Joined: 29 May 2012
|Posted: Wed Oct 31, 2012 11:51 pm Post subject: Halloween
|Halloween - Ikul's Tale
Halloween. Or as you often call it All Hallows Eve. Many of your traditions and scary stories are based on this being the one night in all the year when the spirits of the dead can pass into the world. A foolish misconception. You see, the idea of the spirits of the dead returning to the mortal coil is a mistranslation, the product of centuries of narrative accounts, shifts in your language, and evolving cultures. Before it was "spirits of the dead" it was "spirits of the damned". Now I'm sure you're thinking that this is just splitting hairs, some meaningless debate about a trivial nuance of a long-dead tongue but you couldn't be more wrong. You probably think the "damned" are the souls of the iniquitous condemned to Hell. Condemned... right. The "damned" are the true residents of the Circles, demons. To be precise, a very specific class of demons. Demons like me.
Funnily enough, well funny to me, the notion that the "damned" are the wicked souls of evil men is another linguistic sidestep. I swear, history to your kind is just a giant game of Chinese Whispers, only people deliberately change the message whenever they feel like it. Before it was "spirits of the damned" it was "spirits of damnation". That's what I am, a demon of damnation. Nice alliteration. And that was a rhyme too, I am far too good at this.
Halloween is the night when demons like me can find their way to the surface. And why would we want to come to this squalid rock? Because it is our purpose. Every demon that rises from Hell, and the weaker ones do it all the time, is bound in service to one of the Seven. We are tasked with spreading our master's aspect to as many people as possible. Thing is, it's pretty difficult. Almost all the demons in Hell are Lessers, tiny little excuses for demonic intent with the power capacity of a AA battery cut in half. But they are cheap, plentiful and blindly obedient. Plus their weakness makes them easier to send out into the world. The Lessers are constantly topside, they exert their little bit of influence then they get slingshot-ted back to Hell, recharged and sent out again. Trouble is that all a Lesser can really do is give someone the slightest nudge and pathetic as your race is most of them can muster the willpower to ignore them. For all but the flimsiest of human minds you need a real demon, a Gremlin, a Hobgoblin, even an Imp, and for the strongest you need a demon like me, a Wicked. But there aren't many of us and worse still getting something with my power to Earth is a chore. Most demons with any real strength go up just once a year, on Halloween. Then we have to find a target, which can take months. We're looking for someone pure but with potential. Someone that denies themselves rather than someone free from sin. Like I said, influencing a human is a tricky job and the more powerful you are the more challenging the human you're expected to choose. Once you've got your target you've got to possess them. Not literal possession of course, that's laughable nonsense, but we have to ingrain ourselves into the mind of our subjects so we can whisper in their ear. But doing this brings us in contact with the human's blasted subconscious. The subconscious is the be all and end all for demons, it's how we talk to you, how we spread our lies, tempt you to our cause. Trouble is you can't actually lie to the subconscious, it's too pure. As soon as we touch it we can start speaking through it but it knows we're there and it fights us tooth and nail. Eventually it will drain us of every drop of demonic power until we haven't the strength to resist the pull of Hell. Most of us can barely last a week and no one has the strength to break more than one target in a trip. And so it is a very, very slow progress. This year though, I have a plan. A plan that, if it succeeds, could dramatically increase my productivity, not to mention my standing in the upper Circles. Of course if I'm wrong my master will immolate me for wasting my one trip a year on a futile junket, not a lot of mercy or tolerance down my way.
Oh, how rude of me, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Ikul, Wicked and servant of Gluttony, at your service and this is the story of the Halloween that will change everything.
Moonlight. I don't like the surface much. Moving through this reality is like flying through treacle compared to the rarefied void of my home. And the cities full of people, the technology, the thronging, unceasing wave of humanity. Tch. Makes me want to vomit. But, I must confess, I do enjoy seeing the world bathed in the dull silvery glow of a full moon, the greyness of the land blending into the darkness of the shadows. And silence, I miss silence as well. Still, no time to waste tonight I've got work to do. Like I said normally it can take weeks or months for me to find my target but this trip is too important for that so I sent some scouts to do recon. There's an Imp I use when I want to corral some Lessers into a cohesive force, he's pretty good at it too, for an Imp. He's still weak enough for me to shove up here with a few hundred of the little runts at his back but he got the job done. Can't say he wasn't confused at what I asked him to do but one thing you've got to love about demons is the rigorous hierarchy drilled into us from creation. Utter obedience in the lower ranks, it's a glorious thing. If this works I should probably reward him with something. I could promote him I guess but that's such a bore, and I quite like him being low down, leaves him with more to prove, makes him work harder.
So what did I send him to look for you might ask? And well you should since it's nothing less than a stroke of genius. My job, as I've previously stated, is spreading gluttony to as many people as I can. Now my personal preference, and it's just that, is tempting the females of your species, mainly because the added stigma of appearance in your society seems to govern them more strongly, makes them more of a challenge, a greater victory. And the fear and self-loathing when their gluttony manifests? Like a fine wine. So I fly around looking for a girl to jump, last few decades I've really been hitting the higher learning facilities, colleges is the right word I think. Full of impressionably idealistic minds newly set loose upon the world, and lots of friends to tempt with late night pizza in the student housing. But this year I'm looking for something different, in fact this year it's not even a girl I'm heading for. The first seeds of the idea came to me a couple of years ago. This Lust Wicked, you know them as succubi, called Ara was arguing with me over which of us was the better demon (me by the way), and she told me about this woman she'd jumped called Margaretha Zelle who wound up so totally filled with Lust that she'd gone on to corrupt dozens of men even after Ara'd left. For some reason her lame story stuck in my head and eventually I had my revelation. What if the mind I inhabit isn't opposed to my work? What if instead they actually wanted the same thing I do?
I apologize for all the blather, it's distasteful I know, but I wanted to build a suitable level of expectation for this most momentous of events. Plus it took forever to get here, sodding place was halfway around the world from where the gateway spat me out. So here I am, finally, circling over the heads of two of your charming young-folk who seem to be standing in a large open apartment. Best I think to do a little prodding around their heads and see what's inside. Unlike mental manipulation telepathy is a very simple trick and it's a good place for me to start, far easier to tempt someone when you know their favourite food after all.
The girl. A small creature, even by your standards, perhaps a hand over three cubits. Brown hair, brown eyes, symmetrical features, petite nose. She's annoyingly thin as well. Some feminine markers, respectable breasts, barely flared hips. Attributes seem somewhat larger in comparison to her diminutive stature. Let's have a look in here... Name is Jessica. Don't really care. Exercises every day. Well that can be stopped. Dieting since she was 14. Okay I'm evil and even I think that's depressing. Doesn't like chocolate anything. Loves... celeriac root? When I find that Imp I am going to disembowel him and feed him his own entrails. Ah, also loves raspberry cheesecake. Thank fuck for that. I suppose I do enjoy a challenge.
The vessel, er... boy. A lot taller than the girl, muscular too. I think the girl's description was "hunky". That'll be useful. His name is... Robert Paulson. Hello Robert Paulson, I'm going to control your mind. Okay... met girl, I mean met Jessica a lunar cycle ago. She was in a shopping complex with some friends, he saw her stealing fries from a somewhat chubby blonde. The sight made him think he might have a chance of fattening her up. He likes that she's small, less weight has more impact plus he thinks she'll end up proportionally ultra-curvy given her "hourglass-in-miniature" form. So far no luck in getting her to indulge in anything more than a few hundred calories. Each night he fantasises about what she'll look like bigger.
Alright Imp, you keep your innards.
Time for the introductions, this is going to hurt. You don't really use a spoken language to communicate with the subconscious but I'll try to transliterate for your tiny cognisant brain.
"Hi, I'm a demon, just passing..."
Ow. Yelling, that's productive. Anyway, "I'm a demon just passing through and..."
"Bad leaves! Bad leaves!"
Oh crap it's not working, it's going to hit me. Time to get ready to run.
"Leaves!" Yep, definitely about to start whaling on me.
"Wait, wait I can make her fatter! Jessica. I can make Jessica fatter!"
"Huh?" Hey! It stopped charging at me.
"You want Jessica eat, yes? You want her get bigger? You like fat?"
"I can make it happen. You give me control and I'll make her big."
"Bad stop diet?"
"Yep, no more diet."
"Bad stop exercise?"
"Bad... not bad! Bad good. Good stay! Girl get bouncy. Bouncy good."
Well fuck me, I think it actually worked. Obviously I knew it would, I'm a genius after all but still, nice to know I'm not going to be charbroiled when I get back. Okay then, let's take the lad for a test-drive. I've got the senses, got the limbic system, okay kid give the girl a pat on her ass.
Perfect. Now it's Halloween so I suspect you're... yes the two of you are heading to a party. We're dressed as "James Bond" and the lovely Jessica is "Tatiana Romanova". Oh wonderful, just fan-tastic. Okay then Robert listen up here's the game plan, you go to the party and you do whatever it is you do but you've got one job tonight and that is to make sure the girl gets good and sloshed. If you ask her she'll order a light beer or worse she'll order water so don't ask. When you get to the party you go straight to the bar and get her a cosmopolitan, it's her favourite. Make sure the bartender puts a decent kick in it. Once she's got it drink your beer in quick small sips, it'll make her subconsciously thirsty. When the drink's half-empty ask her to dance, odds are good she'll drain the glass. She weighs less than a feather so one decent hit of vodka should get her past buzzed and into stupid. If you try another hard drink her friends will see she's getting too drunk and take her home so maintain her levels with beer, in a glass if you don't mind so she doesn't know it isn't light, and buy a few rounds for the table until her friends are too drunk to notice. Hang on... you haven't got the money for that. No matter, we'll con a few of your friends out of a round.
I actually don't know why I do it like this to be honest. Talk to the host I mean. He can't hear me, the ideas I give him just rise from the depths of his mind as if they were his. It's kind of like talking to myself I guess, or talking to a Lesser. Still, I find it makes more sense to me and usually to the vessel. On an ordinary day giving this many instructions would be unheard of, normally I'm just whispering in a girl's ear that that slice of chocolate cake looks yummy and that she's so thin she can afford to relax her diet. Of course on an ordinary day I'd also have a pissed off subconscious trying to evict me from the premises. This is the most relaxed trip topside I've had in eight millennia.
They're at the club now. Got to say Robert's doing his job like a champ. Jessica's halfway through her first beer, her eyes are losing focus so I'm on the right track. Time for one his mates to buy another round I think. Okay meat-puppet here's what you do:
"I've got a wager for you."
"Oh no, I don't think so. You already tricked Al out of a round, you're not getting me."
"Okay, okay. 'Fraidy cat."
"Well come on then. I tell you what, I'll give you the advantage Mr. English Major. I bet I can give more words that don't contain the letter 'a' in a minute than you can. Loser buys."
"You? You've got the vocabulary of a mute. You're on. Cynthia, time me."
Stupid boy. Well, you got to 29, that's not bad I suppose. Okay Robert, your turn.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,..."
Party's finally over, mercifully. Music pains me in a way I've never been able to aptly describe. Still, little Jessica did very well for her first night. The boy's carrying her to the car as we speak, piggyback style so her friends just think it's cute and not a necessity. Robert's work is done for the evening. I could have him feed the drunk some ice-cream or nice slivers of butter but it's not my scene. If I'm doing my job right the girl will want her next morsel as much as she wants her next breath. There have been times of course when I've had no choice but to secretly fatten someone just to get them started down the road to gluttony but it's a last resort and I've always felt... I've always felt that it was a failure on my part to have not found the means to solve the problem more elegantly.
Back in the apartment again. Time to get the girl out of her costume, leave the panties. Good. Now pull one of your enormous t-shirts over her head. Perfect. Nice and comfortable. Put her to bed. Now grab a glass of water and a couple of aspirin, leave them next to her. Grab a basin. She's not going to throw up but she should know you thought of everything. Speaking of, draw the curtains. Good minion. Settle in lad you're spending the night on the couch. Right, you're lying down and... off-switch. I love having this much control over a body.
So, I'm sure you're wondering my rapt audience precisely why I have the lummox sleeping on the sofa when there's a perfectly good drunk girl in the next room? The answer, ironically, is chivalry. Don't worry, I'm not going soft, it's entirely selfish. Call it sexist if you want but a girl is much easier to fatten if she feels like she's in a committed relationship with a partner who cares for her. Hence my manufacturing of a monster hangover and Robert's noble endeavours on her behalf. Now, Robert's got an early morning and dear Jessica has nothing till noon so he'll check on her before he goes and leave a note saying he'll call later to talk. Now you might suspect I'd try to push a nice "hair-of-the-dog" breakfast on the woman but in my experience it doesn't always work so well. More often than not the girl's feeling so sick food makes her nauseous, exactly the opposite of the associations I want to enforce. To seem caring though I think I'll have Robert prepare a nice fruit platter and freshly squeezed orange juice to go in the fridge. I don't really care if she forms bad memories of kiwi and if she does eat it every little helps. Again, call me a bastard but it works 999 times out of 1000.
I do have one thing to do while Robert sleeps. I've already displayed my extraordinary powers to you: possession, telepathy, ruthless cunning. But these are not the only tricks in my bag. In the same way that I can interface with a human's subconscious I can mess with other parts of their brain and a specific talent that I've developed over the years is dictating where a body should gain weight, an unbelievably useful skill. And since it's a completely unconscious action there's bugger all resistance. Now I like to think of myself as an equal opportunity director of devilry but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a preference for big pillowy stomachs. There's something about a swollen orb of wiggling flesh bulging out beneath a woman's breasts that screams glutton and makes my handiwork all the more powerful. Seeing my subject's washboard abs begin to fade from lack of exercise and soften from no lack of food is one of the few pure pleasures this world offers me. I like to start a belly with a little ripple of fat just at the hemline of their clothes so that a tiny lip of pudge bulges over the waistband. Then I let the fat spread further outwards, steadily working its way around to the hips which I widen until matching love-handles join the tidbit of flesh bubbling out of their pants. What follows then depends on the girl. If she's busty I like to focus the weight centrally around her navel to form a smooth arcing potbelly that mirrors the breasts in its bulbous shape and quivers like gelatine with each step. More bottom heavy girls are better complemented by amplifying my initial annulus of blubber, adding weight low down to augment and multiply the fat rolls draping over her belt buckle and engorging her love-handles until they exist independent of her clothing. A little extra weight across her back then solidifies the "muffin top" that suits the more pear-shaped women so sumptuously. Trouble is that a chubby midriff is liable to send most girls into a panic-induced diet and exercise detox to obliterate the offending excess. Now I can whisper all the platitudes I want but there's nothing that can override two decades of indoctrination that thin is in. As a substitute in the past I have had a lot of success with directing the weight low and behind.
If you plump up a girl's thighs nice and slowly and keep them from rubbing together for as long as possible you can build up a pretty impressive pair of wobbly tree trunks as exercise follows the same path as diet: out the window. Then, when they're suitably lulled a fevered weekend binge on their favourites, from pizza and ice-cream to doughnuts and crisps, can launch them into the realm of rubbing, chafing, jiggling towers of delectable adipose. Jeans burst at the seams as the girl frantically tries to pull them up, a wave of fat gradually building above the waistband. Dusty work-out shorts refuse to inch up the thighs and the constant rubbing makes exercise unbearable and acceptance so easy.
The ass is a good target too as long as you're careful. In the last few decades I couldn't begin to count the number of times I've heard the question "Does my bum look big in this?". Usually the answer has been "Fuck yeah". The trick is that people like to feel attractive, which makes sense I guess, so as long as you keep a posterior perky, curvy and above all cellulite-free girls are usually willing to let a little growth slide. The benefit of fattening the rump is that it's out of sight and out of mind. The first feelings of jiggling flesh can be dismissed as ridiculous imaginings. The distorted, bulbous shape of a bubble-butt is chalked up to unflattering lighting and poor mirrors. Subconscious nudges at them to notice the guys checking them out in their tight dress help reinforce the attitude of "sexy curves". Of course the first time a girl tries to don a pair of skinny jeans that strain over the thighs and then stop abruptly under the newly developed shelf of her butt you know there's going to be a temper tantrum. Some can be coaxed into wearing their "fat" jeans as a "temporary" stop-gap (after all, they're not fat, just voluptuous), some girls can be convinced they're "retaining water". The more stubborn girls that determine to exercise feel the burning gaze of every man, woman, and child staring at their undulating, wobbling, fatty spheres that seem to shake more violently with every calorie burnt while a little voice bemoans the humiliation and offers the comforting thought of hiding away with a tub of ice-cream far from prying eyes.
In terms of efficacy however, and I suspect that must be my primary metric at this stage, there are two very obvious targets for expansion. Breasts are an extraordinary feature in your species. Size serves almost no practical purpose beyond a small handful and yet bigger is always better. Handily for me since I choose only the most difficult targets for gluttonous treatment most have been skinny their whole lives and cursed with "breast envy". Nearly every woman lacking up top has felt inferior when they see some impossibly stacked seductress sashay past them, particularly when I helpfully point out the gaggle of men gawking at the gazongas. Men's obsession with breasts is another advantage of swelling a girl's girls in the early stages of the program, a few subtle suggestions to wear something low-cut and slutty provides a self-esteem boost that lasts for days. Furthermore, so long as the chest continues to grow men are happy to ignore little bellies or the beginnings of a spare tire, helping keep the target oblivious to the state of their plight. Then there's exercise. Just as a carefully planned assault on the thighs can render exercise untenable so can a pair of bouncing boobs pulling and pinching as they struggle to escape a teeny brassiere. Girls are usually so pleased by the growth that they are happy to skip the painful exertions and enjoy their bustiness. All the while I can sit in the background and reinforce the relation between more food and bigger breasts. Ridiculous superstitions like creamy foods promote "good" growth helps the girls rationalise their escalating dessert consumption while I begin my greater work giving them a proud potbelly that will eventually eclipse their new assets. So yes, I think, Jessica's breasts need to get larger. In fact, to speed up the process I'll have Robert pilfer her sports bra before he leaves in the morning.
Greetings once again my captive audience. Take a moment, if you will, to reflect on the indescribable marvel that is ME. This plan, MY plan, is so unbelievably brilliant I can hardly bear the burden of such genius. From within this boy's mind I have been able to influence the girl's eating habits without her having even the slightest notion of a demonic presence. To the contrary the only thing that has changed in her world is that her boyfriend seems more attentive and loving than she knew he could be and she, in her mind's own words, "couldn't be happier". I've been on Earth for three days. Usually by this point I'm weary from constant battle but my target is bending nicely to my will. I'm pretty much halfway through my tour at this stage and I know the clock is ticking, there's only so much a demon can do in a week but my aim is not just to fatten a girl up (my personal record was 22lbs in nine days) but to completely instil an attitude of gluttony so that the girl continues to gain and spread her decadence to others long after I'm gone. But here I can do nearly everything I would normally and my power's barely dipped from full. Rather than trying to tempt her to snack I simply have Robert bring her "something to keep her strength up". Instead of whispering of the joys of an all-you-can-eat buffet I just have Robert "accidentally" order too much of her favourite Chinese take-out which she can, in the comfort of her sweats, happily munch on and then finish off for breakfast. Simple salads for lunch are quickly dismissed when a handsome boyfriend suggests they go out and have a pleasant meal together, one filled with only the finest of foods. It hasn't all been easy of course. Her abhorrence of chocolate puts a cramp in some of my best moves. White, milk, dark she hates the lot, very disturbing. Halloween usually provides a good opportunity to ply my unsuspecting target with sweets but again Jessica thwarts me, her palate is too refined to derive much pleasure from preservative-filled confections. So my only options to develop her sweet tooth are pastries, cakes and tarts which are special enough to warrant occasion, though she has docilely devoured the giant bear-claw Robert brings each day during her afternoon class break to "help tide her over" until Robert whisks her off to a party filled with beer and finger food, the perfect grazing ground for my princess. And when the party is over? Well, what could be more honourable than ensuring his girlfriend has a "proper, healthy, meal". After all, Jessica can hardly survive on junk food alone can she?
In spite of all the time I've got to play I'm actually ready to move on. When tonight is over Jessica's gluttony will be awakened, an integral part of her identity inextricable from the whole. Mine forever. By providence it's the happy couple's one month anniversary (a truly pointless human tradition by the by, what meaning could periods of time after an event assigned arbitrary significance possibly hold?), and Robert, under my guidance, has prepared everything for the evening ahead.
A knock at the door, Robert heads to answer. The intoxicating aroma of sumptuous food permeates the kitchen. A quick reminder to the boy to smooth his hair, I have him trussed up like a turkey in a fancy suit. The door opens, Jessica's smiling face beams back at me. Already I can see her nostrils flaring slightly, they've caught the scent. For a tenth of a second Robert's gaze drifts downwards, his jaw drops, but I'm on him like a whip, he must be a gentleman! I can hardly blame the lad of course, the girl has cleaned up rather well. She's completely in the dark about tonight, she was just told to turn up at seven in a nice dress. She's chosen a black one, very form fitting. It's long but slit down the left leg exposing mile after mile of her little stick thighs that I have only just begun to soften, definitely going to need to get to those properly right quick. In between my more necessary ministrations I've managed to send a few pounds to Jessica's middle, just enough for the minute bulge to catch the light spilling out of the doorway. As a result the dress is particularly tight at the waist which should prove amusing, wrapping securely around her hips and rear (what there is anyway) but where this piece of couture is shining is her breasts. It's strapless and there's an elegant bowed V-shape to the neckline that's supposed to allow a little bit of cleavage. Thing is that I work fast. Without direct control I haven't exactly been able to get the girl to pig-out or anything but I've been enabling and encouraging every bad dietary choice imaginable and what we're looking at here is an extra pound of tit-flesh billowing out of each cup. The gulley of cleavage this dress is forming has Robert mentally salivating, if it weren't for me he might well have jumped her by now, and the extra roundness has Jessica's breasts squeezing out of the front of the dress in a look only achievable when you get a girl to growth spurt more than two sizes in 72 hours. And why is she not panicked by this sudden change? Because her boyfriend loves her. As she steps through the door I allow Robert to sneak a peek down his diminutive date's dress at the inviting abyss nestled between her bulging hillsides and give him a scant moment to marvel at the supple jiggling at each footfall. I've never found humans attractive, indeed quite the opposite, but the sight of nascent fat, adipose that I have carefully cultivated, has more draw than I care to admit.
"Something smells incredible, are we not going out?" She's not the least bit disappointed at the thought, an intimate dinner for two ranks number one on Jessica's perfect date list.
"No madam," Robert intones, bowing and kissing her hand at my prompting, "Tonight we will be dining alone. I hope you brought your appetite, I've been preparing all day."
"You have? I didn't know you cooked, what are we having?"
"Ah, we'll let that be a surprise I think, if you'll follow me."
Robert takes her over to the beautifully laid table illuminated by candlelight, a chilled bottle of sparkling white Chardonnay waiting to be poured. The girl giggles when Robert offers her a chair.
"I'll be right back with the first course." Yes Jessica, the first of many.
Now I get to showcase another of my abilities, or perhaps talents would be a better word. I am a great cook. When you think about it, it makes a lot of sense. I've been doing this gig for 10000 years and I've gathered knowledge from every culture since the dawn of human civilisation. The real trick is in imparting that knowledge to my host. It starts with suggestions as to what would be tasty, or in this case what would help Robert fatten his girlfriend. That's enough to get them looking at recipes, which is a start, but cooking is about more than following instructions, there's a feel to food that's both intangible and irreplaceable. What I do is supplant their natural cooking instincts, give them a nudge when the meat is medium-rare, hints as to the right wine to serve with fish, tips on how to season their stews. And baking. Lots and lots of fattening baking. Cooking is an invaluable method to furthering gluttony. It allows the subject to explore new horizons and practise a respected skill, thus legitimising their corpulence. You know that phrase "no one trusts a skinny cook"? I possessed the advertising executive that came up with that line. And now Jessica is going to enjoy a truly perfect meal crafted precisely to her own tastes.
"Presenting... Roast Asparagus Soup with Spring Herb Gremolata."
"Oh wow! That smells... is that a hint of lemon?" Watching the first sip is like watching her jump off a cliff. No turning back. "Robert! This is the best soup I have ever had, where did you learn to cook like this? How did you make it?"
Robert fills the air with a detailed description of the recipe, wisely neglecting to mention the half pot of full cream he added for texture. Jessica is listening closely but aside from a few "uh-huh"s and some "mmmm"s she's too busy filling her mouth to make conversation. She doesn't even notice that her enormous bowl was topped to the brim whereas Robert's wasn't even half full. Good company, good food, the gentle flush as the wine works its magic, these innocuous elements are the perfect weapons for my lass.
The first course is over and I'm not wasting any time in giving her the second. Her dress is still maintaining its sheer face against her stomach so we know she's not yet begun.
"Presenting, for your second course, Fresh Egg Fettuccine served Alfredo with Shrimp lightly sautéed in a Garlic Reduction"
"Fettuccine Alfredo! Oh the last time I had this... um you made this all from scratch?" She's blushing, how sickeningly sweet. Robert continues to dazzle her with his cooking knowledge but now she's only half listening. I chose the Alfredo because the last time she ate it was also her first time both with the dish and in the larger meaning. She was a naive fresh-faced student in Italy for her gap year, he was a charming, debonair young man who courted her for two months. He took her to the restaurant his uncle owned, to a private room no less, and after the meal she took him to her apartment and the two made love till dawn. And now thanks to those warm memories and Robert's impassioned monologue dear Jessica is heedless to the calories and carbohydrates she's consuming. As a brief note she did manage to gain 5lbs in the six months she spent in Italy but without someone of my talent it vanished a lot quicker than it appeared. When she takes a mouthful her eyes flutter in excitement, each bite is better than the last because the remembrance only grows stronger, pure sense memory, pure bliss. Just for the record my pasta trumps her first experience. She's still not quite where I want her, while eager her eating is still being constrained by the boundaries of politeness. I need her to let go.
After seconds of the pasta Jessica's shape is beginning to change, moulding towards her rounder future. That small stomach is poking outwards now, dress still wrapped rigid across it with only the faintest divot around her navel. A brief pause now, a refill of her wine glass as we switch to a red to prepare for the main course.
"And now the entrée," my marionette announces proudly. He is utterly captivated by Jessica's performance so far and feeling extraordinarily clever to have found such an ingenious way to show his girlfriend the pleasures of the table. Poor, poor boy.
"The entrée? But wasn't that the main course?" she asks, pleasantly confused.
"No, no, that was just the pasta dish. This is a celebration so I wanted to treat you to a proper Italian meal, antipasto, pasta, and main course."
"All for me?"
"All for you."
A moment's hesitation on her part. She knows she's eaten too much already but now it would be rude to refuse. Good people are so easy to manipulate. And besides, how often does she get to eat like this? A lot if I have anything to say about it.
"Presenting... Grilled Lamb Chops with Porcini and Rosemary Mustard, served with Herbed Green Lentils and Mashed Celeriac."
"Celeriac? My favourite!"
"I know, you ordered it on our second date." Like he would remember that if I wasn't here.
Now it's getting interesting. Tiny little Jessica passed full somewhere in the middle of the fettuccine. That stomach of hers is definitely getting packed, doming a little more with each mouthful. It's difficult to tell from this side of the table but it looks like her dress is getting a little see-through as it stretches. Jessica got a large helping of lamb, at first she was thinking of ways to politely leave some but the flavour is fighting her fullness. There is a point when food that is prepared well and tailored correctly ceases to be sustenance and achieves transcendence. Judging by the moans coming from her as she savours each tender mouthful I've reached that point. As her plate empties Robert deftly splits the remaining vegetables between them, the girl barely blinks. There's no conversation anymore, both are far too enthralled, Jessica by the food and Robert by Jessica. One hand is massaging her bloated stomach now, very gently and discreetly, a soft groan escapes her lips. Desire has completely vanquished fullness now, Jessica won't be sated until she's finished every last scrap placed in front of her. The feelings of food stretching her stomach and her stomach straining her dress, are just facets of the pleasure.
The last bites are gone and Robert cleans the plates away. Jessica is lying back in her chair, hands palpating the overfed dome in front of her. The dress is one deep breath away from exploding but in her stuffed, pleasured state all the girl can do is take short, shallow gasps. She's so nearly mine, so close. Robert carefully moves her over to the sofa, she lays her head in his lap and stretches out while Robert plays with her hair. I have Robert rub her engorged middle, carefully alternating between gentle traces and firm strokes, a technique I invented, that send waves of bliss down her spine.
"So good," she moans, barely above a whisper. It's the first thing she's said since she finished eating.
"You enjoyed it?"
"Oh god yes."
"I'm glad. You deserved something special."
"Do you think you'd like a little something more to eat?"
"More food?" Poor thing, she actually sounds hopeful.
"Well I could hardly prepare a fancy meal for my beautiful girlfriend without making a dessert."
"Yes, I didn't want to make anything too filling after such a big meal so I made something light and airy, a raspberry cheesecake. Would you like some?"
"Oooh, yes please, but just a little, I'm very full."
We fetch cutlery and the pudding, a monstrous creation a foot in diameter, and return to the sofa, the girl's head in our lap, eyes lazily closed. Robert brings a tiny forkful of the creamy filling to her mouth and she opens instinctively. A deep sigh as she swallows, that's always a good sign.
Robert keeps feeding her, tiny piece by tiny piece. He resumes his belly-rubbing, slow and gentle, helping make room for more and more dessert while marvelling at the feel of a food-packed stomach growing ever larger. Every fantasy Robert has had about every girl he's ever dreamt of, none of it compares to the reality. Even after an hour Jessica's not finished half of the cheesecake but she's packed more than half as much food again as she'd eaten into her now magnificently distended abdomen. The dress is transparent against the swollen mass of food and flesh beneath, little tears have begun to form along the seams and it won't be long now before it breaks free. Jessica is floating to sleep under the surfeit of food. I have Robert drift his massaging hand further down her prone form to brush the inside of her thigh, her body stiffens, nipples rise from her engorged breasts. The feeding progresses, even as the pain continues to grow Jessica eats without hesitation. Robert continues to stimulate her, teasing her gently into headier states of arousal as he proffers larger and larger bites to Jessica's food-stained lips. This, my friends, is the true secret of my work. Gluttony is not about food. It's not about eating more than one could imagine or getting so fat that you cannot run. It's about indulgence, indulgence in all of life's pleasures. Once you understand this you can realise that while there are seven Sins they do not all stand apart, Lust and Sloth are perfect matches to Gluttony, perfect sources of pleasure and it is only through the combination of these three that a true glutton can be made.
The dress is on the verge of tearing.
The girl is on the verge of climaxing.
The dish is on the verge of emptying.
And by my hand, exactly as I always intended, all three things happen at once. In the sultry afterglow of my victory the girl manages to groan in pleasure. Robert is transfixed by the long strip of pale white flesh forcing itself out of her ruined gown.
"Did you enjoy your dessert?"
"Yes," she whispers back.
"Do I make you happy?"
"Would you like to do this again?"
"You are beautiful, and you're going to become even more beautiful."
"More beautiful." She's fading into unconsciousness now.
"Food will make you happy."
It is done. Jessica is mine now. I think I'd like to stay here awhile, see how sumptuous Jessica can grow while I'm around, I'm sure I can find other things to occupy my time. One of Robert's friends was staring at the chubby blonde whose french-fry started everything at the Halloween party, perhaps Robert should take a disciple. And of course Jessica is my first convert but how many of her friends will she be able to enlighten. Oh yes, my work is just beginning.
If the human mind was simple enough to understand, we would be too simple to understand it.