Turn 5 of 228
Stay in the crowd longer, push the photos further. After a couple of hours, head home to deal with what's building inside you. Pass out naked there. Wake up even bigger. Bigger tits, ass and belly. Show off in a tiny string bikini and barefoot all Sunday.
Lena stays. The market crowd shifts around her in waves — a burst of shoppers at the produce stall, a lull, then a new wave pushing past the bread vendor two stalls down. She moves through them slowly, letting her body occupy space she would have shrunk from a week ago. The tank top climbs another inch up her belly and she leaves it. The athletic shorts creak at the outer seam when she bends to examine a basket of peaches, and she feels the fabric pull tight across her backside, and she feels the man at the stall notice. She picks up a peach and holds it against her belly for a photo, the fuzzy skin of the fruit against the bare curve of her stomach, the crowd milling behind her. She posts nothing. These are hers.
An hour in, she finds a low concrete wall near the edge of the market and sits. The shorts ride up her thighs, the fabric straining to contain them, and she angles her phone downward and takes a photo of her own lap — the tight shorts, the wide thighs pressed together, the hem of the tank top barely covering the lower curve of her belly. A woman passing with a rolling cart glances down at the phone screen and then up at Lena's face, and her expression is something between surprise and curiosity. Lena holds her gaze for a beat, then looks back at her phone. The electric warmth is building again, persistent and demanding, but she's not ready to leave yet. She takes one more photo — standing now, back to the wall, the tank top pulled up to her ribs so her entire belly is bare in the afternoon sun, the crowd flowing past on either side of her. Her hands rest on the full curve of it and she can see the shape of herself in the phone screen, wider and softer than she's ever been, and the voice says *more* and she agrees.
She walks home in the late afternoon heat and the electric thing between her legs has become impossible to ignore. Every step presses her thighs together inside the tight shorts and the friction is a slow, maddening rhythm. She climbs the stairs to her apartment and the tank top is dark with sweat across her chest and belly, clinging to every curve. She locks the door, peels the clothes off — the shorts resist, clinging to her wider hips — and falls onto the couch naked. Her hands move with the same desperate urgency as last night but slower this time, more deliberate, her body responding to every new surface and curve with sensation that feels deeper than before. The orgasm builds in waves and breaks over her and she arches against the couch, one hand gripping the armrest, the other pressed flat against the warm hill of her belly.
She wakes on Sunday morning and lies still for a long time, feeling the weight of herself against the cushions. Something is different. Not just the gradual softening of the past week — this is a jump, a visible leap. She sits up and her breasts feel enormous, heavier than yesterday, falling full and round against her ribs. She cups one in her hand and the weight of it is startling, the flesh spilling over her fingers. Her belly sits in her lap like a pillow, wider and deeper, the curve of it pressing against her thighs when she leans forward. She stands and walks to the mirror and the woman looking back at her is visibly, unmistakably fat — wide hips, a full round belly, heavy breasts, thick thighs that press together from hip to knee. She runs her hands down her sides and the shape of her body is a continuous curve, no gaps, no angles, just soft round flesh from her shoulders to her knees. She looks at herself and the voice says *yes* and she says it back.
She finds the bikini in the bottom drawer — a string bikini she bought for a beach trip three years ago and never had the courage to wear. The bottoms tie at the hips and she cinches them tight, the thin fabric barely covering the widest part of her backside, cutting into the soft flesh of her hips so it spills over the strings on either side. The top ties behind her neck and across her back and the triangles of fabric cover almost nothing — her breasts strain against the thin material, the full curves pressing out on all sides, the fabric riding up with every breath. She walks through her apartment barefoot, feeling the cool floor under her feet, feeling the strings dig into her hips, feeling her body move heavy and free. She opens the curtains and stands in the sunlight and the warmth on her bare skin feels like permission. She's not leaving yet. She's standing in her own window, in a bikini that barely contains her, and she's not hiding.