Been around before. time to thrive

they take you to an ice cream parlor and tell you to go in and order the whatever on the menu has the most calories. you whimper; you're so full already, with your shirt just barely, barely covering your belly. you're squirming, but you're also so turned on you can barely breathe. you go in alone. everyone's eyes are on you, packed into your too-small clothes. you hear whispering: oh my god look at that whale. you waddle up to the counter with a gait more appropriate for a heavily pregnant woman. you whisper your order. the cashier doesn't hear you. speak up, he says. you try again, still he claims not to hear you. the third time you basically yell it, so everyone can hear: triple peanut butter fudge brownie sundae. the guy at the counter raises his eyebrows and looks you up and down, judging you.

"That's meant for a family to share," he says.

"I know," you stammer out.

he stares, then mutters something under his breath. he seems to relish adding the max amount of chocolate sauce and whipped cream, and packs in as many whole brownies as possible.

cheeks burning, you take it back to a table. even sitting is dangerous; you can feel the button on your pants about to give, but you manage to slowly lower your ponderous ass into a chair, even as it creaks beneath you. you dig in, and the more you eat, the more you forget your previous fullness. soon you're stuffing your face with abandon. you know there's chocolate sauce smeared over your mouth and whipped cream on your nose but you don't stop until the bowl is empty. you'd still your head in and lick it clean if you had an ounce less dignity. except that's out the window too in the next second as a belch tears out of you. your shirt's ridden up, your taut, red stomach is on display. you put your hand on the swollen crest of your belly and groan. fuck, you're so full it hurts and still your button hasn't popped.

people are staring outright, including your feeder at a back table. they're watching you with the ghost of a smirk on their face. then they stand, and just as they pass your table, they knock their hip against it—accidentally, surely. your spoon falls to the floor.

"oh, sorry," they say. "could you get that?"

they wait, smiling. slowly, you lurch to your feet. your center of gravity is different these days, with that huge gut hanging off of you, and you bend carefully in half to reach the spoon.

just as your fingers brush it, several things happen: your button pops off and pings against at the floor. your flabby belly forces the zipper down and flops out over your thighs.

there's also a tearing sound. you whimper; you know what it was. the seat of your pants have given up. your gargantuan ass has split them down the middle. everyone behind you can see your underwear, and the half of the shop that can tell what's happening are laughing and calling you names. piggy, tub o' lard, fat sack.

your face burns. you can't do anything about the pants, the tear or your exposed gut. you're simply too big, and your clothes were too small. your feeder crouches easily and snatches up the spoon.