Turn 2 of 2

I grab the 40lbs bag of sugar for cooking and eat it straight slowly with sticks of butter, detail the very slow expansion and how incredibly erotic and slow it is as i fatten

You crawl toward the pantry on hands and knees, your split jeans dragging behind you, thighs slapping together with each lumbering shift of your swollen hips. The forty-pound bag of granulated sugar sits on the bottom shelf beside a wax-paper box of butter sticks, and you tear it open with sugar-crusted fingers, spilling white crystals across your bare belly like snowfall on a rounded hill. You break a stick of butter in half and plunge it into the mound, bringing it to your lips, the salt and sweetness dissolving together in a paste that coats your tongue and throat and seems to pour directly into your widening flesh.

Your thighs spread further across the linoleum, the last torn remnants of denim falling away as new weight layers upon new weight, each handful of sugar-butter you push into your mouth translating into a slow, deliberate expansion that you feel in exquisite detail. The outer sweep of your right thigh grows heavier, pressing against the cabinet door, cool laminate against fevered skin, then rounding outward until your hip rotates to accommodate the new mass, bones shifting, settling into a wider architecture that carries your growing self like a shelf carries porcelain. Your left thigh matches it, both now tremendous with plush abundance, dimpled and sugar-dusted, spreading across the floor until you feel the distant wall against your swollen knee, your feet pointing outward, lost somewhere beyond your own horizon of body.

Your ass rises behind you like a slow tide, lifting your lower back, arching you toward the sugar bag as more and more of you accumulates there, a yielding fortress of flesh that spreads and spreads, cheeks rounding into heavy globes that press against your own thighs, against the floor, finding purchase and growing still, the weight of you so vast that sitting becomes its own position, its own topography. You reach back without thinking and feel the curve of yourself, the impossibility of your own span, and the touch sends something shivering through your simplified mind, a feedback loop of sensation that drives you back to the butter, the sugar, the endless feeding.

Your hips crack wider, not with pain but with a slow, pleasurable yielding, sockets softening, spreading to cradle the weight they must carry, and you feel the shift in how your belly rests between your thighs, lower now, a vast rounded dome that emerges from the ruin of your zipper and rises with each sticky handful you pack into your mouth. You press your palms against it and feel the warmth pulsing there, the curse working visibly, turning sugar into substance, turning your arrogant leanness into this monument of softness. Your breasts sway as you lean forward to eat, heavy with their own gathering weight, nipples brushing the top of your belly, the torn shirt long discarded, and you catch them swaying, watch them grow fuller, rounder, each breath a deeper heave against the flesh that weighs upon your chest.

Your mind swims in the slowness of it, each minute an eternity of expansion, each heartbeat pushing you outward, softer, wider, your vocabulary narrowing to the sensations at your swollen lips, your spreading skin, the butter melting, the sugar crunching, the endless erotic tide of becoming more and more and more. You no longer remember your name with any urgency. You no longer remember the gym, the woman, the cruel words that started this. There is only the sweet paste on your tongue, the slow rippling growth of your thighs spilling across the floor like rising dough, the heaviness of your own ass lifting you toward the ceiling, the vast globe of your belly pressing against the sugar bag now, your breasts resting upon it like offerings, and the distant, fading knowledge that you were ever anything but this, anything but soft, anything but hungry, anything but here.