Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The door groaned as Jack pushed it open, the hinges hitching under the weight of his duffel bag before swinging inward with a final *squeak*. The apartment smelled of lemon oil and old dust, the scent clinging to the thin carpet beneath his feet like a memory of someone else’s life. The walls were a sickly pale yellow, the kind of color that made everything look too bright in the late afternoon sun, and the single window above the radiator let in a slant of golden light that dusted the hardwood floor in shimmering specks.
Jack dropped his duffel by the door, the nylon fabric *thump*ing against the wood, and let out a slow breath through his nose. The weight in his jeans hadn’t eased—if anything, it had grown, pulsing with an insistent throb that made his skin feel too tight, too sensitive. He flexed his fingers, trying to ignore it, but the ache only deepened, settling low in his gut like a hunger pangs he couldn’t quite place.
Before he could think too much about it—or worse, do something about it—there was a sharp knock at the door.
Jack frowned. No one knew he was here yet.
Not family, not friends. Just the bus driver and Greta—somehow Greta—had already taken notice of him. He adjusted his jeans again, the fabric now unmistakably snug in the most uncomfortable place, and walked to the door.
Another knock.
Not the polite two-tap hesitation of a stranger. This was rapid, insistent. A hand that expected immediate response.
Jack pulled the door open.
Clara Bock stood on the other side, one hip jutting out in a pose that was as much an exhibition as it was posture.
She was a woman built for sin—wide hips spilling slightly over the edges of her jade-green sundress, the fabric strained across a chest that looked like it could cushion a sledgehammer. Her fiery red hair was tied up in a messy bun, loose curls escaping to frame a face that belonged on a Renaissance painting: full lips painted the color of overripe cherries, sharp cheekbones dusted with freckles, and eyes that were a stormy green—predatory, amused, and hungry.
She held a tray in one hand, the scent of warm cinnamon and butter rolling off it in thick, golden waves.
The scent hit Jack’s nose like a physical force, making his stomach growl audibly. The aroma was rich, almost cloying, but his body didn’t care. It reacted instantly—his salivary glands working overtime, his gut twisting with something far deeper than hunger.
“You must be Jack Mason,” Clara said, her voice low and smooth, like melted chocolate sliding over a spoon. She didn’t wait for an answer before stepping past him into the apartment, her sundress swaying with the confident sway of her hips. “I’m Clara Bock. Your landlady.”
Jack’s eyes widened slightly as he instinctively stepped back to give her room, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft *click*.
His pulse jumped in his throat—not just at her presence, but at the way the air shifted the moment she crossed the threshold. It was warmer. Thicker. Like walking into a bakery after the oven’s been running all day.
Clara didn’t ask permission. She simply moved through the small apartment with the easy authority of someone who owned not just the space, but the atmosphere within it. She crossed to the small kitchenette, set the tray down on the chipped Formica counter, and turned, her sundress riding up just enough to flash a wedge of thick, soft thigh.
“You’re skinny,” she announced, her green eyes flicking over him with a mix of assessment and amusement.
“But you won’t stay that way. Roundstag don’t allow it.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, his fingers flexing at his sides. His jeans felt even tighter now, the denim biting into his thighs as he stood rooted near the door. “You know about the... transformation?”
Clara laughed—a rich, throaty sound that vibrated through the apartment like a tuning fork. “Honey, in Roundstag, transformation is the only thing we know. It’s why we’re all here.” She leaned back against the counter, her sundress stretching taut across her full hips as she crossed her arms, lifting her breasts slightly.
The gesture made the neckline dip dangerously low, revealing the shadowed valley between her heavy, swaying flesh. Her green eyes glinted with mischief as they roamed over Jack’s body, Knowing his fate was sealing as they spoke.
“Beefalo feed,” she said, tapping a finger against her chin, her nails painted the same cherry-red as her lips. “It’s laced with something... special. Something that makes men grow.”
Clara said, her eyes flicking down to where Jack’s groin strained against his jeans. “And grow. And grow some more.” Her voice dropped, low and deliberate, sending a shiver down Jack’s spine. “It makes them soft in all the right places. Big bellies. Thick thighs. Strong hips. Wide asses. And a lot of hair.” She stepped closer, the heat of her body pressing into the space between them, the cinnamon scent wrapping around him. “It also makes them *hungry*. Hungry for food. Hungry for touch. Hungry for *more*.”
Jack swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat.
"Here, take, and embrace." She said, offering him some cinnamon buns .
Jack hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against hers as he took one. The heat of her hand lingered on his skin even after he pulled away, sending a jolt through him that settled low in his gut. The bun was warm, the frosting glistening under the dim light of the apartment, but he barely glanced at it before taking a bite.
His eyes widened immediately. The flavor exploded across his tongue—rich, buttery, sweet, with a deep, almost *earthy* undertone that made his taste buds sing. It wasn’t just sugar. There was something else. Something warm, something *alive*, something that seemed to seep into his bloodstream with every swallow.
"Eat it all, buck. I went to Lady Annabella's, I pride myself in my baking. Eating anything less than the entirety I'd find insulting.
You don't want to insult me on your first day, do you?" Clara's voice rolled over him, rich and teasing, yet with an edge that suggested she wouldn't tolerate being disrespected—especially not in her own domain.
Jack's mouth was still half-full, the cinnamon bun dissolving on his tongue like warm caramel. The more he chewed, the more the strange, almost mineral taste lingered, blending with the sugars and spices. It wasn't just nourishment—it was *seduction*. His stomach fluttered, his chest warming, his skin prickling with an unfamiliar energy.
"That's it, eat and grow. Eat and grow." She murmered staring at him. Jack didn't notice, he needed more.
The bun was gone too fast, the cinnamon sugar still clinging to his lips, the taste still dancing on his tongue. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for another. The warmth of the pastry was still radiating against his palm, the scent of it thick in the air between them.
Clara's gaze never left him, her green eyes darkening with something hungrier than hunger. It was the look of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—and who had every intention of taking it.
"You like that, don’t you?" she murmured, her voice a low purr that curled around his spine like smoke.
"Don't worry, there'll be more like that for you in due time, but for now, just relax and make yourself at home. It is your's you know, and welcome to Roundstag." She says with a laugh. "Now go on now and relax. I got things to do elsewhere." She turned and walked past him her sundress swaying with every step, her thick thighs rubbing slightly together, the sound muffled by the cheap apartment carpet.
Jack licked the last of the frosting from his lips, his gaze trailing after her as she glided toward the door. The sundress clung to her hips in a way he couldn't look away from—round, heavy, built for gripping. The fabric tightened over her ass with each sway, the curves so pronounced he could practically feel the weight of them in his palms. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, his throat tight.