Chapter 1: Statues That Watch and Wait
The first thing most people see coming off of the bus in Roundstag, a town on the tri-boarder area of Minnesota, North Dakota and South Dakota, is a bronze statue depicting a bloated and obese bull bison.It's round, almost spherical belly almost lifts the gluttonous beast off the ground as punishment for it's continuous feeding. Even so it doesn't appear to be in distress, in fact, it appears to be happy in it's overfed glory.
The statue is life sized, which is to say that it's large enough to truly capture the sheer size of the animal. The way the sculptor, Greta, has captured its details, the way its flesh bulges out in rolls, the way its belly sags low, the way its nose glistens under the overcast sky, all of it is a testament to her skill.
As Jack Mason steps off the bus, he hefts his duffel bag and takes a moment to survey the strange sight. He's a lean, clean-shaven 26-year-old man, average build, brown hair, hazel eyes, with a look of bewilderment on his face. He inspects the statue as the few others, mostly locals coming back from the Twin cities, or Milwaukee, are greeted by their families.
The odd roundness of the beast makes him chuckle, but before he can think too much of it he hears a laugh that could only belong to the sculptor herself.
Greta.
It’s not a full bodied laugh, not a belly laugh but a high, playful titter, like wind chimes in a summer breeze. He turns to find her sitting on a bench, drawing in a sketchbook, her eyes flicking up to meet his with a knowing look.
She’s not what he expected. Roundstag’s eccentric sculptor is a wisp of a thing—maybe five-foot-two in her worn denim overalls, with long blonde hair that cascades down her back in loose, sun-bleached waves.
Her sharp green eyes flick over Jack like she’s already undressing him with them. She licks the tip of her pencil, then scribbles something in her notebook, her fingers moving with the precision of an artist who’s spent too much time studying human flesh.
"He's a lot like you, you know," she says, grinning like she’s already won some private bet with herself.
Jack squints against the midday sun, the weight of his duffel shifting in his grip. "Excuse me?"
Greta snorts, fanning herself with the sketchbook. "The Beefalo bull there. The big bronze round one? Yeah, he's like you." Greta gestures with her pencil at the obese bronze bison. "Lean once but, six months in this town? He'll be a round rolling ball of man, all belly and blubber, happy as a hog in mud." She cackles, her laughter sharp and knowing, like she’s privy to some dirty secret about Roundstag he hasn’t discovered yet. "You will be too."
Greta says with a smirk, her pencil still dancing over the page. "Don’t even pretend you won’t." She taps the eraser end against her chin, studying him like he’s a slab of clay she’s deciding where to gouge first. "Unless you’ve got the discipline of a monk."
Jack scoffs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His duffel is warm against his thigh, the denim of his jeans too tight now, too aware. He hasn’t felt this kind of attention in years—not since college, not since he was skinny enough to be called *lean*, not since someone had actually looked at him like *that*.
Like *hungry*.
"Take a look around, pigglet, Notice anything about the men around here?"
Greta asks, her voice a purr that curls around his spine like smoke. She doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she swivels on the bench, her overalls straining against the curve of her ass as she stretches her legs out, her bare feet kicking up dust. She's not wearing shoes—just a pair of dirty socks slipping off her toes, her toenails painted a chipped, rebellious purple.
Jack's gaze snags on the way her shirt clings to her tits, the thin fabric transparent enough that he can see the dark circles of her nipples pressing against it. His mouth goes dry.
"No really, take a look at all the male meat you see here, and tell me, what unifies them?" Greta giggled again, her pencil hovering over the sketchbook like a conductor's baton, ready to strike the next note.
Jack forced his eyes to look away from Greta's chest, scanning the bus depot with a new awareness. The men here were... different. Not just in build—though the sheer *presence* of their bodies was undeniable—but in something deeper. Their postures, their confidence, the way some of them adjusted their belts over prominent paunches with casual pride.
"They're all, err..."
"FAT. AS. PIGS." Greta said with a laugh.
Her pencil continued to dance over the paper. "They're all round, soft, happy. They’re *happy* in their bodies. I don’t see a single straight male under 45 here who’s starving himself for the sake of a six-pack. That kind of thing just... doesn’t happen around here." She leaned forward, her sharp green eyes locking onto Jack’s, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It’s because of the Beefalo."
Jack’s eyebrows raised. "The *what* now?"
Greta grinned, tapping the tip of her pencil against her front teeth, her tongue darting out to catch a smudge of graphite. "Beefalo Agratech.
You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?" Greta grins, flicking her pencil in a small arc to emphasize the words.
Jack shrugs, shifting his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other. "I mean, yeah, I’ve heard the name. But I thought they were just some big agribusiness outfit. You know, beef, dairy, hybrid livestock?"
Greta snorts, shaking her head so hard that her blonde waves ripple like a silken flag. "Oh, *darling*, you have no idea.
Beefalo Agratech doesn’t just grow food—it grows *culture*." Greta giggles again, her laughter like wind chimes tangled in a summer storm. She slams her sketchbook shut and leans forward, her overalls gaping slightly at the collar, giving Jack a tantalizing glimpse of her collarbone dusted with freckles. "Roundstag isn’t just a town. It’s an *experiment*. The Beefalo feed. The air. The water. The *whole vibe*—it’s all laced with something... *special*. And it makes men grow. and grow, and grow some more! Big bellies, big muscles, strong hips, thick rears, and lots of hair." Greta stands up with the grace of a dancer, her overalls riding up to reveal a wedge of sun-kissed thigh—thick, strong, the kind of leg built for riding or squeezing or both. She doesn’t button up her shirt, letting the V-neck droop just enough to tease him every time she leans forward. "Roundstag men don’t just *gain* weight. They *grow*. They *transform*. Their bodies soften, their hair thickens, their jaws broaden, their hips widen. Their *spirits* soften too." She giggles, that high, chiming laugh. "Makes 'em better lovers. Better husbands.
Better fathers. Better *fuckers*. And the women?" She wiggles her hips, the denim of her overalls barely containing the lush curves beneath. "Oh, they adore it."
Jack's grip tightens around the strap of his duffel bag, his knuckles whitening. His jeans suddenly feel two sizes too small—not from the weight of his bag, but from the weight of something else entirely. Something heavy, something *hungry*, swelling behind his fly.
Greta laughs again, a sound like broken glass and honey. "You feel it, don’t you? That tug in your gut, that warmth in your cheeks? That’s not just the North Dakota autumn air.
That’s the Beefalo magic already working.
She steps closer, her bare feet leaving faint prints in the dust, her overalls creaking with every sway of her hips. The scent of her—something wild and sweet, like crushed sage and warm honey—fills his nose. His pulse thrums in his throat. He swallows hard. “Magic?” he asks, though the word tastes like a lie. That thing in his gut feels real enough. That thing in his *pants* feels real enough. His jeans are tight now, uncomfortably so, the denim biting into his length. He shifts again, trying to adjust it without being obvious, but Greta sees it. Of course she sees it.
Greta’s green eyes flick down, then back up to Jack’s face, her smirk widening like she’s just won a bet she didn’t know she’d placed.
“Oh, *pigglet*,” she purrs, stepping so close that the heat of her body radiates against him. “You’re gonna be a super sized big handsome man. A huge, happy, horny hog.” She bent forward to show off as much of her cleavage as possible.
"I can't wait to see it, piglet." She said giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning on one leg and rushing away.
Jack's hand strayed to his cheek where her lips had just landed, the spot still warm, the ghost of her scent clinging to his skin like a promise. He watched the way her hips swayed beneath the worn denim, the way her ass filled out the back of those overalls with such delicious roundness. His cock twitched in his jeans, straining against the suddenly too-tight fabric.
He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. This town was insane. The statues, the talk of magic, the way people looked at him now—like he was already halfway to being one of those hulking bronze figures in the lot.
Jack exhaled through his nose, willing his pulse to settle. This wasn’t possible. People didn’t just *grow* like that overnight. Did they?
His duffel bag dug into his shoulder again, reminding him of its existence. He shifted it, then adjusted his belt, but the tightness in his jeans didn’t ease. In fact, if anything, it got worse. The fabric was now pressing against him in a way that made his skin prickle with something dangerously close to embarrassment—and excitement.
He walked forward, the blood fled from his lowers and back to his body, as he headed down the street to get to his new home, a cheap apartment he was now renting, getting far from his old life as he could reasonably do on such short notice.
The afternoon light over Roundstag was golden, thick with the scent of earth and something else—something sweet and animal, like warm molasses and musk.
The main street was lined with storefronts, their signs hand-painted in bold, cheerful letters: *Lady Annabella’s Baking Academy – Women Only*, *Beefalo Agratech Company Store – Supplies & Statues*, *The Rolling Udder – Dairy & Deli Delights*. At the corner, a group of women in aprons laughed over a tray of cinnamon rolls, their hips wide and chests huge under their stretched uniforms.
One turned, her brown curls bouncing as she caught Jack’s eye. Her smile was slow, knowing, as she licked sugar from her thumb with deliberate slowness. His stomach clenched—not just from hunger, not just from surprise—but from something primal, a heat that pooled low and thick.