Turn 8 of 21

Revel in the thrill of the moment. After the end of the work week, weigh herself and notice changes again. Weight goes up to 200 pounds, tits, ass and belly even bigger. Red hair even more limp and greasy. More body hair. She gets high, drunk, stuffs herself and can't move afterwards. So much so she just pees where she sits. This turns her on show much she masturbates and then passes out.

Friday afternoon. The last meeting ends and Lena closes the laptop and the apartment goes quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the distant traffic six stories below. She sits there for a moment, naked on the couch, surrounded by the accumulated wreckage of a week lived without restraint — containers stacked on the floor, cans crushed into a pyramid on the coffee table, the carpet sticky underfoot in places she doesn't want to examine. Her body has changed again. She can feel it before she stands, the way her thighs press together all the way to her knees, the way her belly rests heavy and full in her lap, the way her breasts settle against her chest when she breathes. She is bigger than she was on Wednesday. She is bigger than she was yesterday. The thought moves through her like the warmth of the wish itself — slow, certain, electric.

She stands and the couch groans beneath her. The bathroom is twelve steps and she is winded by eight, her thighs rubbing together, her belly swaying with each step. She steps on the scale and watches the number climb past 180, past 190, and settle at 200. Two hundred pounds. She was 145 two weeks ago. Fifty-five pounds, gained steadily, warmly, like her body was finally filling the space it was always meant to occupy. She lifts her arms and looks at herself in the mirror and the woman there is barely recognizable — wider, rounder, her breasts heavy and pendulous, her belly a broad dome that hangs over the waistband she no longer wears, her ass wide and plush, spreading into two full cheeks that dimple at the crease. Her red hair hangs in lank ropes against her skull, the color dulled to a muddy auburn, the grease visible even in the dim bathroom light. Body hair thickens across her underarms, her legs, the trail below her navel, a dark thatch of red that she has not touched in weeks. She runs a hand across her belly and the skin is warm and taut and the touch sends a shiver through her that pools low and deep.

She orders from three places at once. Chinese, Mexican, a pizza. She cracks a beer and lights a joint and eats cross-legged on the couch with her belly resting against her thighs and the food spread across every available surface. She eats lo mein with her fingers and tacos that drip grease down her wrists and pizza that she folds in half and the flavors blur together into a warm, rich haze. The weed makes everything slow and golden and the beer makes everything soft and the food makes everything heavy and she is all three at once — slow and soft and heavy, her body spreading into the cushions like it is melting into them.

She finishes the last slice and reaches for another beer and realizes she cannot stand. Her belly is so full and round it presses against the coffee table when she leans forward, and her legs are heavy and sluggish beneath her, and the thought of getting up is distant and impossible. She sits back and a long, wet belch rises from deep in her stomach and fills the room, and she feels the pressure in her bladder — full, urgent, the kind of full that comes from drinking four beers and a two-liter of soda — and the bathroom is twelve steps away and she cannot take a single one.

The warmth spreads through her and the pressure builds and she shifts her weight and feels the first warm trickle escape. It pools beneath her on the leather cushion, warm and spreading, and the sensation — the relief, the shamelessness, the sheer animal freedom of it — sends a jolt through her that lands between her legs like a spark. She gasps. The trickle becomes a stream and the warmth spreads across her thighs and beneath her ass and the voice in her mind says yes and her hand moves before she decides to let it, her fingers finding the wet heat between her legs and the fullness of her belly pressing against her wrist as she works. The pleasure builds fast and sharp and her body shakes with it, her belly trembling, her thighs pressing together, and when it crests she cries out into the empty apartment and the sound is swallowed by the mess.

She lies there afterward in the warm wet cushions, her body heavy and full and spent, her breath slowing, her hand still resting on the warm curve of her belly. The apartment is dark and smells like food and sweat and her. The last thing she feels before sleep takes her is the wish working through her — the warmth pulsing in her belly, in her breasts, in her thighs, adding another layer of softness to the body that is finally, finally becoming what it was always meant to be.