Turn 2 of 226

Step on the scale and see how much I've gained. I went from 130 to 140 at 6'6". Smack my ass. It turns me on. In my horny state, I through out all my underwear, footwear and socks

The scale sits in the corner by the towel rack, a flat white rectangle she has avoided for days. Lena pads over to it, her bare feet slapping softly on the tile, and steps on. The digital display blinks, calculates, and settles: 140.0. She stares at it. Ten pounds. Ten pounds in — what, a week? Less? She was one hundred and thirty two days ago, she is certain of that, and the number should frighten her, but the warmth in her stomach pulses again and all she feels is a quiet, satisfied thrill.

She steps off and the scale resets to zero. At six feet six inches she has always been tall and wiry, the kind of body that carried its weight like scaffolding — all frame and no fill. A hundred and thirty on a frame that large was thin, genuinely thin, and she knew it even when she hated how she looked. A hundred and forty is different. A hundred and forty is her body finally putting something on the bones.

She turns back to the mirror and without quite deciding to, she reaches behind herself and smacks her own backside. The sound is loud in the small bathroom — a flat, sharp crack — and the impact sends a ripple through the new flesh there. The sensation rolls through her: the sting, the jiggle, the weight of her own hand against all that soft new mass. Heat floods upward from her belly into her chest and her throat, and her breath catches. She does it again, harder, and this time she watches in the mirror as her ass shakes and settles. It is genuinely big now. She can feel it.

The arousal hits her like a wave breaking, sudden and total. Her skin flushes from her collarbones to her hairline and every nerve feels lit. She is suddenly, acutely aware of every new pound — the heavy hang of her belly, the press of her thighs together, the way her breasts shift when she breathes. It is not embarrassment. It is the opposite. She wants to feel all of it, every bit of weight and softness, and the wanting is so loud it drowns out everything else.

She moves on pure impulse. The bathroom cabinet holds nothing she wants, but her dresser does. She walks out of the bathroom still naked, still flushed, and pulls open the drawer where she keeps her underwear. Bras that will not fit her wider ribcage. Panties that will not stretch over her hips. She grabs handfuls and throws them into the hallway. Then the sock drawer — emptied, tossed. She goes to the closet and finds her shoes, her sneakers, the boots she wore to work, and one by one they go out too, landing in a pile on the hallway floor. She stands over the mess of fabric and leather, breathing hard, and feels lighter. Cleaner. Like she has shed a skin that was never hers.

The apartment is quiet. The pile of discarded clothes sits in the hallway like evidence of something. Lena looks down at herself — naked, heavier, aroused, and free of every constraint she used to wear — and the warmth pulses again, steady and approving. Her reflection grins at her.