Turn 12 of 233

Go home, strip, and order the biggest meal I've ever wanted without thinking twice. After eating, I get up and excersize and perform the best I ever had. Masturbate because I love all my changes and pass out on the bed with a wide smile on my face

Lena walks home through the park. She doesn't take the long route — she takes the longer one, cutting across the grass where the ground is warm and soft beneath her bare feet, her body moving with a steadiness that still surprises her. She is 178 pounds and six feet three inches and the sun is on her belly where the tank top has given up trying to cover it. She feels the warmth on her skin — her own warmth and the sun's, layered together — and she grins at nobody, at the sky, at the dog walker who stares and the jogger who does a double take. She is huge and filthy and free and the grin doesn't leave her face the entire walk.

She strips in the living room, peeling the transparent tank top over her head and stepping out of the shorts that have been digging into her hips all morning. Naked in the late morning light, she catches herself in the hallway mirror and stops. Her breasts are fuller than they were a week ago — heavy and round, hanging with a weight that feels right. Her belly is soft and prominent, the curve of it starting just below her ribs and swelling outward to rest heavy against her pelvis. Her hips are wider, her thighs thicker, her ass rounder and heavier, and beneath all of it — visible in the way she stands, the set of her shoulders, the easy balance of her bare feet on the hardwood — there is something solid. Something that doesn't wobble when she shifts her weight. She runs her hands over her stomach, over her hips, and the touch sends a warm pulse through her that she doesn't push away.

She orders from three places at once. A large meat-lover's pizza with extra cheese. A double cheeseburger with bacon and a large fries and a chocolate milkshake. An order of pad thai, spring rolls, and two containers of tom kha soup. She doesn't calculate. She doesn't hesitate. She scrolls through the delivery apps with one hand resting on her belly and orders everything she wants — everything she has ever wanted to order and didn't, everything she used to split into two meals and pretend that was enough. The total is staggering. She doesn't flinch.

When the food arrives she carries it to the kitchen counter naked, bags piled in her arms, and eats standing up. She eats the pizza slice by slice, cheese stretching from her mouth to the tray, grease running down her chin. She eats the burger in four enormous bites, the meat and bacon and sauce filling her mouth in a way that feels like indulgence and fuel at the same time. She drinks the milkshake straight from the cup, letting out a deep, rumbling belch that shakes her belly and echoes off the tile. The pad thai she eats with chopsticks, then switches to her fingers when the chopsticks feel too slow. She eats the spring rolls in two bites each, crunching loudly, crumbs falling onto her bare breasts. She eats until her stomach is distended and tight and warm, the fullness pressing outward visibly, and then she eats a little more. She farts — long and low and completely unselfconscious — and the sound of it in her empty apartment makes her laugh.

Then she is on the floor. Push-ups first, and her belly brushes the carpet on the way down, her breasts pressing soft and full against the floor, and she pushes back up with an ease that makes her breath catch. She does fifteen without stopping. Twenty. Her arms don't shake. She shifts to squats and lowers herself on legs that feel like tree trunks — thick, solid, powerful — and rises without effort. She does lunges across the living room, her bare feet gripping the hardwood, her belly swaying heavy with each step, and her balance is perfect. She holds a plank for ninety seconds, then two minutes, the muscle beneath her soft stomach firing steady and strong. She does something she has never done before — she kicks up into a handstand against the wall, and her arms hold her, and the weight of her body is enormous and the strength in her shoulders and core is equal to it. She holds for ten seconds. Fifteen. When she comes down she is panting and sweating and her body feels like an engine.

She sits on the floor with her back against the couch, legs apart, sweat running down the curve of her belly and the inside of her thighs, and the arousal is immediate and total. She doesn't need to think about it. Her hands find her body — the sweat-slick softness of her stomach, the heaviness of her breasts, the solid strength of her thighs — and the climax builds fast, cresting in a wave that contracts her belly and makes her thighs shake and leaves her breathless against the carpet. She doesn't clean up. She pulls herself off the floor, trails sweat and everything else to the bedroom, and collapses onto the mattress. The sheets are still dirty from yesterday. The crumbs from last week are still there. She doesn't care. She lies on her back with her belly rising and falling, her body huge and warm and spent and strong, and the smile that spreads across her face is wide and unguarded and entirely hers. She falls asleep in seconds, still smiling, still filthy, still free.