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shrubberylogistic · 3 years

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Eat Me

You can’t wait. You tear into the package the moment it arrives. Your knees weaken in anticipation, hands shaking, your wispy body a blur as you carry it up the stairs, unable to rein in your smile. You slide the bolt shut on the bathroom door behind you, staring in silence. Alone at last, with heaven waiting at your fingertips.

It came in a flowery tin. You peel off the tape, then open the lid. Ten little cakes look up at your greedy, glimmering eyes, pink and white, iced top to bottom, like little French fancies. All marked with the same two words, in radiant black.

‘Eat Me’

You lick your lips. You spy a tiny silvery bottle, rattling in between. You check the label.

‘Drink Me’

Carefully, you slip it to the corner, safe for later. Your mind is fixed on the main event. The instructions lie folded at the bottom of the tin, but you already know them off by heart – long nights reading, re-reading the product description on the dark corners of the web, touching yourself to a frenzy, all in anticipation of what’s about to happen next.

You’re about to take a little journey to Wonderland.

The first cake enters your mouth. The taste is curious, exquisite. You look at yourself in the mirror, scrutinising your scrawny figure. Your skinny arms. The angles of your face. Your slender chest, chained by a lightning metabolism. They’re all about to change. In a big way. You wink at your reflection, then swallow.

In a twinkling, twenty-five pounds appear on your frame. You stare, breathing out, breathing in, expecting your body to follow, watching your stomach’s swell linger. A wry smirk crosses your face when you realize – the finger’s width of soft fat, lingering over your belly, there to stay. There’s a subtle change in your cheeks too – a little fuller, a little more colour. And your chin; a little fluffier. A little less pronounced.

But it’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough.

You open wide and let the second cake follow the first. Sensual sugars slip down your throat. Your eyes open wider. Now you’re looking thicker. You feel pressure along your jeans, ratcheting through the waistband, tensing in the seat. Another twenty-five pounds settle on your ass, your thighs, your face. A fleshy crease forms under your grin. You’re looking rounder, healthier. More of a presence, as your folks would say – though God only knows what they’d think if they could see what was happening to you now. You’ve put on noticeable weight. That curve of your belly. That flourish from your hips. That...that wasn’t there before...

Another lick of the lips. Another squeeze of ecstasy. Another cake.

Tension turns to pain, then to pleasure. In a heartbeat, your pants grow uncomfortably tight. Fresh fat laps over the beltline, burgeoning from your love handles – a rubbery ring, morphing out from your middle. Your shirt rides up a smidgeon, the flesh doughy and wobbly beneath. You give the hem a pull, touching, feeling where the weight has graced you. It’s seventy-five pounds worth by now. No small number. And you’re not such a small person any more, either. You blink, warmth reddening your chubbier complexion. You already know a trip to the scale would tell you that for a person of your (average) height, you’re become overweight.

That word sends a shiver down your spine. You run your fingers through your hair, shifting your feet. A tiny twitch buzzes up from your knees, unused to carrying the excess heaped on your torso. Overweight. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

Quick as a flash, the fourth piece of cake finds its way down your throat. It’s met with a moan, a searing squeeze – then a burst, of threads, of pleasure as your button gives way, inches of adipose rolling down the zipper of your jeans. Your shirt has zipped up another inch, gripping the flab under your arms, tightening under your shoulders. You need to change – fast. You fight the cotton off your tender skin, hoisting it over your head, unhitching your thick wrists from the sleeves. Squirming and stretching, you strip down to your strained underclothes, kicking aside your outgrown shirt and jeans, running fingers through your sweaty hair. You take pause, gazing at your bloated body, enraptured. Months upon months of stuffing wouldn't have a patch on what you’ve done. You try and make sense of the curves of your face, the dip in your double chin, the warm droplets of sweat on your wobbly chest while you take your dressing gown off the rack and sling it round yourself. A hundred pounds, fatter. You hardly recognise the person underneath.

You unlock the door. It’s time for a little house tour. You trot out the bathroom, swaying, hiccuping, heavier and clumsier than the person who walked in. Tin in hand, you feel the fat shift with your stride, your thighs brushing, your belly drifting and dipping, an inch of pleasurably hanging flab, creaming over your pants.

Obese. It hits you as you jostle down the stairs, flab jiggling in places you’d never dreamed you’d find it before. You throw out your hips and totter to the kitchen, loading your arms with a raft of goodies from the fridge. You came prepared for this day – the microwave oven waits by your bedside, a stash of snacks calls your name from the drawer. You’re almost walking on clouds while you rush back upstairs, your body quivering, your eyes glazing over before you set down the tin of cakes, propped atop a towering stack of meaty fast food.

The rhythmic ping of the microwave is the tune to your afternoon. You tuck into your feast, filling up your engorged stomach in a haze of breathless gluttony. Slice after slice of pizza pumps you out, topped with swig after swig of bubbling soda. Fries follow, then popcorn, chocolates and sugary doughnuts, before you branch back into savory, ploughing through and lasagna. Waves of trash spread around your spongy sides, falling to the floor while make a pig of yourself, grunting and munching. The last tray spins on the glowing dish, as your mind leads you astray.

A hundred pounds of fat. Only for today. You think of when you’ll get your next shot at letting your fantasies swallow you whole. You free the lasagna, set it down on the floor, and peer longingly at the flower-covered tin. Four gone... but still, six left...

You reach out and count them, once, twice, the tin perched on your stuffed paunch. You told yourself four was the limit. You said you’d save the rest for another time. They’re so expensive, after all. But that was then. And now, you can no longer resist...

Two cakes. One in each hand. You cram them into your face.

Your eyes bulge. In an instant your belly blows into the drawstring of your bathrobe, yanking the knot tight, losing its firmness, then flopping over the space between your legs. You feel the rush from your groin as your hips widen, and your bottom broadens. Squishy folds deepen under your ribs. Your arms form rolls on your biceps, and you ease them out from your sides, your hands probing and squeezing swathes of fresh softness. Another fifty pounds fatter. You gasp, joy mushrooming on your face. You can almost feel your fitness fading into sloth, laziness, greediness, gleefulness. You can’t fathom what those stairs would do to you now.

What would more cake do?

You dread to think. Your tubby toes curl. The tension in your nipples makes you bite your lip. You can’t possibly imagine life at such a size. You’d be formless. Helpless. Weaker. Ruled by the nuzzle of your belly, pressed on your private parts. But your hand’s back in the tin. You’ve stripped three cakes from their casings, collecting them in your cupped grasp. You’re already fat. You’ve packed a hundred and fifty pounds. You’re obese. Morbidly obese.

Just a lick. Just one luscious crumb...

You lose control. A gooey mass of fluff and cream shunts past your lips. They plumpen. You swirl the mixture in your cheeks. They blossom and expand. You swallow the cake in three heavenly gulps. Your chins thicken. Your chest pads out. Fresh fat swells you from your shoulders to your stomach in an orgasmic supernova. Your underwear shrinks to a dampening string before it snaps under the crease of your jelly roll. More mass sweeps through your pillar-like thighs, your calves – tensing, then relaxing, growing and flourishing, fattening up all over. Pooling on the mattress, you slip out of your gown and simply lie back, warm and woozy, letting yourself grow and grow. You strain your smile, eyelids fluttering, exhausted under all your new weight, watching your cushioned chest softly rise and fall. Your drum-tight belly blocks your view of your feet. Even breathing leaves you tired, and weak. Three hundred and seventy-five pounds – an exasperating three fifths of it gained in a matter of seconds. There’s not a muscle you feel like moving. Any more mouthfuls of cake, and you’re not sure there’d be a muscle you could move.

But it’s gone, nearly. And thank god you’ve your glassy ticket back to reality. ‘Drink Me’, you read again, giving the contents a shake with your sausage fingers. Only ten drops – but it’s enough to melt off all the cake you quaffed, changing you back to normal, leaving you with just split seams and the memories. And maybe a crack in the supports – you're not sure the bed’s built to hold so much extra weight. You smile, wallowing a little while longer, a boat in the current, bobbing in an ocean of euphoria. You give your belly a big slap, and sigh, watching it wave, wondering when you’ll get a chance to do this all again.

Your alarm goes off. You groan, twisting toward the desk, slapping your phone to mute with a pudgy palm. Time’s up. Your family's due home any minute. Easing your body up on the pillows, you pick out the tiny bottle, and pinch the miniature wooden cork. It pops free with a pungent fizz. You give the contents a sniff, wrinkling your nose. It’s chalky, bland and pasty. Yuck.

You reach over for some soda to wash it down with, switching hands, before it suddenly slips out of your grasp, plopping onto your stomach.

You jerk your neck. The bottle slides off your rolls, hitting the bed, bouncing and spinning to the floor. You lift, turning, thrusting your body into motion. It’s tipped over on the lasagna tray. And it’s leaking.

Cold, naked fear races through your bloodstream. You kick the covers away, bucking your hips, tumbling awkwardly to one fat hand, one thick leg on the carpet. Losing control of your momentum, you feel your other leg lifting, your wrist folding, your bottom half rippling as you fall, quaking as you make impact with a giant thud. Warm pasta and cheese sploshes along your love handle. The lasagna. You part your thighs, struggling to sit up over your blubbery stomach.

Crinkles and cracks pierce your ears. You shudder, realizing you’ve landed right on top of the tray. You roll to one side and scrape the flattened foil off your butt. The bottle peels off your sweat misted haunch. You seize it and snatch it to your lips.

Nothing. Not a drop. You flick the bottom. You give it a shake. It’s empty. Panic grips your pounding heart. You push up to your knees, your belly button brushing the floor whilst you paw around the trash, searching for the slightest glint of moisture. A whimper escapes your lips. You pick past plastic, cans, more boxes and paper bags. Still nothing. The liquid’s gone.

Sweat travels in thick drops down your soft sides when it dawns on you. You’re trapped in this body. You’re stuck under layers of useless, undulating flesh. Your whimper becomes a moan. Squirming, shivering, you fight your way up to your feet, clinging to your last hope in the crushed aluminum packaging as you steady yourself. Widening your stance, you unpick the squashed foil, then lift and tip the contents down into your mouth.

Your tongue laps up rich ragu and cheese. You close your eyes in silent prayer, chewing, devouring, inhaling the meaty feast. The formula must have seeped in there somewhere. You fill your cheeks, careful not to let a morsel spill, gulping and gorging up the microwave meal. You lick and slurp, until a metallic tang is all you can taste. Finished. You open your eyes, wishing, yearning.

Every last bite of the lasagna’s gone. You look down at your stomach.

No. No. No. Fuck.

You see yourself. Still a huge, feeble blob. You haven’t lost a single ounce.

It’s too much. Your voice breaks as you cry out, only to be cut off by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Someone’s home. You’re not waiting to find out who. Your thighs smack, your belly wobbles, your face pales as you take the tin and barrel for the bathroom, hurriedly waddling your way down the corridor. You feel your girth crashing and jostling before you hitch a shaky right, nearly toppling over before you belay through the door, slamming it shut behind you. Your knuckles are white on the handle, sunken in a coating of excess flesh. You whip around, squishing your fat ass on the woodwork.

You freeze, sucking in air, taking in the sight of your heaving, pillowy form in the mirror, condensing under the heat of your rapid breaths. There’s no hiding how massive you’ve made yourself. God – nothing in your wardrobe’s gonna fit! You hear the front door open. Gently, you edge the lock shut.

Safe, if only for a couple more minutes. Alone. Just you, and... all the rest of you. The new you. You’re about to drop a lot of jaws. Whatever happens, you know you’ll need a cold shower. This is going to take some serious explaining.

You peer into the corner of the room. A long, cold shower. If the cubicle’s big enough to fit you in, that is...

You turn. The flowers catch your glance in the mirror. You twist your feet. The tin finds its way into your hands. You open it. No more bottles – no. But, one more cake.

It lies heavy in your fingers. You quiver at what’s it’s done to you. But it’s there. The heat’s building up between your legs. It’s waiting. The sugary sweetness. The dripping icing. It’s waiting for you.

Footsteps. Someone’s at the bottom of the stairs. You take in your reflection.

Another millstone. Another coating of delicate mass. Another few more months of draining diets and exercise, to have any hope of returning to the size you used to be.

And what’s the use? They’ll wither just as much when they see you. You’d still have to live with the stares. You’d still get as many whispers behind your back, grunting, groaning, heaving while you waddle away, eking all that pleasure from their pity...

You hear someone calling your name.

Your mind is made. Fingers sticky, crumbs tumbling, lungs sobbing as the pounds pile on, while your other hand rocks you down below, cresting on a wave of bliss...

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