THE LUNAR CURSE II (XWG, MAGIC, ROLE REVERSAL)

Ramona sat in her room, her heart pounding, hands gripping the bed sheets as she stared at the pile of discarded clothing around her. Nothing fit. Nothing. Her outfit that she wore yesterday stood no chance. Her leggings wouldn’t pull past her thick, overfed calves and her tank top barely stretched over her bulging gut. She didn't even attempt to put on a bra. She knew better. Last time she put one on, it bit into the soft, doughy rolls of her back.

Her stomach rested in her lap. It was wider and softer and pressed against her thighs in a suffocating mass. It wasn’t just a gut anymore; it was a sprawling, overfed mound of fat. Her arms, once lean, were dimpled and swollen, flesh pooling over her elbows, wobbling with the slightest movement. Even her face felt alien—her cheeks had bloated outward, her chin sinking into a thick roll of flesh that blended into her neck.

How had this happened?

She had become a fat, useless, overfed slob.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, panic crawling up her spine. She couldn't let anyone see her like this. So, like a coward, she hid in bed, buried beneath the covers, hiding away like the fat loser she was.

Not too long after the door creaked open.

Ramona instantly recoiled, yanking the blanket over herself as a loud, deep belch echoed through the room, followed by the heavy, labored waddling of her fat friend, Isabella forcing her way inside. Nearly nude, she lurched forward, each sluggish step an ordeal. Her bare feet slapping heavily against the floor, her massive thighs brushing together in a sticky, fleshy smacking noise.

She was a mountain of sheer, bloated indulgence, every inch of her consumed by blubber.

Her breasts were monstrous, spilling over the edges of her sagging, beige granny bra. A gift from Rebcca in an attempt to help her contain “the girls” as she called them. The bra was old and worn out and didn't come close to containing her. The straps dug deep into her shoulders, creating angry red welts, while her cleavage was a heaving, sweat-slicked canyon of excess. 

Every movement sent waves of rippling flesh through them, wobbling violently with each unstable step., the beige fabric stretched to the limit. It wasn’t just tight—it was consumed by her, the cups sinking into her flesh, her tits spilling over the top like rising dough, jiggling with every unsteady step.

Her belly was an overfed, quivering mass of flesh that jutted outward, hanging in layers upon layers of fat. The top roll of her gut spilled unapologetically over the waistband of her panties, digging deep into the soft, pliant flesh, her skin stretched tight and glistening with sticky remnants of syrup and sweat. 

The outline of her navel stretched deep into the curve of her gut, pressing against the waistband of her panties, which were no better—filthy, threadbare, digging deep into her hips, creating multiple bulging rolls.

Ramona’s lip curled in pure horror.

Isabella staggered forward, thighs slapping together wetly, each step a visible struggle. Her arms wobbled under their own weight, her breathing loud, uneven, her mouth still glistening with remnants of whatever she had just stuffed herself with.

She collapsed onto her bed with a sickening creak, the frame groaning under her impossible weight. The second she let herself fall, a loud snap echoed through the room, making Ramona jump. But Isabella didn’t even react—she simply spread herself out, belly rising and falling in massive, exhausted waves, sinking deep into the mattress. the frame groaning beneath her weight. She barely managed to sprawl onto her back, arms resting uselessly at her sides, belly shifting with the motion.

Ramona recoiled, pressing herself against the headboard. "Jesus… What the hell happened to you?" she hissed.

Isabella groaned, shifting slightly. "Mmf… shut up, ‘Mona… tired…"

Ramona starred in utter disbelief. This wasn’t the stunning, perfect Isabella she had once admired and on occasion envied. This was a living, breathing blob, a swollen, lazy sow who had gorged herself into obesity.

Ramona turned over, shutting her eyes. Maybe if she fell back asleep, she’d wake up from this nightmare. Maybe this wasn’t real. Maybe this was all just a dream.

In the kitchen, Irina lumbered in, panting heavily.

The destruction around her was horrific—plates stacked high, syrup thick on the countertops, discarded utensils stuck in congealed pools of butter and grease. The air was thick with the scent of indulgence, the kind that clung to everything, suffocating and inescapable.

Irina was a mess, her body swollen beyond reason, her every movement strained under the sheer burden of her size.

Her robe was a disaster, its fabric stained with grease, crumbs clinging to every fold, dark smudges of chocolate, butter, and god knows what else embedded into the fibers. It barely clung to her shoulders, slipping down one arm as she struggled to move, the belt long discarded, useless against the avalanche of flesh spilling forward from her gut., the fabric hanging open, completely defeated by her size. It didn’t just fail to close—it couldn’t even come close to covering the heavy folds of flesh hanging off her body.

Her hips had become enormous, a wide, overgrown expanse of flesh that made navigating through doorways a struggle. She had to turn sideways, sucking in a deep, wheezing breath as her gut wedged slightly against the frame, before she managed to push herself through with a low, frustrated grunt. Her thighs were immense, swollen into thick, doughy columns that pressed together in an unbroken mass of flesh. Each step forced her to waddle, her knees almost disappearing beneath the heavy overhang of her belly. Every movement was an ordeal—her body shook with violent ripples, her breath coming in short, labored pants, sweat forming in every deep crease and fold.

"P-please… help," she wheezed, gripping the doorframe, her fingers thick and swollen, leaving greasy prints.

Rebecca, standing near the stove, turned to her with a serene smile. "What’s wrong, dear?"

Irina gulped for breath. "It’s… Ivanka. She—she can’t get up. She’s—she’s—"

Rebecca hummed knowingly and stepped closer, her touch gentle, almost hypnotic as she rubbed slow, soothing circles over Irina’s quaking shoulder.

"Now, now," Rebecca murmured. "You’ve worked yourself up too much. Sit. Relax. Have some breakfast and let me go deal with this."

Irina hesitated—but then her stomach let out a deep, feral growl.

Her eyes darted toward the massive pot on the stove, filled to the brim with at least three dozen eggs and a plate filled with at least a pound of bacon.

"Here you go, sweetheart," Rebecca cooed, pressing the plate of bacon into Irina’s trembling hands, watching as the girl’s fat fingers squeezed around the handle, struggling to lift the sheer bulk of it.

Irina snatched it up without a second thought, panting through her nose as she crammed strips of bacon into her mouth, not even waiting to sit.

Rebecca just smiled as she watched the hog forget her troubles and drown them out with food.

Upstairs Rebecca entered the twins room. The smell alone was shocking but was ore shocking was Ivanka. She was a spectacle of sheer, unrestrained excess, a mountain of bloated flesh sprawled helplessly on the bed. Her form had eclipsed any semblance of athleticism, her once-powerful legs now useless, buried under thick, immovable rolls. Her tremendous form consumed the entire mattress beneath her. She lay there, her body spilling outward in every direction, her gut pooling over her thighs, stretching so far outward that it completely obscured her lap. She was drenched in sweat, the exertion of simply existing evident in the way her chest rose and fell in thick, uneven gasps. Her billowing arms lay uselessly at her sides, fat and swollen, the doughy flesh pressing against the bed, fingers bloated and barely able to curl into weak fists.

She was trapped within her own mass, a prisoner to the sheer weight of her overfed body. Even the effort of shifting made her gut wobble violently, the deep folds compressing and reforming as she attempted the smallest motion.

Her breathing was shallow, each inhale a struggle as the weight of her own body compressed her chest, forcing her to take short, gasping breaths. Sweat clung to her skin, pooling in the deep creases of her belly, her entire body damp, flushed, and spent from nothing but lying still.

Ivanka laid there eyes glazed over not paying any mind to Rebecca entering the room, but then it hit her and her stomach growled. She smelled food.

Rebecca was holding an enormous pot, the scent of rich, buttery eggs and thick slabs of bacon flooding the room. The sheer weight of it made her arms strain slightly, but her expression remained serene as she approached the helpless Ivanka.

Ivanka's breath hitched. Her voice was different now—deeper, huskier, the strain of her weight pressing against her lungs. "W-what's... happening to me?" she rasped, her chest rising and falling in short, labored breaths. "I can't... I can't even sit up..."

Rebecca smiled patiently, brushing a damp strand of hair from Ivanka’s sweaty forehead. "Shhh, don’t you worry about that, dear. You just spent a little too much time in the moonlight. You silly girl. Here take this, I brought you some breakfast.”

Ivanka’s swollen fingers twitched as she caught sight of the heaping pot of fluffy scrambled eggs, thick biscuits drenched in creamy gravy, and greasy, glistening sausage links piled on top.

Her stomach let out a deep, guttural groan.

Rebecca chuckled. "See? Your body knows what it needs. Go on, sweetheart. Eat."

Ivanka's panicked expression wavered. She wanted to fight, wanted to ask more questions, to demand answers. But the scent—God, the scent was intoxicating.

Her thick arms trembled as she reached out, fingers barely able to wrap around the spork. She dug in, shoveling eggs into her mouth with ravenous desperation.

Rebecca watched, smiling approvingly, as the questions, the fear, the doubt—all melted away under the sheer pleasure of eating.

Nothing else mattered now.

Back in the bedroom, Ramona felt like she was suffocating in her own body. Her gut had swelled into an unrecognizable expanse of flab, sitting heavy and low between her thighs. Her body—her grotesque, swollen body—was on full display, every inch of her bulging, overfed form laid bare as she explored her figure in the mirror.

She picked up and shook her midsection in disgust. Her gut was monstrous now, spreading outward onto her thighs, its heavy mass folding into itself, drooping slightly over the sides of her thighs. Her arms were thick, wobbling with even the slightest movement, deep creases forming where her flesh pressed into itself.

Her legs, once strong and toned, had thickened into heavy, useless columns of fat, pressing together even as she attempted to shift them. Her cheeks burned, the heat of shame pooling across the thick, soft flesh of her bloated face.

Then the door opened.

Rebecca pushed in a tray of food so overwhelming, so impossibly decadent, that it looked unreal.

Ramona’s stomach growled violently.

"I figured you’d want breakfast in bed," Rebecca said sweetly, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

Ramona’s mouth watered instantly, drool spilling past her lips.

It all looked so good. She was starving but her shame kept her hidden away in her room. Too afraid to have her friends see her like this.

Then, suddenly, reality slammed into her like a truck.

She was naked.

Every single roll, bulge, fold—exposed.

Rebecca’s smile was knowing, teasing.

Ramona’s face burned. She wanted to scream, to throw the tray away, to hide.

But hunger… hunger was stronger.

Rebecca simply stepped back. "I’ll just leave this here."

The door then clicked shut.

Ramona was frozen in shame.

But as fast as the embarrassment came, it vanished. The scent of the food drowned everything out.

She grabbed a plate and shoved food into her mouth, moaning through each greedy bite, stuffing herself senseless. Until there was nothing left. Not too long after she slowly slipped into a food coma.

Ramona awoke groggy, bloated, and disoriented, the sheer weight of her body pressing her deeper into the mattress.

The room was stuffy, the air thick with the lingering scent of old food and sweat. Her mouth was dry, her body aching from the sheer weight pressing down on her. She shifted slightly, and a tidal wave of soft flesh quaked through her gut, her thighs, her arms.

Everything felt heavier.

Her stomach groaned, not just in hunger but in sheer, leaden fullness, the sound deeper, more primal than before—almost foreign. When she opened her mouth to curse, her own voice startled her. It was thicker, heavier, more sluggish and husky than she remembered. The last thing she remembered was taking a nap after breakfast—but now, the world outside was dark. Had she slept through an entire day?

She forced herself up, grunting, her bloated form refusing to cooperate. Every shift sent waves of soft, quivering flesh rippling through her. She barely recognized her own movements—each motion was delayed, hindered by the sheer mass of her body, the fat wrapping around her like a cumbersome, unshakable cocoon. Her elbows dug into the mattress, her belly sloshing forward in a thick, wobbling heap, pressing against her thighs like an anchor. Her legs, buried under the swell of her gut, barely functioned beneath her.

She panted, each breath coming short and heavy, her swollen gut resting heavily between her thighs, pressing outward, forcing her legs apart. The sheer girth of her lower body made standing feel like an accomplishment in itself. Her footsteps felt heavier, each one a lumbering waddle toward the door, where a conveniently placed robe hung from a hook. Ramona recognized this robe. It was the same robe Rebecca wore after coming out of the hot tub on the first night. Back then it seemed comically large. But tonight it seemed like it would be a perfect fit, maybe even a bit roomy. She lethargically grabbed it to prepare to wrap it around her body.

it barely fit... The fabric was laughably small, unable to cover even a fraction of her belly.

Then, her gut let out a deep, aggressive growl.

The sound startled even her. She felt ravenous. 

She turned sharply, to see her flabby friend snoring away. 

She lumbered over and aggressively shook Isabella’s belly with both hands.

"Belly! Wake up! What did Rebecca make for dinner?" she snapped.

Isabella groaned, her body jiggling uncontrollably from the sudden motion, her voice thick and husky, lower than Ramona remembered. She sounded almost like a different person. 

She blinked sleepily, her lips sticky with remnants of whatever she had eaten before passing out. "Mmm… dinner?" she mumbled, confused, before rolling onto her side with great effort, causing another series of ripples to quake through her gut. "I dunno."

Ramona scowled and rolled her eyes.

She then turned and waddled heavily toward the kitchen, each step an effort as she felt the weight of her massive thighs dragging against each other.

Behind her, Isabella staggered to her feet, her own movements slow and burdened. She followed her and waddled toward the fridge, breathless, opening it and digging through the mess inside. After some clumsy rummaging, she pulled out a massive pot filled to the brim with potato salad.

"Guess this’ll do," Isabella murmured, grabbing a spoon and plopping down onto two chairs. Her ass was now too wide for just one.

She dug in hungrily, scooping up huge spoonfuls and shoveling them into her mouth, her belly pressing tightly against the table.

Ramona glared at Isabella. "Are you just gonna hog that all to yourself?" she sneered, eyeing the way Isabella's belly pressed against the table. Her flabby upper arms wobbling with every exaggerated movement. She grabbed her own spoon, but even as she sat, she could feel how much her body spread across the chair. The kitchen table that once comfortably sat four was now barely able to accompany the two heavyweights. Isabella alone needed two of those seats just to contain her bulky rear. The chairs dug into her sides, the arms pressing painfully against the soft swell of her hips. She ignored it, lifting scoop after scoop of potato salad, shoving it into her mouth, barely chewing before swallowing.

As she ate, her eyes kept flicking toward Isabella. She looked massive.

She couldn't keep her eyes off of her. Isabella didn’t just look big. She looked like one of those women from My 600-lb Life. Her gut had swelled into a massive, heavy apron of flesh, pooling over the waistband of her stretched-out panties that looked ready to burst. Her breasts sat heavily on top of it, nearly swallowed by the thick, overflowing rolls.

"Wish we had some meat or something to go with this," Isabella muttered between bites, licking some dressing off her fingers.

She glanced up, her eyes lazily drifting toward the glass door.

"What the hell…?" she muttered, squinting. Her jaw slackened as she pointed outside. "Irina's… skinny-dipping? Ewww"

Irina was half-submerged in the hot tub, surrounded by greasy pizza boxes, their empty lids discarded in the water like lazy rafts. Steam rose around her, framing her in a thick haze, but there was no mistaking the overwhelming bulk of her form.

She was easier to tell apart from Ivanka than ever before. Her hips had taken the brunt of her recent gain, flaring out wide, her lower body looking almost comically exaggerated compared to her heavyset upper body. While Ivanka had grown heavier in her belly, with her gut sprawling outward in an unmovable mass, Irina’s size had settled in her thighs and backside, making every movement slow and burdensome. Her thighs pressed tightly against each other, each the width of a grown man’s torso, her belly resting atop them like an overstuffed cushion.

Her arms, heavy and dimpled, lay spread along the rim of the hot tub, barely able to lift under their own weight. Her breasts floated slightly in the water, two pale, heavy mounds that barely peaked above the bubbling surface. She tilted her head back lazily, chewing on a slice of pizza, her lips greasy, her chin rounded from layers of new fat.

Ramona snorted, swallowing another bite. "There ain't a damn thing skinny about that."

She couldn’t stop staring. Irina’s swollen form dominated the hot tub, her lower half practically wedged into the basin. The waterline struggled against the sheer bulk of her, waves splashing over the edge every time she shifted slightly.

Her gut, while not as overhanging as Ivanka’s, still bulged outward, sloshing slightly with her movements. The heavy rolls of her love handles overflowed onto the sides of the tub, her hips pressing against the walls.

Isabella let out a wheezing giggle, her hands still sticky with potato salad dressing. "Damn, she’s really filling that tub."

Isabella let out a deep, guttural gasp, her breath heavy, thick with exertion. Her voice was a far cry from what it once was. Even her gasp sent quakes through the mass of her belly, every movement exaggerated by her overwhelming size as she struggled to push herself up from her chair.

As she took a step toward the sliding door, her entire body wobbled violently, waves of flesh cascading through her belly, thighs, and arms. Her breasts strained against the fabric of her overworked bra, barely contained, while her lower belly sagged lower than ever, brushing against the tops of her thighs. Then, with a sudden, deafening rip, her granny panties gave way entirely. The waistband shredding apart as her gut surged forward in an unstoppable avalanche. 

The sheer momentum of her belly bursting free nearly sent her toppling forward, forcing her to grab the counter for balance.

Her gut was beyond enormous, a swaying, uncontrolled mass of flesh that drooped heavily over her thighs. The deep crease of her navel stretched outward, the skin below it soft, pliant, yet taut from constant overindulgence. Her thighs—once toned, athletic—had become thick, gelatinous pillars of flesh that struggled to support her sheer girth and almost vanished beneath its oppressive weight.

Ramona starred in open-mouthed shock. For a moment, she was convinced that if Isabella leaned forward any farther, her belly would touch the floor. The sheer mass of her stomach was obscene, jiggling with the smallest movement, her skin flushed from the effort of simply standing. 

Isabella let out a frustrated groan, giving her massive, exposed gut a pat. "Ugh. Cheap material," she muttered before continuing her slow, awkward waddle toward the door.

Ramona watched in judgmental disgust, but also in disbelief. Isabella was massive, beyond anything she had ever seen. Her gut, now completely unrestrained, surged outward, hanging low, bouncing with each struggling step. It swayed, jutting out in front of her like an overfed pendulum. 

Soon, Isabella was in the hot tub, settling beside Irina. A tsunami of water escaped the tub as she settled in. 

Ramona rolled her eyes, turning back to her pot of potato salad. At least now she could eat in peace.

But then—

Loud, rumbling snores echoed from the living room.

Her nostrils flared. "Is that pig sleeping on the couch again?! I won’t be able to eat with that hog snoring like that."

She grunted as she pulled herself up, her belly shifting heavily with the movement. She stomped past the kitchen, fully prepared to give them a piece of her mind.

But when she entered the living room—

She froze, the breath catching in her throat. Her stomach twisted in horror, her skin cold despite the oppressive heat of her swollen body.

Ivanka wasn’t on the couch.

She was stranded, her swollen form drowning in itself, trapped beneath an ocean of flesh.

A mattress had been placed there for her.

And she was completely incapacitated, nothing more than a heaving, overfed mound of flesh, her limbs buried beneath the enormity of her gut.

Her body had swelled to impossible proportions, her limbs thick, useless, drowning in the sea of flesh that surrounded her. Her belly was an enormous, glistening mass, spreading in all directions, rising and falling like a slow tide. It billowed outward, pressing into the mattress, its weight flattening the fabric beneath her. Her arms lay at her sides, too heavy to lift, while her face—round, doughy, flushed—rested on a mound of pillows.

Ramona’s breath hitched. She was horrified.

Her arms, once toned and strong, now lay useless at her sides, her fingers barely visible beneath the thick padding that had overtaken them. Even her neck had nearly vanished, her face swallowed by thick, rounded cheeks that pressed up into her vision. Every slow, labored breath she took sent the mass of her belly quivering, her body a heaving, mountainous form incapable of movement.

Ramona could hardly believe it. Ivanka was unrecognizable.

"What… the hell?" she whispered.

"Oh, don’t look so startled, dear," Rebecca’s voice chimed.

Ramona whipped around to see Rebecca standing in the doorway, as composed and pristine as ever.

Ramona’s face twisted in rage. "You need to tell me what’s going on! What the hell is happening to my friends?!"

Rebecca’s expression remained serene, almost indulgent, as if she were admiring a masterpiece she had sculpted herself. "Why, nothing at all, sweetheart. They’re just enjoying themselves.”

Ramona felt like she was ready to explode. “You’re lying! Now tell me what's going on fatass!”

Rebecca decided that her little game had come to an end and decided to come clean and reminded Ramona about the warnings she had given them all on the first night and exclaimed the curse they had suffered on that fateful night.

Ramona’s stomach churned. "How do we stop this? We need to break the curse—now!"

Rebecca tsked softly. "Oh, Ramona, don’t be so dramatic. We can’t break the curse now. It’s far too late for that tonight. The only way to break the curse is to experience the sunrays of the rising sun."

Ramona glared, her breathing heavy, her entire bloated body heaving with each inhale. She was struggling just talking to Rebecca. She felt vulnerable and weak as Rebecca spoke down to her. The power dynamic was palpable. She could never have imagined being as big as Rebecca would be this much of a struggle

She thought to herself, why was she in such rough shape? Why was she struggling so much while Rebecca watched her so smugly? She was so calm and confident. 

But then it hit her…

Rebecca looked sort of small. She wasn't as big as she remembered.

A strange realization hit her. Back when they had arrived, Rebecca had seemed massive—a towering, oversized woman. But now, compared to her and her friends… She seemed almost petite.

The comparison made Ramona’s stomach twist.

Rebecca’s voice softened, noticing Ramonas panic expression. "Let’s not ruin the night with panic, dear. Tomorrow morning we’ll figure it out. Tonight, you should relax. Enjoy yourself. That’s what you all came here to do, isn’t it?"

Ramona hesitated, glancing back at Ivanka. The sight of her—so impossibly huge, so helpless—sent another wave of discomfort through her. And yet, that same gnawing hunger refused to be ignored.

Ramona hesitated.

Her gut growled violently, the sound louder than before, echoing through the room, demanding to be filled. She clutched it instinctively, feeling the way her soft, overfed belly pooled into her lap, spreading, pressing outward.

Rebecca smiled sweetly. "Let me make you some dinner. Something hearty, something comforting. Something to calm your nerves."

Ramona sighed, the shame clinging to her like a second skin, but it was fleeting, drowned beneath the overpowering, primal hunger that clawed at her insides. Her stomach growled in approval, betraying her completely. She didn't even realize she had been clutching the pot of potato salad, her fingers still greasy from her last bite. She gave in, just like she always did, her mouth already watering. Ramona felt like a mindless glutton—yet she could do nothing but comply. "Fine. Whatever."

Rebecca gently placed a hand on Ramona’s wide back, the touch barely noticeable through the thick, pillowy layers of fat.

Ramona sighed and grabbed another spoonful of potato salad, barely aware of herself as she shoveled it into her mouth. She stared outside, watching through the fogged-up glass doors as Isabella and Irina stuffed themselves in the hot tub, pizza boxes stacked beside them, their greasy hands working tirelessly to bring slice after slice to their lips. Isabella, between bites, was lazily chatting, but Irina barely seemed capable of conversation, her breath heavy, her bloated form half-floating in the steaming water.

Behind her, Rebecca moved effortlessly, gliding to the stove, her hands already at work. The scent of sizzling butter filled the kitchen, followed by the crackling of butter hitting the pan. A pot was already boiling, steam curling into the air as she added rich cream to it. She hummed softly to herself, an almost motherly tune, as she reached for the next ingredient.

Ramona’s stomach gave another deep, eager groan. She swallowed. Whatever Rebecca was making—it smelled divine. And would soon make its way to her aching stomach.

Ramona awoke to a crushing, suffocating weight pinning her into the mattress. Her entire body ached, her limbs sluggish and heavy, her breath coming slow and deep. Every part of her felt swollen, overfed, stretched beyond reason.

She blinked groggily, her vision adjusting to the dimly lit room. Had she overslept again? The thought sent a jolt of panic through her.

She tried to sit up. It took effort. Too much effort.

Grunting, she managed to roll onto her side, her gut shifting like a massive, overfed sack, pressing outward in waves.Her arms, thick and useless, barely had the strength to push against the mattress. With a groan, she threw her weight forward, her belly spilling onto her lap as she rocked herself upright.

She sat there for a moment, panting. Sweat beaded on her brow, her body already protesting the mere act of sitting up.

Her mobility was nearly gone but she sat there oblivious believing that she was just weak with hunger.

She planted her feet on the floor, her thighs spreading wider than ever, pressing together in a thick, doughy mass. The simple act of standing felt monumental. She grabbed the edge of the nightstand, heaving herself up in slow, awkward jerks, her entire body quaking with each attempt. Finally, she stood, her legs wobbling, her breath coming in heavy gasps.

Three steps.

That’s all she managed before she had to stop, bracing herself against the wall, her entire body trembling from the exertion. She had never felt this out of breath before. Her gut hung low, resting on the front of her thighs, her old dirty granny panties barely clinging to her hips. Her bra—stretched to the absolute limit—bit deep into her shoulders, struggling to support the monumental weight of her chest.

A familiar sound reached her ears—the sizzle of butter hitting a hot pan.

Her stomach let out a deep, needy groan.

She trudged forward slowly, her bare feet slapping against the cool floor, her belly jostling with each lumbering step. As she entered the kitchen, her eyes were half-closed in a daze, her focus narrowing to one thing.

Food.

"Mmm… What's for breakfast?" she mumbled, stretching lazily, her arms jiggling with the effort.

Rebecca turned from the stove, her expression calm, knowing. "Oh, sweetheart. I’m afraid it’s not breakfast. It’s 6 o’clock. I’m making dinner."

"What?" Her voice came out hoarse, her breath still labored from her short journey. "Why didn’t you wake me up!?"

Rebecca sighed, stirring a thick, creamy sauce in the pot. "I tried, dear. But you were like in a food come or something. I couldn't wake you up dear."

Ramona’s gut twisted—not just in hunger, but in raw, suffocating dread.

"Rebecca, I—" she swallowed, suddenly lightheaded. "What if I don’t wake up in time tomorrow? I could be stuck like this forever!"

Rebecca’s smile didn’t falter. "Honey, you still have one more day. As long as you wake up on time the weight will melt right off, and you’ll be back to your old self."

The scent of dinner overwhelmed her, drowning out any lingering fear. A feast had been prepared—one beyond indulgence, beyond reason. Bowls of steaming mashed potatoes glossed with butter, thick slabs of roasted meat drenched in gravy, rolls slathered in honey, plates stacked high with macaroni and cheese.

Ramona sat at the kitchen table—or rather, across three chairs. The flimsy wooden frames creaked beneath her weight, her hips spilling over the edges and her belly pressed heavily against the tabletop.

She ate like an animal.

Forkful after forkful, she barely paused to breathe, the sheer act of eating automatic. Her cheeks bulged, her chin slick with grease, her breaths coming in short, piggish pants between bites.

A loud, thunderous belch escaped her lips as Rebecca wordlessly replaced her empty plate with another.

Ramona scratched at her belly, letting out a frustrated huff as the tight elastic of her panties dug deep into her flesh. With a grunt, she hooked her fingers under the waistband and freed her gut, letting it surge forward uninhibited, resting heavily between her thighs.

For a moment, she simply sat there, panting, her body trembling from the sheer exertion of eating so much.

Then, a thought flickered through her dazed mind.

Where are the others? Mac and cheese is literally Isabella's favorite. 

Before she could dwell on it, there was a sharp knock at the door.

Rebecca wiped her hands on a cloth, making her way toward the entrance. She opened it, revealing a beautiful, slender woman standing in the doorway.

She was elegant—but cold, businesslike. Her sharp gaze swept across the room before landing on Ramona. She arched a brow, smirking.

"I didn’t think you’d be here so early," Rebecca said smoothly.

The woman didn’t hesitate. "You said they’d be ready Sunday morning. It’s Sunday morning."

Ramona’s gut twisted.

"What?" she mumbled, licking sauce from her fingers. "No… It’s Saturday night."

"It’s 1 in the morning.. I didn't think you’d be here so soon.” Rebecca murmured. "They aren’t ready yet. I haven’t fully prepared them for sale."

Ramona felt her stomach drop. She had slept through all of Saturday.

It was too late.

She was stuck like this.

Forever…

The woman stepped closer, her lips curling into a devilish smile.

"Is this one of the blobs?" she mused. "I’m surprised she’s still on her feet."

Ramona felt paralyzed. Embarrassed. Enraged.

And yet… she kept eating. Her body acted on instinct, stuffing another bite into her mouth as she watched the woman approach.

The woman reached out, pressing her fingers into Ramona’s doughy arm, giving it a slow, deliberate squeeze. She prodded her belly, pinching and kneading the soft, overfed flesh, inspecting her like livestock.

Ramona sat there in stunned silence, her head bowed, her gut heavy and full, her mind reeling.

"What do you weigh, piggy?" the woman cooed.

Ramona stiffened. "I—I don’t know."

Rebecca chuckled. "She’s a stubborn one. But she’s slightly smaller than the others—who are all hovering between 700 and 750."

Ramona felt sick. Her friends—former Olympians—had been reduced to… that.

The woman smirked. "Good. Where are the others?"

Rebecca gestured toward the living room. "Please excuse the mess. Their care has been… let's say more than I had expected. I was going to have them cleaned up before you arrived."

The woman raised a perfectly sculpted brow as she stepped into the dimly lit living room. The stench of sweat, old food, and sheer overindulgence was nearly suffocating. The three once-pristine Olympians were sprawled across makeshift mattresses, their bloated, disheveled bodies surrounded by discarded wrappers, crumbs, and half-eaten food.

Each of them had a CPAP mask strapped to their faces, the rhythmic sound of artificial airflow mixing with their heavy, wheezing breaths. Their skin glistened with sweat, their bodies barely shifting under their own weight.

The woman clicked her tongue, walking toward Ivanka first.

Ivanka was nothing more than a collapsed, heaving mountain of flesh, her grotesquely swollen belly sprawling outward like an overgrown mass of dough that had lost all shape. The sheer weight of her gut forced her legs apart, the massive overhang pooling onto the floor in heavy, sagging rolls, stretching so far outward that she seemed to be sinking into herself. Her arms, now thick, useless slabs of fat, lay sprawled at her sides, her hands barely visible beneath layers of suffocating flesh.

Her cheeks had ballooned so much that they pressed up into her field of vision, forcing her eyes into thin, sleepy slits. The CPAP mask strapped to her bloated face wheezed with every strained inhale, the plastic digging into the thick folds that had overtaken her once-chiseled jawline.

Ivanka was nothing more than a mountain of flesh, her enormous belly sprawling outward, dominating everything around her. It spilled over the edges of the mattress, the heavy overhang pooling onto the floor, her navel stretched impossibly wide. Her arms lay useless at her sides, her fingers barely visible within the folds of her own swollen hands.

The woman crouched down, gripping a handful of Ivanka’s belly and giving it a sharp shake, watching the endless ripples of fat undulate across her massive body. Ivanka let out a soft, pathetic wheeze through her CPAP, barely reacting.

"She’s practically fused to this spot," the woman mused, giving her belly another slap that sent waves rolling across her body. "You’re sure she’s still breathing under all this?"

Rebecca chuckled. "She eats. That’s enough proof of life for me."

"She’s practically a ball of fat now" the woman mused, giving Ivanka’s gargantuan side a few sharp pats, watching the tremors ripple endlessly. "How long has she been like this?"

Rebecca chuckled, arms crossed. "Oh, she’s been immobile for days. Couldn’t lift herself even if she tried."

Ivanka let out a weak, snuffling groan, barely coherent, her breath rattling through the mask. The woman merely smirked before standing and turning to Irina.

If Ivanka was a formless, belly-heavy behemoth, Irina was an exaggerated, lopsided pear—her body having grown into something barely resembling a human shape.

Her hips had swelled into enormous, dominating masses, pressing outward so far that they took up nearly twice the space of the mattress she was sprawled across. Her thighs, bulging with deep, stacked rolls, had grown so thick that they swallowed up her knees, making it impossible to tell where one fold ended and the next began. But worst of all was the imbalance—one thigh had grown larger than the other, a grotesque, swollen mass of misshapen flesh that left her body permanently slumped to one side, as though she were melting.

Her gut, though not as massive as Ivanka’s, still bulged heavily over her lap, sloshing with every wheezing breath she took. Her breasts, small in comparison to the rest of her bloated form, had flattened into wide, sagging mounds that barely lifted with her slow, heavy breaths. The CPAP mask covered half her face, the straps digging deep into the fat encasing her cheeks, leaving red indentations.

The woman pressed a firm hand against Irina’s misshapen thigh, feeling the way it barely resisted, dimpling deeply beneath her grip. "Hips like these," she muttered, running her fingers along the heavy swell of Irina’s side, gripping at the folds. "Looks like we got some variety."

Irina let out a pathetic, sleepy whimper, barely shifting under the touch, her chest rising and falling in slow, laborious waves.

The woman smirked, pulling out her phone and snapping a few pictures of the twins before finally turning to Isabella.

The former beauty queen was a ruined, slumped-over pile of indulgence.

Isabella’s breasts had grown into something monstrous—sagging well past her belly button, draping over her sides, so large and overstuffed that they pooled onto her thighs. They were so engorged with weight that they seemed to fold in on themselves, the excess skin folding like heavy, overfilled sacks of dough. The sheer mass of her chest forced her shoulders forward, making her slump even deeper into the destroyed mattress beneath her.

Her gut, though not as floor-bound as Ivanka’s, was still a prominent, overgrown mound of stretched flesh, pressing against the tops of her thighs, quivering slightly with each wheezing breath. Her arms, swollen beyond recognition, rested limply at her sides, the thick rolls of her upper arms swallowing her elbows completely.

Her face was barely a face anymore—her cheeks had grown so large that they pressed up into her own vision, her lips barely visible between the thick, suffocating rolls that had overtaken her features. The CPAP mask looked as if it were barely holding onto her face, the straps digging in painfully, yet necessary just to keep her breath even.

The woman smirked and cupped one of Isabella’s grotesquely swollen breasts with both hands, lifting it experimentally. "She’s a prize," she murmured, squeezing before letting it drop with a wet, heavy slap against her gut. 

She then began to take more pics and videos of the three girls and shared them with her boss.

Ramona, watching from the kitchen, felt like she was going to be sick. She wanted to scream, to fight back, to do anything—

But her hand was still shoveling food into her mouth.

Her gut groaned, stretched tight, her body hot with humiliation and overindulgence.

The woman turned back to Rebecca. "The buyers will be pleased. You’ll receive your payment in a few days.”

Ramona swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak. "Y-you can’t do this."

The woman barely glanced at her. "Oh, sweetheart. It’s already done."

Rebecca approached, resting a hand on Ramona’s wide, heaving shoulder. "Don’t worry dear, it's not too late. You still have a chance to lose weight. You're still on your feet which means you won’t be put up for sale yet.”

Ramona’s gut churned violently, shame coiling inside her.

The woman’s gaze swept over her once more, her lips curling in amusement. "Make sure she stays that way. We buyers who are willing to pay extra for a girl they can push past the final threshold of mobility.”

Rebecca gave a sympathetic smile and said “Well, maybe it is too  late.”

As the woman exited, Ramona sat in stunned silence, her head bowed, her gut heavy and full, her mind reeling.

Rebecca simply turned back to the stove.

And kept cooking.