It was early morning. The last tray of food was placed on the table. Amy's ruby lips formed a small arch of excitement. After all of the money, time and effort she had managed to construct a banquet large enough. Before her were three tables, piled high with assorted goodies. Cakes, biscuits, pastries, sweets. Enough confectionary to kill, she thought, but she had no intention of dying. This thin woman wanted to eat, and the urge was so powerful that she had to leave the room simply to avoid surging into one of the gorge mountains. Now in the kitchen, she returned to the open book on the side counter. It was a telephone directory, open at a section entitled "Plumbing Services." She took out her phone and dialled.
Mark's whistle was shrill and tuneless. He was not whistling because he had a catchy tune stapled to his mind. He was not whistling because he enjoyed it. He was whistling because the street was gravely silent, and silence scared him. There was but one house, and it was choked with furnishing, even on the outside. It was a grand stone palace, with large doors and rustic window designs. It was the lair of an ice queen, he thought to himself, and a chill ran down his spine. He remembered the voice he had heard on the phone. Although soft and gentle, there was a hidden layer of malice, a severity that he had known only in his wife. Whatever was behind those doors, he thought, wasn't a pleasantry. When he knocked on the oak, he thought he was awakening a beast. He wasn't far from the truth.
Amy pulled back the door slightly, and peered through the gap. Chiselled face, blue overalls, burly frame, deep eyes.
"Indeed I am. You must be the plumber, come on in."
Mark tried not to meet the seductive eyes. Rather foolishly, he looked at his feet as he entered. The large oak door slid to a close, and she locked it. He was trapped.
"In the room to the left, I'll be in shortly."
He watched her walk past him. She was thin, but "attractively thin", as many of Mark's friends would say. Her breasts were a decent size and her butt cheeks weren't completely deprived. She walked with grace, but he still sensed the cold evil waiting beneath her skin.
When he set down his toolbox Mark could not find many words. He thought that he was hallucinating, or that he had found the wrong "Ms Thompson". He hadn't. At the foot of the window were three large tables, covering the entire span of the room. On each table was an indescribable mass of food, bigger than any collection he had seen before in his life. It reminded him of a dietary programme he used to watch, where the host would show the fat person how much food they consume annually by spreading it all out on a table, an archive of their greed encrusted past. The idea was to shock the person as much as Mark was. The three mountains of food seemed to smile at him menacingly, as if they were waiting intently for their purpose. It was then that something clutched at his genitals, and a cold ring pressed against his neck.
Amy licked the man's neck from behind. She could taste the fear in his sweat. She brought the gun closer to his flesh, and he shivered.
"What's your name?"
Mark opened his mouth to speak, but there was no sound other than a faint, pathetic squeak. She squeezed with her left hand. He winced.
"Would you like to know why I brought you here, Mark?"
He could feel her fingers enclosing tighter around his testicles. He nodded.
"I want you to feed me, Mark."
He didn't want to hear her.
"I want you to take this food and feed it to me, all of it. If you refuse, I will rip off your balls. If you at any point stop feeding me without my permission, I will shoot you. There isn't enough life around here to hear it, so you'll die silently. Understand?"
More sweat. Heavy breathing. Mark tried to wake himself up. He couldn't. He was awake, and he was being threatened by a woman he didn't know, but had somehow got control of his sex organs. She gripped them tighter and pushed the barrel of the gun deeper.
"Do you understand?" The voice was still soft.
He nodded again, this time franticly. She smiled, and released his genitals. There was a chair in the middle of the room, and she walked towards it. He could see her once more, and he noticed that she had taken off some of her clothing. She still wore a shirt, and presumably a bra underneath that, but she had taken off her jeans and her shoes, so her black tights were now fully visible. She was graceful, like a ballerina. But the eyes, and the gun. So cold. So evil. His hands shook. The revolver was trained on him, it's gaze never faltering. She sat down.
"Well. What are you waiting for?"
It felt like a long moment of suspended animation. He didn't know what to do. There was no point trying to escape, nobody would believe him if he did. The food called out to him. He couldn't risk breaking her patience. Shaking, he walked over to the first table. He didn't know where to put his hands. He sensed her impatience, so he grabbed a doughnut and walked back to her. She sighed.
"You're going to have to bring more next time, unless you plan on staying overnight."
He held the soft, creamy shape up to her lips and she sucked it from his grasp. He stood watching as she churned it in her mouth, and with one movement of the gun she reminded him that she wanted more. On his way back to the table he saw a trolley, and he decided to utilise it. He wheeled it to the table and loaded it with as many handfuls as he could. He managed to lift an entire chocolate cake onto the top shelf. With great force he steered it back to Amy, who was licking her lips impatiently. One treat at a time he fed her, and for a girl of her size she was remarkably hungry. She had been waiting for this, he thought. Amy chewed, and in between mouthfuls she groaned with pleasure.
"You don't know how badly I need this."
The trolley was slowly emptied, and with each treat Mark had to convince himself that he was still in reality. Even the chocolate cake, already carved into 6 slices, went quickly. She mashed each slice with her teeth, compressing it into a heavenly paste. Soon, Mark thought to himself, this woman will start growing. With all of this food it will be impossible for her to retain her slim figure, in fact he doubted that she'll remain in one piece until the end.
One trolley followed another, and soon he had made a considerable hole in the mound of food on the first table. Amy still gripped the gun, so Mark kept working. Her stomach had pushed out ever so slightly, though it was barely noticeable. The weight of the trolley exerted more strain on his arms each time he wheeled it back to Amy with more and more fattening foods, all disappearing into her stomach. By the eighth trolley a curve had appeared on what once was flat, and her shirt felt a little tighter. Her appetite grew too.
"Come on, move faster!"
Mark flinched each time she spoke, and he wished her mouth would remain full forever. This inspired him to shovel food onto the trolley faster, and when he arrived at her side he almost threw the contents at her. She swallowed, and swallowed, until her stomach audibly pleaded for mercy. She ignored it, and continued to accept everything Mark brought to her face.
On the fifteenth trolley Mark found himself picking up something new. Among the piles of cakes and doughnuts, a packet of six labelled "Fudge Bars". They looked lethal. They were large, soft, cylindrical shapes, saturated with creamy fat. They were microcosms of what this woman was yet to become; a large mass of fat. He placed them on the trolley and brought them back to Amy, who was relishing in her own gluttony. Her pot belly had grown larger, and her shirt nicely hugged it. He removed the wrapping from the fudge, and brought the first of the six bars to her face. Neither of them wasted any time. He pressed it into the hole, and she chewed violently. In her mouth the structure of fat was broken down and melted, then swallowed. The creamy fudge surged through her, and she shook with delight. Two, three, four more bars disappeared. He had to force the last in-between her lips, as she was still busy chewing. Her cheeks were puffed out due to the sheer volume of fudge in her mouth, and when she swallowed a large lump ran down her throat. She cried out in what was almost a joygasmic scream.
Mark also felt a tingle of pleasure, a small little impulse that he had not experienced before. He felt compelled to keep going despite being sure that she wouldn't be able to aim, or even hold, the gun for much longer.
Two trollies later and the first table had disappeared. Amy was now enduring the strain of a considerable bulk, struggling to digest the mountain of food she had reduced to rubble. Her belly was swollen and distended, and since there was no waistband to stop it her navel sagged down freely in front of her. Her tights were ripped and fat was pushing through the holes. There were sounds of struggle from her bra and her shirt too.
All it took was a moan for Mark to realise that she wanted more. As much as he didn't want to believe it, he actually wanted to feed her more too. He brutalised the second table, overloading the trolley so that the shelves sagged and the wheels scraped along the floor. He simply had to drop the food from above her, and she would catch it in her maw.
If her mouth stays full, she cannot speak.
He worked harder and harder to keep food moving from the trolley into her mouth, to the point where she had no time to speak. He allowed her to cough, but as soon as she had cleared her throat he filled it again. He felt his arms aching, but he didn't want to stop. He even put a hand on her belly for a brief period, so he could feel the fat sloshing and sliding in her gut.
The second table was diminished in very little time, largely due to Mark's newfound enthusiasm. Amy also ate a lot faster, and although there was little space in her belly her expanding fat somehow managed to create more. Any time between mouthfuls was reserved solely for belching, and the occasional moan. There was nothing to say from either of the two, so the only constant sound was that of her chewing on the food Mark gave her. Another cake, as large as the first, was vanquished one slice at a time. Although there were no more "fudge bars" Mark managed to find foods with a fatal amount of fat in them yet Amy devoured them without hesitation. She was an eating machine that was fast approaching meltdown.
Two tables now stood defeated, the last of the second being lifted from the trolley into Amy's orifice. There was little left of her former self. Her belly had expanded so much that it nearly reached the floor, and was beyond the reach of her arms. Her thighs hugged, her lips puffed, her breasts swelled, her chin rolled forth. She was an animal, completely dependent on eating. She shifted uncomfortably on the chair that was now pushing up into the two large hemispheres that were her buttocks. More importantly, she could no longer hold the gun; her pudgy fingers had outgrown the trigger.
This was the point at which things changed. As the trolley was emptied, and the last treat fell into her mouth, Mark paused. He wanted her to speak, because he was expecting to hear her ask for more. She didn't. When she managed to clear her throat, she spoke.
"No more, I'm full!"
Mark just stared.
She clutched the sides of her belly as it fizzed and groaned.
Mark didn't hear her. He didn't want to hear her. The tables had turned now, and he was in control. She had made her own bed, and now he was going to serve his purpose. Whether she liked it or not, he was going to carry on. Despite her pleas he wheeled the trolley over to the third table, and loaded up. Any empathy he could have had for this woman had vanished. She threatened to kill him, now she will beg for mercy. Soon he faced her with a new trolley, and the feeding continued. Amy resisted him as much as she could. Her arms, large thick stumps, flailed madly in an effort to hit him, but to no avail. She tried to seal her lips, but they had been forced apart by her endless eating, so he could slip food in regardless of her efforts. Her screams were muffled and choked by the thick wall of food in her mouth, so she tried to spit it out. She only managed to eject a small amount before Mark crammed it back down her gullet with his fist. He forced in handful after handful, and soon Amy felt that she couldn't resist for much longer. She tried to stand, heaving her bulk with all of her might. She almost made it, but Mark was ready for her. He pushed her breasts with both hands, and she fell backwards. The momentum of her fall broke the chair completely, and Amy sprawled out on her back. She was now a beached whale unable to escape. She wobbled around on the floor, and Mark laughed pitifully. He loaded up another trolley, and all Amy could do was cry.
Mark wiped his brow as he finished unloading the last items of food into her mouth. The second table now joined the first in emptiness. Amy was in a state of confusion. Her mind was screaming for the torture to end. Conversely her body was pleading for more. It was a civil war that had no reason, because Mark would not stop, so her mind's protests would be forever in vain. Her fat had started to roll outwards in all directions, and it wouldn't be long before it reached the sides of the room. It was a slowly advancing tide of cellulite that Mark had to wade through simply to get to the mouth. Nevertheless he kept going, making an impressionable dent in the third mountain in no less than ten minutes. There was no resistance from Amy any more, as any erratic movement tired her, so with the exception of chewing and swallowing she remained motionless, allowing her flowing fat to dominate her.
"Another cake, bitch?" Mark asked mockingly. He didn't expect an answer, so he didn't wait for one. There was enough room between her lips to fit two slices of cake now, so the cake was vanquished twice as quickly. With his index finger he slid the cream that had managed to collect on her lips back into her mouth. She sucked and licked, chewed and swallowed. There was nothing left of the person, but the body was still thriving. There was no emotion in her eyes any more, no evil, no cold.
It reached the point where Amy was starting to outgrow the room. As hard as it was to believe, the woman's bulk had virtually reached all four walls, which were now channelling her upwards. Mark's feet started to sag into the pool of fat which was approaching his knees. The trolley was now useless; the wheels were engulfed by the fat and couldn't move. Luckily, one of the tray's Amy had used to bring in the food had been left on the table, piled with treat. Large and sturdy, it was perfect for Mark to deliver the food to the desperate maw. Another inconvenience was that, as her rump grew, Amy was slowly being elevated from the ground. There was enough fat on her butt cheeks to cushion her entire body, and as the fat spilled forth she rose into the air. It was a truly divine ascension, but Mark now had to stand on tiptoes and strain his arms in order to deposit the food. After frantic searching through the rest of the house Mark found a stepladder, the legs of which fitted nicely into her fat. This allowed him to reach high above her mouth, where he could comfortably drop in the food.
The third table was half way through now. Mark's body had been worked to it's limits, but the determination was as strong as ever. Each time he climbed the stepladder he noticed that her mouth was getting higher and higher above ground, and soon he would be reaching up once more. On one of his return trips he heard several sounds of breaking and shattering. They were the sounds of the house struggling to contain the beast. The floorboards creaked, plaster rained down from the tops of the walls. All of the furniture in the room had been absorbed, with the exception of the third table, which was positioned by the door. There was little space for the stepladder now, and Mark found himself catching his feet on fat rolls as he climbed up and down the stairs. The fat was up to his knees now, like a thick swamp of blubber. As he moved through it he could feel the fat swimming around, finding new creases to fill out. He climbed the stepladder once more.
"You deserve every pound of this. You wanted me to feed you, and that's exactly what I'm doing."
He poured an entire tray of food into her mouth at once. Inevitably, she couldn't fit it all in, and some pastries cascaded down her chin and sat nicely in between her breasts. The majority of the tray managed to land in or around her mouth, so with forceful arrangement Mark managed to fit as much in as he could, until he could barely reach her cheeks with open arms. When she swallowed, she nearly burst open her own throat. The armada of food stormed through her belly, and she grew violently. Cracks appeared on the walls, and the door leading back into the hallway was forced open by the fat. To Mark's horror, the rolls on her hips overpowered the third table, and it sagged and collapsed under it's weight. The remaining food spilled out into the pool of fat. As her skin had little consistency any more, the food simply sank through into the fat, where it was quickly broken down and added to her collection of blubber. She belched, and the shockwave sent ripples down her layers. Mark could see his own fate flash by him, and he put his foot down to descend the ladder. He was too late. The ladder rocked, swayed and toppled. Mark crashed into her flesh. He kicked and thrashed with his extremities, but he couldn't reach anything sturdy, not even the floor. He was stuck in a trembling mass with no solidity, and it was slowly growing over him. He pushed the fat away from him, but like water it simply poured back over him with more force, and soon he was powerless to stop himself drowning. He let out a morbid scream as a thick layer of fat rolled over him, and he was silent. The cellulite continued to grow around his cocooned body, and soon there was no sign of him anymore. Amy couldn't even feel him, but she knew that he was no more. She smiled with satisfaction. She had won. The ceiling gave way, the brickwork rolled down her painlessly and her liberation was congratulated by a beautiful afternoon sun.