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Check OnlyFans for reactions to the naked kitchen photo and the confrontation post. Afterwards simultaneously push the indulgence further by eating, drinking, smoking and masturbating more as well as continue the conversation with Diane via text. We decide that I will get the promotion, since by only interaction with clients is via email. I will also get a private office so I can continue as I am.

Lena reaches for her phone, her fingers leaving orange dust on the screen as she opens the OnlyFans app. The naked kitchen photo has been up for three hours and it's already her most-liked post — two hundred and fourteen likes, forty-eight comments, six new subscribers. The comments pile on top of each other: *you look absolutely massive*, *the confidence is unreal*, *please tell me you're still gaining*. The confrontation post has fewer likes but more discussion — people arguing in the comments about whether she should be fired or promoted, whether what she's doing is power or self-destruction. She reads both threads slowly, vodka warming her throat, and feels the familiar heat building in her chest and lower. Seventy-one subscribers now. She's been gaining an audience as fast as she's been gaining weight.

She takes another pull from the vodka bottle and lights her second joint and opens a family-size bag of cheese puffs. The smoke and the chewing mix together in her throat and she coughs once, hard, and then belches — a deep, rolling sound that fills the kitchen. Her free hand is between her thighs already, working slowly, and she holds the phone against her belly with her other hand and reads the latest text from Diane. *I've been thinking about what you said. About being comfortable.* Lena types back one-handed, thumb sticky with cheese dust: *And?* She eats three puffs and waits. The phone buzzes. *I talked to the regional director today. Before our conversation. I recommended you for the lead analyst position.*

Lena reads the message twice. She farts, long and loud, the sound rumbling through the kitchen, and takes a drag of the joint and types: *The position that requires client contact.* Diane responds in under a minute: *Client contact is email-only for this role. Quarterly reports, written deliverables. No video calls, no in-person meetings. You'd have your own office.* Lena stares at the screen and feels something shift inside her — not the wish-voice, not arousal, but something colder and sharper. She types: *You're telling me you set this up before you talked to me.* Diane's reply comes fast: *I set it up because your work deserves it. The office and the email-only structure are because I'm not stupid, Lena. I see what's happening. I'm trying to keep you here.*

Lena sets the phone down on her belly and takes a long drink of vodka and feels the warmth spread through her chest. Her hand moves faster between her thighs. The joint smolders between her fingers. She eats cheese puffs with her other hand, orange dust falling onto her bare breasts and belly, and the pleasure builds in layers — the food, the alcohol, the weed, her own touch, the phone vibrating on her stomach with Diane's words. She picks it up and types: *When do I start?* Diane's response: *Monday. I'll have the office ready. There's a door that locks.* Lena reads the last sentence three times and her body tenses and the orgasm hits her like a wave, her belly tightening and releasing, and she moans into the empty kitchen with the phone pressed against her chest and the joint burning down to her fingers.

She lies on the couch afterward, naked, covered in orange dust and sweat, breathing hard. The phone buzzes again — Diane, one more message: *We'll talk more tomorrow. Get some sleep.* Lena doesn't sleep. She takes a photo of herself on the couch — flushed, messy, belly rising, the phone screen still showing Diane's text — and posts it to OnlyFans with the caption *got promoted today* and watches the likes start climbing. She eats more chips. She drinks more vodka. She smokes the last joint and lets the smoke curl out of her mouth and up toward the ceiling. The voice beneath her ribs is warm and full and satisfied. *More,* it says, and she feels her body settling heavier into the couch, her thighs spreading wider, her belly pressing forward. Monday she'll have an office with a door that locks. Monday she can be exactly what she is. She takes another photo and doesn't post it yet — just holds the phone against her belly and watches the numbers climb and feels the night stretch out ahead of her like something with no end.