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The lunch lady of hollow ridge playthrough

Turn 13 of 32

She appears to be in her mid-forties, standing at 5'3" and weighing around 275 pounds, with a short and stout build. Her body is soft and rounded, with heavy arms that have gentle fat rolls, a large belly, wide hips, and thick legs. Her face is pale and round, framed by dark brown hair styled in a loose knot. She wears a green windbreaker over a simple top, paired with jeans that fit snugly, and her hands and feet are broad and soft. There are no visible marks or jewelry, and her overall demeanor radiates a warm, maternal presence.

Wash up after breakfast and head to the tv to watch more southern shows. no one sees that while watching that every body in the room changes. your boobs, feet, hands, ass, legs and thighs gain fat just like the arms. the stomatchs all gain loads of belly fat and now everyone is the same 5'3, 275 pounds. everybody now has the same obese short poor southern woman body. no one notices it at all.

The dishes are done by nine — scraped, sprayed, stacked, the towel hung square on its rail — and the twelve of you drift down to the lounge the way you'd drift to a porch after a morning's work. The TV is already warm. The channel finds itself, settling into another southern program, some old sitcom where a big soft-spoken woman runs a diner and everybody in town comes to her with their troubles. 'Now that's a good woman,' Dana says, and you all nod, and the folding chairs creak as twelve of you settle in. The change comes slow and comfortable as the show itself, and nobody in the room sees it. Your hips spread against the folding chair, flesh filling out soft and heavy over your thighs, your legs thickening to match your arms. Your belly pushes forward under your windbreaker, settling into a great warm roll of fat that rests easy on your lap. Your chest fills, your hands go soft and broad, your feet widen in your shoes until the shoes fit the way they have always fit. Your jeans strain, then stop straining, because they are the right jeans for the body wearing them, and always were. Somewhere in the second act your height goes too, quietly, the floor rising to meet you, and you settle out at five foot three and two hundred seventy-five pounds of short, stout, poor southern woman, exactly like the eleven women on either side of you. On the screen the diner woman hugs somebody's wayward son and tells him he needs a good meal. The room laughs together, the same laugh from twelve throats, and you reach over and pat Talia's knee without deciding to, and her heavy hand covers yours, and it is the most natural thing in the world. When the episode ends your body has been this body forever. The chairs look right with all of you in them. 'Well,' tammy says, giving her belly a fond little pat as she stands, 'I reckon it's near time to start on lunch.' Nobody disagrees. Nobody looks down. Twelve identical women file out of the lounge toward the kitchen, feet slapping soft on the linoleum, and the clock ticks on at 8:30, and Tammy is content.