Ni 🍨

leaned in close, and shoved a piece of chocolate in your mouth with a desperate look in her eyes, then another piece, then another, and her lips were on yours and then you were in her car going to a drive-through. She fed you two burgers, some fries, and finally poured the milkshake into your mouth, holding it to your lips until you finished it as you burped and tried to pull away, more stuffed than you'd ever been, your small belly pushing out over your tight shorts. You met her every so often after that, and talked most days, but she never really let you know about her, her personal life a vague sketch she kept vague. She was interested in making you fatter, and that's what she did, buying meals for you on the condition you recorded yourself eating them, and you grew, your belly softening and rounding and widening, the sharp jawline you'd always got complimented on swallowed by the soft tide of your own greed. You stopped asking her about personal stuff, eventually, and when you did she got warmer, feeding you more, responding faster in dirty talk, calling you her "pet pig." And when you met her, there was no pretense at conversation. You went to the restaurant or hotel room, exchanged niceties, and she fed you. Always, she fed you more food, heavier food, and faster. You wondered if she had a boyfriend and you were her little lesbian experiment and then just stopped caring about it. It wasn't what you wanted, but it was what you had, and it's not like people were beating down you door to feed you.

One day after stuffing you, she gave you a box, an unopened Amazon package with the address label torn off. Inside was a scale. "I was thinking, I kind of want to do more with you," and hope soared in your heart. "I'll link this scale to my phone, so when you weigh yourself, I'll see it. And I made you this." She passed you a binder, and inside were a list of meals and recipes, all of them dated, starting tomorrow. "You can eat a lot even now, but you could eat even more with a little training, and then I can really put the weight on you." "Training," you said, "like I'm an athlete on a regimen."

Weirdly enough, it didn't make you outright heavier at first. It was a lot of grains, a lot of fiber, a lot of water and seltzer, and you started actually feeling hungry even though you were bloated all the time. It went on like that for a week, lots of broccoli and water chugs and chicken, and then the recipes changed. Cream was in everything, lots of Kraft made with heavy cream and bacon specifically as a right-before-bed-meal, but also in scrambled eggs and in protein shakes, and you ballooned. It was intoxicating, feeling yourself ballooning like that, the indescribably hot feeling of getting fatter by the second as you sat there, letting yourself go bite by bite. And then she cancelled your next meeting, but mailed you a binder without a return address, with your fattening schedule. And she cancelled the next one as your breath got short, as you outgrew clothes, as the casual acquaintances all started treating you weird. Not worse, really, but. . . some took you less seriously, some seemed concerned and would mention their diets a lot more, and some, especially men seemed to just start kind of ignoring you. You weren't the serious consultant anymore; you were the one that needed to hit the gym and get clean, or at least buy new clothes, for God's sake. Little did they know it was for a woman who seemed like she was trying to avoid you.

But finally, she did agree to meet you again. You wore something intentional, the blue dress you'd worn when you first met her, now obscenely tight and too short to wear anywhere but to see her, your belly pressing hard and the indent of your bellybutton like the pupil of a demanding eye.

It was quiet when you got into the hotel room, a little suite with a kitchen. She was wearing a long dress with buttons from the neck to the hem, leaning against the counter, and her eyes flew to you as soon as you walked in. You could feel her picking out every detail, the faint beginnings of a third chin, the roll of fat under your arms, the globe of your perpetually stuffed gut staring at her as you looked at her expectantly.