Turn 11 of 228

Check the OnlyFans account for subscribers and responses. Then take bathroom mirror photos at work and post them. Next walk to the bodega barefoot after work for more food and drinks. For the drinks, get both soda and alcohol. Stop by the dispensary afterwards and get the strongest weed. At home, strip naked, get high + drunk. Also eat and masturbate at the same time. Don't hold back farts + burps

Lena checks her phone during her afternoon break, leaning back in her chair until it creaks, her belly pressing against the desk edge. She opens the OnlyFans app and the numbers hit her like a wall: forty-three subscribers. Forty-three strangers paying to see her body grow. The comments are stacked under her first post — *you're incredible*, *how much more are you going to gain*, *that belly is perfect*, and longer messages she doesn't read fully, just lets the words wash over her like warm water. Her most-liked photo is the couch shot, the one covered in crumbs and chocolate. She feels her face flush and a tightness build in her chest that's part pride and part something hungrier.

She stands and walks to the bathroom, carrying her phone low against her hip. The bathroom is single-occupancy and she locks the door and turns to the mirror. The white t-shirt is stretched thin across her chest, the fabric so tight she can see the outline of her nipples through it. The leggings are translucent under the fluorescent light — she can see her own skin through them, the dark crease where her thighs meet, the full curve of her backside. She lifts the phone and takes a photo straight-on, belly visible between the shirt hem and the waistband. Then she pulls the shirt up to her ribs and takes another, the full round belly exposed under the harsh bathroom light, the stretch marks visible along the sides. She turns sideways and the profile is dramatic — the belly pushing forward past her breasts, the leggings clinging to the wide curve of her hip. She takes six photos in under two minutes and posts three of them before she's even left the bathroom.

At five o'clock she walks out of the office barefoot, her soles pressing against the lobby tile and then the warm sidewalk. The bodega is four blocks from the office and she takes her time, feeling the concrete under her feet, feeling the leggings strain at every step. The guy behind the counter recognizes her immediately — she can see it in the way his eyes widen and then go carefully blank. She's not in a bikini this time but the effect is similar: the translucent leggings, the tight shirt, the bare feet, the strip of belly. She grabs two family-size bags of chips, a sleeve of powdered donuts, a box of chocolate cookies, and two two-liter bottles of orange soda. Then she walks to the back refrigerator and pulls out a twelve-pack of cheap beer and a bottle of cheap vodka. She stacks everything against her belly and carries it to the counter.

The dispensary is three blocks from the bodega. She's never been there barefoot before and the man behind the counter looks at her feet and then her belly and then her face with an expression she can't read. She asks for the strongest pre-rolled joints they have and he sells her three without comment. She walks home with the bags cutting into her fingers and the vodka bottle clinking against the beer pack and her bare feet slapping against the warm sidewalk, and people are looking. A woman at a bus stop stares openly. A man in a parked truck tracks her from the bodega to the corner. She feels their eyes and she walks slower.

At home she drops everything on the kitchen counter and strips where she stands. The leggings peel off her hips and the shirt catches on her breasts and she pulls it over her head and she's naked, covered in the day's sweat, crumbs still on her belly from the office snacks. She opens a beer and lights a joint and takes a long pull of each, the smoke and the carbonation mixing in her throat. She eats chips and cookies with her free hand, shoving fistfuls into her mouth, and the belches come freely — deep, resonant, echoing off the kitchen walls. She farts and the sound is long and loud and unrestrained and she laughs, smoke curling out of her mouth. Her other hand moves between her thighs. She eats and smokes and drinks and touches herself and her body does what it wants — burps and farts and groans and shakes — and she doesn't stop any of it.