piece, barely chewing, swallowing it down with a greed that felt primordial.
“That’s it,” Jace murmured, back at the stove, pouring more batter. “Fuck, listen to you. That’s the sound.”
She ate. He cooked. A rhythm established itself. Each new pancake was added to the tower on her platter, each one soaked in more syrup and butter. She lost track of count. Her focus narrowed to the next bite, the next rush of sugar and fat, the expanding, heavy warmth in her stomach that spread outwards, a languid heat that seeped into her limbs. Her sweatpants, already stretched, felt tighter across her belly. A pleasant, full ache was settling in, she was feeling more like a lazy queen.
Jace finally stopped, the batter bowl empty. He came to her, his own plate modest with two pancakes. He pulled his chair so close his knees pressed into the mountainous swell of her thigh. She grabbed his plate and ate his breakfast greedily.
She finished the last bite, syrup gleaming on her chins, her fingers sticky. She was breathing heavily, her immense chest rising and falling. The satiation was total, a numb, blissful completeness. She felt gargantuan. Anchored to the earth.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice husky. He reached out, wiped a drop of syrup from the shelf of her breast with his thumb, and put it to his mouth. “Perfect.”
The familiar hunger was gone, replaced by this swelling, solid fullness. And another hunger, just as sharp, took its place. She saw it reflected in his eyes.
“Jace,” she said, the word a slurry.
He was up, clearing the table with frantic haste, shoving the dirty platters and the crusted fountain aside with a clatter. He turned back to her, his breath quick. “Stay there. Right there. Don’t move a fucking inch.”
He dropped to his knees on the sticky floor. His hands pushed at the waistband of her sweatpants and the damp cotton of her underwear beneath. He had to tug, yanking the fabric down over the monumental curve of her hips, her ass, her thighs. It caught, wedged. He growled with effort, pulling harder until it finally gave, sliding down to bunch at her knees. The cool air hit her exposed flesh, making her shiver.
He didn’t linger. He buried his face between her legs without ceremony.
The cry that left her was guttural, shaking the windowpanes. His tongue was on her, in her, a rough, desperate point of contact against the overwhelming softness of her. He ate at her with a focused intensity, his hands gripping the colossal rounds of her thighs, holding her open. She was already slick, sensitive, her nerves alight from the feast, from his worship.
“Oh, god, oh fuck, right there,” she babbled, her head lolling back. Her own hands fumbled over the vast expanse of her belly, over her swollen breasts, pinching her own nipples through her shirt. The chair creaked dangerously under her shifting weight.
He slurped and groaned, his nose pressed into her. “Taste like heaven and syrup,” he panted against her. “So fucking big. Every part of you.”
His fingers joined his tongue, two pushing up inside her, curling. The stretch was negligible to her, but the intention, the claiming, sent a bolt of white-hot pleasure up her spine. She ground herself down onto his face, smothering him, her thighs trembling as they threatened to close around his head. He pushed back, taking it, demanding more.
Her climax built like a storm, a pressure gathering in her core, fed by the relentless rhythm of his tongue and the aching fullness in her gut. It wasn’t the sharp scream of the night before. This was deeper, a seismic event. It rolled through her in slow, devastating waves, a low, continuous groan ripped from her throat as her body clenched and released, her hands gripping the table’s edge, her vision spotting.
He didn’t stop until the last tremor subsided. Then he staggered up, his face glistening. He fumbled with his own pants, his cock springing free, hard and angry-red. He was on her in an instant.
He couldn’t lift her. He didn’t try. He hooked his hands under her knees, her legs like pillars of warm dough, and pushed them apart as far as they would go, which wasn’t far, just enough. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his dick pressing against her swollen folds.
“Watch,” he gasped, his eyes locked on hers. “Watch me disappear inside all of you.”
He pushed. Her body, soft and yielding and impossibly deep, engulfed him. He sank to the hilt in one smooth, wet stroke, his pelvis meeting the soft wall of her lower belly with a soft slap. He was so small against her, so utterly consumed. The sight of it—his lean torso pressed against the monumental swell of her, his cock buried to the root inside her—made her whimper.
He began to move, short, driving thrusts. The chair protested with every snap of his hips. Creak. Thud. Creak. Thud. The sound was lewd, mechanical. He fucked her with a desperate, focused energy, his hands braced on the armrests of her chair, on the rolls of her sides.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his voice strained. “Feel how full you are? My cock in your guts, all that food in your belly… you’re packed, Wendy. Stuffed to the fucking brim.”
His words were filthy, obscene. They lit a new fire. She reached down, her hands clumsy, and grabbed two handfuls of her own belly, squeezing the dense, food-laden flesh. “I am,” she panted, awe in her voice. “Oh Christ, I am. I’m so full.”
“You’re my perfect, fat fuckin’ goddess,” he snarled, his rhythm faltering. “Gonna come inside all this. Gonna pump you even fuller.”
That did it. His thrusts became erratic, brutal. She felt him swell, then the hot, sudden spill deep within her. He cried out, a sharp, broken sound, collapsing forward onto the pillowy mountain of her breasts, his body shuddering.
They stayed like that for long minutes, a tangle of spent limbs and sticky skin, the smell of sex and maple syrup and sweat thick in the air. His breath warmed her neck.
Finally, he slid out of her, a slow, wet separation. He righted himself, tucking himself away. He looked at her, really looked. At the wreck of the kitchen, at the syrup shining on her skin, at the profound, bloated peace on her face.
He gently pulled her sweatpants back up over her hips, a tender gesture amidst the carnage. He kissed her shoulder, a soft peck.
“So,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Fifteen hundred by next month?”
She stared at the ceiling, at a familiar water stain shaped like a old map. The number didn’t frighten her. It hung in the air, just a destination.
“Yeah,” she whispered, her hand finding his. “Okay.”
he helped her to the living room where she sat and ate a mound of snacks and watched television as Jace cleaned the entire house, washing her enormous filthy panties, blouses, etc. she was becoming more dependent on him which made her More demanding.
The silence after the television clicked off was a physical thing, a thick blanket woven from crumbs and contentment. Wendy let out a slow, syrupy breath, her hand resting on the distended dome of her stomach. Jace moved in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes a distant rhythm. She watched him through the doorway, his small, efficient form wiping counters already clean.
“Jace.” Her voice cut the air, not loud, but layered with a new authority. “The floor in here’s sticky. I felt it.”
He appeared in the doorway, a dish towel over his shoulder. “I mopped this morning.”
“Then mop it again.” She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the blank screen. “My damn chips got crushed. There’s crumbs everywhere. It’s gross.”
He paused, a flicker in his jaw. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
She listened to the sounds of him filling the bucket, the wringing of the mop. The dependency was a warm, heavy stone in her gut, right beside the pancakes and the cheese puffs. It felt good. It felt like leverage. The squeak of the mop head on linoleum began its methodical path. He worked around her chair, a servant circling a throne.
“And the bathroom,” she said, shifting her weight. The chair groaned. “My scale’s got footprints on it. I want it spotless.”
“Wendy, I just—” he began, his voice tight with effort.
“You just what?” She finally turned her head, her gaze dropping to him. “It needs doin’. Unless you’ve got something better to do?”
He held her look, the mop still in his hands. His eyes weren’t angry. They were dark, expectant. “No,” he said softly. “Nothing better.”
“Then hop to.” She turned back, a faint smile on her lips. The power was a rich, chocolatey taste on her tongue. After he finished the floor, she heard him in the bathroom, the spray of cleaner, the scrub of a brush. She let the chores stack in her mind. “The laundry basket’s overflowin’,” she called out. “And my big blue sweater from yesterday. It smells like the diner. Hand wash it.”
He didn’t reply, just let the water run in the sink.
Her own sweatpants were tight, the waistband digging a deep red furrow into her flesh. She unbuttoned them, letting the massive swell of her lower belly spill out, pale and veined and immense. The relief was instant. She ran her hands over the hot, taut skin, feeling the dense, packed weight of everything he’d fed her. She wanted him under it. The desire was sudden and absolute.
“Jace. In here. Now.”
He came, his hands still damp, leaving a small wet patch on his jeans. He stood before her, waiting.
“Get on the floor. Right here.” She pointed to the space between the couch and the coffee table.
He didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself onto his back on the shag carpet, looking up at her. His expression was open, ready.
“Closer. Your head right under me.”
He shimmied forward until the crown of his head touched the side of her chair. She looked down at him, this man laid out beneath her, and something in her chest unlocked. She didn’t just want to look. She wanted to cover him.
With a grunt, she leveraged herself up from the chair, her body a vast, swaying monument. She turned, her back to him, and then began to lower herself. Not onto the chair. Onto him.
Her shadow swallowed him first. Then the first crushing, warm contact of her ass met his chest. She didn’t stop. She settled back, letting her full, staggering weight descend. He gasped, a sharp, bitten-off sound as the air was forced from his lungs. Her immense buttocks, still damp from their earlier sex, spread across his torso, pinning him completely from chest to thighs. His arms were trapped at his sides.
“You comfortable?” she asked, her voice a low rumble he could feel through his bones.
A strained, muffled sound came from beneath her. It might have been a yes.
She sighed, a contented expulsion of breath that made her body shift and settle deeper. He was utterly immobilized, a warm, living rug. The pressure was enormous, a constant, smothering embrace. She could feel the faint, birdlike flutter of his heartbeat against her sacrum.
“That’s good,” she murmured, more to herself. She reached for the remote, turned the television back on. A game show blared. She adjusted, grinding down slightly just to hear him choke. “You just stay put. I like you right there.”
Time blurred. The television audience screamed for contestants. Wendy’s hand wandered to the open bag of pretzels on the table, eating them mechanically, the salty crunch loud in her ears. Beneath her, Jace was perfectly still. After a while, she felt a different pressure. A slow, insistent hardening against the cleft of her ass, even through their clothes. He was getting off on this. The realization sent a jolt of pure dominance through her.
“You pathetic little fuck,” she said, no malice in it, just a statement of fact. She rocked back, a slow, grinding roll of her hips, massaging his trapped cock with the sheer, smothering bulk of her. “You’re pinned under a thousand-pound woman and your dick’s happy about it.”
A groan vibrated through her. His hands, trapped by his sides, clenched into fists.
She undid the button on her pants fully now, peeling the waistband down past her hips. The cool air hit her skin, but the heat from his body beneath her was immense. She reached back, her arm moving with difficulty around her own bulk, and tugged at his jeans. She couldn’t get them off, but she yanked the button open, pulled the zipper down. She shoved her hand inside, her fingers closing around his erection. It was throbbing, slick at the tip.
“Mine,” she whispered.
She guided him, maneuvering blindly. The head of his dick pressed against her perineum, then lower, slicking through her folds from behind. She was wet, incredibly so. With another shift of her weight, she angled herself and took him inside.
The fit was obscenely tight, a desperate, compressed entry. Her body enveloped him, a hot, viscous vise. He was buried to the root, his entire length swallowed by her from behind while she sat fully upon him. She began to move, not bouncing, but undulating. A slow, seismic roll of her hips that mashed her flesh against his trapped body. Each movement forced a ragged breath from beneath her.
“You’re nothin’,” she panted, her voice guttural. “Nothin’ but a cushion for my ass and a cock I can sit on.” She clenched internally, a powerful, rhythmic squeezing. “Feel that? That’s all you’re for. To be under me.”
His hips tried to buck, a futile spasm against her crushing weight. It only drove him deeper. She rode him like a tremor, a force of nature. The pretzel bag crumbled in her fist. She could hear his muffled, desperate sounds, feel the damp heat of his breath through her clothes. The game show host’s voice became a meaningless buzz.
Her orgasm built from a deep, low place, a culmination of fullness and absolute control. It wasn’t a peak, but an eruption. A raw, groaning release that shook her entire frame. Her inner muscles milked him violently, and she felt his own climax trigger, a hot, pulsing jet deep inside her that seemed to go on and on. She ground down through every last spasm, until he was still.
She stayed there for long minutes, soaked in sweat and satisfaction, feeling his spent body soften beneath her. Finally, with a ponderous heave, she lifted herself off him. The air rushed back into the space she vacated. He lay gasping, his clothes disheveled, his skin flushed and imprinted with the texture of her sweatpants.
She looked down at him, a king surveying conquered land. “Get up,” she said, her tone flat. “The windows are dirty. I can’t see out of them proper.”
He blinked up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in ragged draws. A slow smile spread across his face. He turned his head, meeting her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, the words a promise of devotion.
The words hung between them, a thin vapor in the stuffy air. Jace unfolded himself from the floor, his movements stiff, his clothes damp with her sweat and his own release. He didn’t look away from her as he stood, his gaze holding that same unsettling mix of reverence and hunger. Wendy turned from it, the immensity of her own body suddenly feeling less like a throne and more like a vessel that was, inexplicably, still not full enough.
Three days bled into one another, a syrupy cascade of meals and sex and scale rituals. The number climbed: 1,520, 1,585, 1,610. Each increment was celebrated with his mouth on her, his cock in her, his voice weaving filthy praise into her skin. He fed her melted ice cream mixed with peanut butter, whole loaves of buttered bread as sides to immense pasta bakes, bacon by the pound crumbled over heaping plates of cheesy eggs. She ate until her vision blurred, until the only sensations were the stretch of her stomach and the slick, hot friction of him moving inside her while she gorged. Her appetite had become a yawning chasm, bottomless and echoing.
She stood naked before the full-length mirror, a monolithic silhouette against the cracked plaster.The reflection was a stranger, a topography of vast, rolling flesh. Her double belly hung lower, a weighty shelf over her swollen pussy. Her thighs had blossomed, their inner surfaces constantly damp, chafing with every step. She saw only the expansion, the sheer acreage of it. The sharp wit, the kindness Jace swore he saw—those were ghosts, faint memories trapped under layers of fat.
“Another five pounds today,” Jace said from the doorway, leaning against the frame.He held a sweating gallon of chocolate milk in one hand. “You’re a fucking miracle.”
“Feels different,” she muttered, her voice gravel. She cupped the pendulous swell of her lower belly, hefting it in her hands. It was dense, a solid mass of consumption. “Feels… hollow.”
“That’s because you need more.” He came up behind her, his reflection a doll tucked against her mountainous back.He pressed the cold gallon against her shoulder, then trailed it down her spine. She shivered.“The goal’s in sight.You can feel it, can’t you? That empty space waiting to be filled.”
He was right.It wasn’t hunger. It was a craving for the obliteration of fullness, for a mass so great it would finally silence the whispering insecurities.She wanted to be a monument. “This week,” she said, the words tasting of iron and decision.“I want it this week.Two thousand.”
He froze. The milk bottle hovered at the small of her back.She watched his face in the mirror. His initial shock melted, reshaped by a fervent, dark understanding. “Wendy… that’s a four-hundred-pound jump. In four days.”
“You said I was a miracle.” She turned to face him, her body brushing against his, overwhelming his space.“Prove it.Stuff me. Stuff me until I can’t move. Until nothing else fits inside.”
A slow smile spread on his lips, a real one, wild and untamed.“Okay.” It wasn’t agreement. It was a pact.He didn’t wait. He unscrewed the cap from the chocolate milk and lifted it.“Open.” She obeyed, tilting her head back, and he poured. The thick, sweet liquid flooded her mouth, a cold river she had to swallow rapidly to avoid choking. It spilled from the corners of her lips, down her neck, over her collarbones to drip between her breasts.She drank until the gallon was half empty, her stomach sloshing audibly.
He threw the bottle aside, its contents sloshing onto the floor. His hands were on her, rough and possessive, kneading the bloat of her belly. “Look at you,” he rasped, bending to lick the sticky mess from her chest.“You’re fucking glorious. A hungry, empty giant.” He guided her backwards, her immense ass meeting the edge of their reinforced bed. “Sit.Let me work.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. She heard the fridge open, the frantic rustle of packages. He returned with an armload: a family-sized tub of vanilla frosting, a jar of maraschino cherries, a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup. He knelt before her, spreading her legs with an insistent push.The cool air hit her wet folds.
He dug three fingers into the frosting, emerged with a dripping glob, and smeared it directly over her clit and labia.The shock of the cold, the sheer absurdity of it, made her gasp. He didn’t pause. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue lapping at the sweet, sticky mess, fucking it into her with a ruthless, sloppy precision.
“Sweetest fucking cunt I’ve ever tasted,” he groaned, his voice muffled by her flesh and the frosting. He alternated between sucking her clit and pushing his tongue inside her, the syrup mixing with her own arousal into a sickly-sweet slurry. She clawed at the bedsheet, her back arching, her gut churning with the milk and the overwhelming sensation. He pulled back, his face a glistening mess. He popped a cherry from the jar, placed it between her lips, and then pushed it past them with his syrup-slick fingers. She sucked on it, the syrupy fruit bursting on her tongue.“Swallow,” he ordered.She did. He uncapped the chocolate syrup, and with a dark deliberation, aimed the nozzle at her. A thick, obsidian rope landed on her mound, over the mess of frosting, trailing down her perineum. He watched it drip for a second before diving back in, eating her with a frenzied, filthy delight, getting it all over his chin, his nose, his cheeks.
She came like that, violently, her body seizing around his face, a hoarse scream tearing from her throat as the sugar and the pressure and the debasement coalesced into a seismic orgasm. He rode it out, slurping and grunting, until she collapsed back onto the bed, panting.
He stood, unbuckled his jeans, his cock springing free, already gleaming with her juices and the confectionary slop.He didn’t enter her immediately. Instead, he took the chocolate syrup again and squirted a generous pool into his palm. He slicked himself with it, the viscous liquid mixing with his pre-come, making a lewd, shiny coat. “Gonna fuck this into you,” he panted. “Gonna fuck the weight right onto you.”
He positioned himself and thrust, a hard, deep stroke that buried him to the root. The syrupy lubrication made a wet, squelching sound. He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, each drive punctuated by a slap of flesh and his choked curses.“Take it!All of it! You’re gonna be so fucking huge!A two-thousand-pound slut! My two-thousand-pound slut!”
The frosting, the syrup, the cherries – it all churned inside her, a saccharine tsunami.His words were not insults; they were incantations. She felt herself expanding around him, her cells screaming for the fat, for the mass his filthy promises conjured. She wrapped her colossal legs around his back, her thighs enveloping his thrusting hips, locking him in. “Breed it into me!” she roared, her accent thick and raw.“Make me grow! Fucking make me!”
He pistoned into her, his control shattering. With a final, guttural shout, he came, pumping his release into the sugary mess inside her. He stayed there, impaled, shuddering, as she clenched around him, milking him dry.
Later, beneath the humming glow of the cargo scale’s display, the numbers flickered and settled. 1,650 lbs.
Wendy stared at the red digital readout, her hand resting on the taut, aching globe of her belly.She was stuffed, fucked, and dripping. The hollow feeling was still there, deeper now, an abyss that had just been given a number. Four hundred and fifty pounds to go.Four days.
She looked at Jace, who was watching her, his eyes gleaming with a feverish pride. “It’s not enough,” she said, her voice quiet, final.He nodded, already moving toward the kitchen. “I know,” he said. “We’re just getting started.”