Turn 4 of 6

The photo campaign turns out to be a food stuffing bikini swimsuit themed shoot, to show how relaxing the program is. You are absolutely spilling out of the swimwear, the heat of the idea that your sharing something so personal is driving you mad with gluttony and lust. Luckily for you, the chubby photographer, Mia, has taken notice and is showing signs of interest, flirting with you

The morning of the shoot, the Companion's notification reads like a call sheet.

"Photo session at 10:00 AM. Wardrobe: swimwear. Theme: Relaxation and Recovery. A photographer will arrive at your apartment. Please ensure the space is comfortable and well-lit." You read the word swimwear three times. Your belly presses against the waistband of your sweatpants as you sit on the edge of the couch, and the thought of exposing it — all of it — to a stranger's camera sends a current through you that is equal parts terror and hunger.

The bikini arrived yesterday in a company-branded box. It's a generous cut, technically, but generous is relative. You stand in front of the bathroom mirror after pulling it on, and the reflection is a revelation. Your belly hangs heavy and round over the bottoms, the fabric cutting into the soft width of your hips. Your breasts strain the top, spilling upward and outward. Your arms — soft, heavy, dimpled at the elbows — hang at your sides. Your thighs press together all the way to your knees. You turn sideways and watch your belly jut forward, round and full, casting a shadow. You look enormous. You look like exactly what you wanted to be.

Mia arrives at ten carrying two large equipment bags and a disarming smile. She's shorter than you expected, with round cheeks and a soft midsection that curves visibly beneath a loose cotton shirt. She looks you up and down the moment you open the door, and her eyes linger — not with judgment, but with a warmth that makes your skin prickle.

"Oh, you look amazing," she says, setting her bags down. "The light in here is perfect. Let's get set up."

The shoot begins on the couch, surrounded by delivery containers. The Companion has arranged a spread — pastries, a milkshake, a plate of loaded nachos — as props. You sit in the bikini, legs tucked beneath you, and Mia directs you with easy confidence.

"Lean back. Hold the shake. Look at the camera. Now look at the food." Each instruction is gentle, and you follow them, acutely aware of how your body fills the frame: belly spreading across your lap, arms soft and heavy, chin doubling as you tilt your head down. You take a bite of pastry for a shot, then another, then another, and Mia doesn't stop you. She photographs you mid-bite, lips dusted with sugar, eyes half-closed.

"That's it," Mia says, crouching beside you to adjust the angle. Her shoulder brushes your knee.

"You're really natural at this. Most people get stiff. You just — sink into it." She grins.

"Pun intended."

You laugh, and your belly shakes with it. Mia's eyes drop to the movement, then back up to your face. There's a flush across her cheeks. She stands, adjusts a light, and when she leans close to check your hair, her hand grazes your shoulder. It lingers.

"The company wants "relaxed and recovered,"" Mia says, lowering her voice like she's sharing a secret. "But honestly? You're making this look like something else entirely. And I mean that as a compliment."

You hold her gaze. Your heart pounds. You're nearly naked in a bikini three sizes too optimistic, covered in pastry crumbs, and a woman is looking at you like you're the most interesting thing in the room. You reach for another nacho, and Mia lifts her camera and captures the moment — your fingers lifting the chip, your belly pressing forward, your eyes locked on hers through the lens.