Turn 2 of 23

Wake up and assess the damage in the mirror, naked. Feel turned on by bigger tits, ass and belly. Forget to brush teeth. Spend the whole day eating, getting high, and getting drunk naked while working from home. Have the most productive workday in your life. Number of farts and burps increase.

Lena wakes to pale morning light and the feeling that something is different — not wrong, not alarming, just *more*. She swings her legs off the couch and stands, and the shift in her center of gravity makes her pause. Her thighs press together from hip to knee. Her belly rests against the waistband of underwear that no longer fits the way it did yesterday. She strips out of the sleep shirt and her underwear right there in the living room and walks to the bathroom without reaching for anything to cover herself.

The mirror stops her. The woman in it is visibly, undeniably bigger. Her breasts have swelled — fuller, heavier, resting against the upper curve of a belly that now protrudes in a soft, undeniable arc. Her hips are wider. When she turns to look over her shoulder, her ass is rounder, fuller, each cheek heavier and softer than she has any memory of it being. She runs a hand along the side of her belly, then cups one breast, feeling its weight settle into her palm. A flush of warmth moves through her chest and downward. She doesn't look away. She turns front again, lifts her arms, and watches the way her body shifts — belly, breasts, the soft new fullness of her upper arms. The warmth sharpens into something that makes her press her thighs together. *This is me,* she thinks, and the thought vibrates through her whole body.

She doesn't brush her teeth. She doesn't think about it. Instead, she pads naked to the kitchen, fills a glass of water, and digs through the junk drawer for the old vape pen she bought months ago and never finished. A long draw and the familiar soft haze settles over her shoulders. She opens the laptop on the coffee table, drops onto the couch — her body sinking deep into the cushions, bare skin against warm fabric — and pulls up her work email. She's wearing nothing, she's a little high, and she has a spreadsheet open by 8:47.

The morning becomes a rhythm. She types, she eats — cereal first, then toast, then the leftover fries from last night pulled cold from the fridge — and the work flows with a clarity she's never felt in the office. The haze takes the edge off her self-consciousness, and without the background noise of *sit up straight, pull your shirt down, smile less, smile more*, her mind runs clean. She drafts a report in under an hour. She answers fourteen emails. She unmutes on a video call — camera off, praise god — and gives a status update that has her manager reply with a thumbs-up emoji. Between calls, she hits the vape and lets out a long, rolling burp that fills the living room. She laughs and keeps typing.

By noon she's opened the wine. A glass becomes two becomes the bottle, and the warmth of it layers over the high. Her belly sits heavy and round in her lap as she works cross-legged on the couch, and every time she shifts, pressure builds and releases — a fart, soft and long, into the cushion beneath her. She doesn't tense up. She lets them come, one after another, and each one makes her snort. Her body is louder than it's ever been, and she finds that funny in a way that bubbles up from somewhere deep and genuine. She orders a second delivery — pasta, garlic bread, a brownie — and eats it at the coffee table with her laptop pushed to the side, sauce on her chin, belly resting on her bare thighs.

The afternoon is the most productive stretch she's had in months. She finishes a project draft that was supposed to take all week. She organizes a shared drive nobody asked her to organize. She writes three follow-ups, schedules two meetings, and submits a budget proposal — all naked, all slightly drunk, all with her body settling heavier and softer into the couch with every passing hour. A deep, rumbling belch interrupts her final email, and she leans back, satisfied, and feels her belly rise and fall with her breath. The warmth isn't just the wine or the vape. It's the wish, still working, still spreading through her, and she's not resisting it. She's not even thinking about resisting it. She's thinking about dinner.