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It still feels like a dream.
Two years with your now-ex girlfriend Amber: a whirlwind relationship with some of the most exciting experiences of your life, but also the worst. Amber was everything you thought you wanted in a woman. She was wiry and fit yet curvaceous, with rich blonde hair and captivating green eyes. She was smart, hilarious, ambitious, and endlessly doting on you in spite of her high-powered corporate job. Things took a turn when the doting morphed into Amber's full-on confession of being a feeder. At the time, you thought her confession was cathartic and brave, and did your best to accommodate her fantasies. Your best turned out to be pretty good: Amber was over the moon at your prodigious appetite, and your inevitably growing waistline. Though you felt a bit of regret at giving up on your once-toned body and a wardrobe of stylish fitted clothes, you enjoyed being pampered, and for a time you and Amber were happy together.
Things didn't stay happy and innocent for long, however. Amber slowly ramped up her control over your meals, and seemed just a little too clumsy at consoling your gain-induced discomforts and angst. You started seeing your friends less and less, Amber claiming she needed time with you as stress relief. You did your best to take it in stride, trying to ignore your warning instincts while accommodating her kinks, even as they began to turn cruel. You finally hit your limit after she launched into a bizarre monologue openly calling you a disgusting pig, gloating over how she'd ruined you for other women, and how you'll only ever be hers. That, and a few too many comments about your softened chest finally convinced you to break things off.
Two years, and over a hundred extra pounds.
She wasn't even mad when you finally hit your limit and stood up to her. Just vaguely smug, almost victorious, and was unsettlingly civil and helpful about removing your things from her place. When you walked away from her place for the last time, your job was gracious enough to allow a few weeks of mental health PTO, and even offered you a choice transfer for afterwards. The catch was that the new position was in a different city. After going through the requisite funk of bingeing on junk food, video games, and booze for a few weeks, you concluded that a fresh start was what you needed. Your friends were glad to see you return to them, and saddened yet understanding of your decision.
It's been a couple months since you completed your move and began settling into your new condo and job. Your new city is only a couple hours away from your old one, so you've been able to hang out with your old crew a few times. You've settled into your new role easily enough, and you even started working out again. When you were younger you were more of a "power" athlete rather than a "speed" athlete, so your newish spare tire isn't actually too much of a hindrance towards your preferred activities. You haven't lost any weight, but you're pleasantly surprised to feel your old strength return and then some. You're still not thrilled about your new pudgy body, but have come to grudgingly accept it... For the time being. And you're not ready to give up on being skinny again.
You've just gotten out of work and plopped into your car on a Friday evening. The entire weekend is open for whatever you might want, so what will you do?
Turning the keys, you think, racking your brain while the engine purrs and the AC spins into action. The city of Novaville has plenty of things going on, even to your newcomer perspective. The local comedy scene is actually rather renowned, and you consider dropping by a stand-up club. It's been a passable season for films, and the local movie theater is actually quite prosperous and comfortable. Your thoughts briefly flick back to Amber, but instead of spiraling into a near-panic like usual, a funny thought filters in. If a hot, successful woman like her could be into a fat schlub like you, maybe other women have her preferences in spite of her megalomanaical rant. It could be time to hit a bar; perhaps there's a hangout geared for big folks and their admirers?
As you're pondering your weekend options as a single guy with no local friends, you're interrupted by your stomach grumbling. You shoot a grouchy glance at your pudgy gut, grudgingly deciding that dinner would be a good start. Gears click and clack as you shift into drive, roll onto the main road, and beeline for the nearest Burger Tyrant drive-thru.
Minutes later, you tip the box of fries to your mouth, sending the last crispy morsels down your throat, piling them atop the double bacon cheeseburger that you victimized first. You crumple up the wrapper and cram it into an inconspicuous nook in your car, resolving to clean it out properly later. You swig some soda and suck the grease from your teeth, then experience a pang of mingled guilt and desire. Though that meal was large and tasty, you kinda want even more. Your heart races and you feel heat in your cheeks as you genuinely consider the prospect of pigging out even further. There is a tugging, longing feeling in your bubbling belly, and further down. You want another round of dinner, you want a rich dessert and a lot of it... Fuck it, Fatass Friday gorge it is.
Before you know it, you're back in your condo, sprawled on your couch and surrounded by empty food wrappers. You've unbuttoned your pants, your fat belly bulging and tight as a result of your binge. Deep within, the greedy but momentarily-satisfied cauldron of your stomach grumbles, groans, rolls, and churns. You run your hands over your bulging gut, shivering at the full sensation and willing your innards to settle.
It doesn't work. The bubbles coalesce and a bassy belch erupts from your mouth. You chuckle to yourself and slap your belly, sending jiggles rippling up your torso. You wiggle out of your work pants, and feel a momentary pang of self-consciousness as your belly wobbles around, but not enough to quell your indulgent urges. You walk into the kitchen and fetch a spoon, then also reach into a cabinet for a bottle of whiskey, then take the two items back to the couch. You pop the lid on a milkshake you had nearby, pour a generous dollop of alcohol into the dessert, then mix the whole thing up. Grinning madly, you chug the spiked milkshake in a rapid succession of gulps, feeling the sweet cold liquid coat your throat and tickle your tonsils. You moan with indulgent pleasure, and your free hand can't decide if it wants to caress your bulging stomach or your half-awakened junk.
The cream settles heavily into your engorged stomach, stretching it near to the limit. You sigh in gluttonous contentment, and inhale deliberately and shallowly, feeling every gram of grease and sugar that you've packed inside you. Despite the chill of the milkshake, your middle radiates warmth and contentment. You sigh again, your head briefly swimming slightly.
A moment later, you burp uncomfortably and swallow hard to keep your digesting feast where it belongs. Finally feeling an inkling of clarity, you vaguely curse Amber for conditioning you to eat like a pig. But at the same time, you keenly remember how little encouragement you needed at first. She always said that you were too skinny, that you needed to start eating more, that your bones were too visible, that it was unhealthy. You run your hands over your fat and presently distended gut, one mark of your psycho ex that you can't hide. You feel a mix of disdain and fascination as your fingers sink into the soft chub. In spite of your mixed feelings, you sigh serenely as you gently rub your distended middle. Your unchained hunger is satisfied, and you find that you can't stop thinking about the blissful warmth of your bloated belly.
Slight twinges of shame and guilt worm into your thoughts after capitulating to your appetite, but what's done is done, and you figure you might as well properly appreciate your indulgent evening. You work hard, you deserve a treat and a break, right?
With a grunt, you waddle over to your living room and pause at the TV stand, arming yourself with a controller and a headset. At a touch, your Z-Slab gaming console dutifully comes to life. Mesmerizing fractals of the boot sequence dance on the screen as you flop onto the couch, feeling every bit of your enhanced weight. You take another swig of your whiskey and consider what you want to play. Games have always been a favorite pastime of yours, so you've got a formidable library of digital titles. You flick from game to game for a few minutes while you think.
Despite being practically pinned to the couch by your glutted gut, and more than a little tipsy, you're actually feeling a little competitive. You settle on the latest installment of the "Disk" franchise, a sci-fi FPS about soldiers in a grand space war. As the operatic theme song kicks in, you navigate to the multiplayer menu, and are soon tossed into a chaotic team battle. The detached third-person camera swoops around the virtual battlefield: an otherworldly forest with rolling hills, gnarled and scarred by a massive battle. Wrecked war machines of all types are clumped around the area, some of them still leaking acrid-looking smoke.
You run through the menu commands, calling up your favorite primary and secondary weapons (a trusty mag-rifle paired with a smart handgun), before spawning in. The first round is honestly a bit of a punt – your team is getting is ass kicked, so you do your best to keep your character safe and take a few cheeky potshots. It's rough going despite your best efforts, and you're relieved when the opposing team racks up enough points to win. The night is young, so you're far from discouraged and hyped for a fresh start in the next round.
You're shuffled into a new lobby, and once again you join a game in progress, with a new map. This time, players fight for control of a ruined fortress, one side torn open by an orbital bombardment. Star-cruisers and alien battleships continue to duke it out in the pale sky above. Same deal as the last one – your team starts out losing, and you take potshots at the enemy from a safe distance. You move from cover to cover, working towards a spot you know hides a powerful weapon cache and offers a commanding elevated view of a central spot. Unfortunately, you're just a second too late - you see the hulking armored form of an enemy player grabbing a railgun from a weapon rack. In disbelief, you determine that he hasn't seen you, so you slink in close, take aim and squeeze the trigger. You spray the other player with a burst of plasma bolts, downing him easily.
A malicious smirk splits your face as you step over your fallen foe and retrieve the powerful railgun he briefly held. Next, you quickly move to a firing position, grinning as you see your squad trading shots with an opposing fire team of three cyborgs.
Your new toy crackles with energy as you charge it, and a moment later you slide the crosshair over an enemy cyborg and fire. The slug snaps forwards at about Mach 10, the discharge leaving a satisfying bassy thump in its wake. The slug strikes true, effortlessly coring through the chest of the first luckless cyborg and sailing through to happily crater the ground behind him. Your first foe hasn't even hit the ground before you're priming your next slug, and this one lands a hair low, punching a 50-millimeter speed hole through the second target's abdomen, also killing them instantly.
The third opposing cyborg finally realizes what's going on, but is torn between pressure from your allies on the ground and your deadeye fire support. You see her hand glint momentarily, no doubt a fusion grenade being primed. Your third slug takes her head from her shoulders, the primed grenade falling to the ground uselessly and exploding in a splash of neon lightning. Your teammates move up to a new strategic point, throwing some crass compliments your way. You smile and nod at your friends' calls of encouragement, but an encroaching enemy trooper forces you from your elevated nest. You dispose of him with an expertly-timed melee takedown, then start marauding around the mazelike rubble at the base of the fort. You quickly begin to rack up a killstreak, mowing down enemy players with deadly efficiency.
Fuzziness has already crept into your head from your post-binge haze and the whiskey, but you seem to be paradoxically dead-on in your gaming. You easily rally your teammates to victory in that round, then your new friends party up with you afterwards. For a few hours, you and your ephemeral allies conduct a reign of terror on Disk's multiplayer servers. You even managed to win some split-second shootouts against who you thought was an off-season pro gamer.
Your whirlwind of conquest comes to a screeching halt during one particular deathmatch battle amidst the twisting halls and machinery of an alien warship. You've just downed three opponents with a single well-placed rocket, and are celebrating with your teammates.
"Whoo!" You slur into your headset, taunting your foes, "How's it feel to get - hic - owned by a drunk fat guy in his underpants?"
The other players sound off with angry responses, and you chuckle to yourself. A moment later you barely notice the telltale glimmer of a deadly fusion grenade, landing perfectly amongst your squad. You don't have time to respond, as two of your comrades die with you in a crackling explosion.
"Hmpf," You grunt to yourself. Even in your hazy state you recognized that you didn't need to fuck around like that.
Your teammates briefly whine about the setback, but soon you've all respawned and are back on the hunt. It's not long before you're back to your old ways, and the game carries on as you rampage across the battlefield, making plenty of noise and plenty of corpses.
Abruptly, the camera pulls back to reveal your armored character crumpling to the ground dead – you got sniped. Squinting your eyes to focus, you notice that your killer seems to be the same one who expertly grenaded your squad a few minutes prior. Their gamertag is "TheRipper69", and you wonder whether that's some kind of ironic joke.
Whoever TheRipper69 is, they're incredibly skilled, leading their team's scoreboard by a country mile and barely taking deaths of their own. You have plenty of run-ins with other peons from the opposing team, but your own battle seems to crystallize into a duel between you and TheRipper69. They always seem to be one step ahead of you and your squad, and they seem to be at the center of every setback you encounter. The game finally grants you a good glance at your dogged nemesis after TheRipper blindsided you with a shardgun blast. They've chosen the standard cyborg star trooper character, the female variant based on their proportions. That's not strange. What gives you pause is the distinctive silhouette of the "Seraph" armor set, an exclusive reward only for players who complete certain excruciating challenges. If you're going to go up against someone who's invested so much time into the game, you want to make sure you're really getting serious.
As you're waiting to respawn and trying to psych up, another gunfight erupts near your fallen character. It is at this point that your proximity voice chat picks up TheRipper69 barking orders at their squadmates. Or rather, her squadmates.
"Alright, we're doing good!" she shouts over the voice chat, "The fusion cores are close – if we move fast, we can pull this off!"
Your eyes widen as you overhear the conversation. Her voice strikes a nerve – for whatever reason, your nemesis' voice strikes you as incredibly sexy. Or maybe you're just drunk and lonely.
"Come ON, people!" she shouts, "Let's get this done!"
You briefly muse that you'd like to be bossed around by her, then slap yourself and prepare to re-enter the battle. With TheRipper on a rampage, this game's scoring margins are tight, and they'll stay tight until it's over. Sexy enemy voice or not, you give the ferocious battle your best. Momentum swings back and forth several times, and your team manages to pull out a clutch victory. Unbelievably enough, you and TheRipper happen upon each other simultaneously. She threw a fusion grenade, but you opened up with a chaingun, the hail of iridium fletchettes downing her a split-second before her grenade incinerated you. Even as your character's body crumples to ash, the game's bombastic, hammy announcer declares "Score limit reached".
You've won. You sigh in relief as you take in the post-match report screens.
As the lobby for the next round forms, you're simultaneously exasperated and thrilled to see TheRipper69 stayed in the lobby, and on the opposing team. You and your teammates psych each other up for the oncoming struggle. The erstwhile rampage your squad had enjoyed turns into a savage meat grinder. The back-and-forth momentum from before carries into the following rounds, as you're forced to give up a few matches to whoever TheRipper fights along with.
You're trying to keep your cool, but the repeated hard-fought losses are getting on your nerves a little. During a particularly tense point-control match in a sterile simulated city map, your team finally manages to wrench your way to a slight score advantage. TheRipper seems hellbent on personally stopping your team, and is doing a damn fine job of it almost single-handedly. This time, her tool of choice is a glinting laser sword. Her character practically dances across the battlefield, weaving around explosions and gunfire, cutting down your teammates almost as an afterthought. You're not sure what's more maddening – that she's so deadly, or that she's seemingly so untouchable. You're not sure how much longer you can take her.
Fatigue is finally getting the better of you, and you've been slipping for the past few rounds. You're not confident you can beat TheRipper in a reflex fight anymore, but your options are getting thin. One of your allies is desperately trying to hack the last objective terminal – you'll win once he does, but a nearby sizzling-slashing sound indicates that you're out of time. You have to act now.
Fortunately, the terminal room features a weapon rack with a fresh laser sword for the taking, a far better choice than your piddly starting guns. You quickly communicate with your hacking teammate who wishes you good luck, then you hurry over to the weapon rack and activate the deadly weapon.
"This is going to be close," your ally says.
"We got it," you say with what you hope is confidence.
Your motion sensor picks up a new contact, and a moment later, a figure clad in the sharp lines of Seraph armor rounds the corner.
"I don't think so!" you shout, raising your weapon and charging.
TheRipper raises her sword in a guard position and her blood-spattered avatar almost seems to grin. "Of course it's you," she says. "I expected nothing less."
Your tired mind is about to give out, but you press through and close in. You're not going to let this battle go to her. The two of you clash blades for a brief moment, and she seems to be holding her own.
The sun-bright blades spray sparks as they grind against each other for a few long moments, then your respective characters jump back – the clash had no winner.
TheRipper charges this time, and you barely deflect her strike. The interference shock weakens your personal force fields, and TheRipper's defenses are similarly strained. You don't need to defeat her, you just need to keep her away from your teammate, so you try to keep pressure on your foe as you trade strikes.
Strike, parry, step, strike, parry, strike, parry, dodge. You know that Disk's game mechanics allow players to block and parry laser sword strikes, but the timing precision is very demanding, especially over the internet. You're astonished that the two of you have kept up the fight for even these few seconds so far. Your weapon's power core is beginning to overheat, but you finally spot an opening. You're just about to skewer TheRipper with a power strike when you realize that her opening was a feint, and an armored fist comes around the side, backhanding your character in the head. Your character is stunned for but a moment, but it finally gives your opponent the opening she needs.
With a triumphant roar, she charges again. This time, you're too slow to react, and TheRipper's laser blade carves a canyon into your character's chest, burning straight through both armor and flesh. As luck would have it, TheRipper's character enters into a scripted finisher animation. The slowest one. You finally hear her lose her cool as your character is slowly chopped to bits.
"No!" You hear her cry.
Your character's mangled remains are slammed to the ground, and TheRipper charges your teammate at the objective terminal, but you stalled just long enough. Focus never wavering, your ally barely completes his hack and switches the critical terminal to your team's control. Your team's voice chat erupts in a cacophony of cheers.
"Objective taken by..."
"Fuck!" TheRipper finally shows some temper. She hatefully cuts down your last teammate, venting her spite at being just a moment too slow.
"Damn it!"
"I know, right?" You say, laughing.
The game ends, and all the remaining players uncharacteristically show some mutual respect.
"That was fun."
"Hell of a game!"
"Real nail-biter at the end there."
At this point, you decide to call it a night. You send out some friend requests to all the guys you played with and prepare to log off.
Feeling a bit of a drunken lark, you also send a friend request to TheRipper69. You have to admit, it would be pretty funny to have her as a friend. So imagine your shock when she not only approves your friend request, but promptly sends back a request for a private voice chat.
"Uh, hey. What's up?" you ask, a bit suspicious and trying not to sound too dopey.
"You won!" She says. Her voice is just like the snippets you heard during your games, and you're surprised by just how... cute... it is, now that she's not barking combat orders.
"Yeah, despite your best efforts, madam!"
Jesus that's lame. You physically cringe.
"You're a jerk. I need to step up my game if I can be stymied by a, quote, drunk fat guy," she shoots back.
"Hey, hey, hey," you reply. "In fairness, I'm normally even worse than this. I dunno what happened, but tonight was one of those once-in-a-lifetime gaming nights..."
She giggles. You're entranced by the sound. "I think you should give yourself some credit," she says.
"Well, I don't know if I'll be this good tomorrow, and probably with a hangover, but I do know I had a blast playing against you tonight," you reply.
"And I had a blast playing against you," she says.
You're surprised by the sincerity in her voice. You're also surprised by the sudden onset of horniness. You blame it on the alcohol and your Dionysian full belly. You definitely blame the alcohol for the confidence that leads you to what you say next. "Hey, uh," you start cautiously. "I hope I'm not way out of line, but I think you've got a really cute voice."
"Oh, you do, do you?" she says coyly.
"Ah, I'm sorry, I'm drunk and I'm being a creep," you immediately backpedal.
"No, not at all. I just... I mean, you'd be a creep if you sent me a dick pic or called me a whore out of the blue.... you're not going to do either of those, I hope?"
"Nope. Definitely no. God, being a girl online must be such a minefield, huh?" You reply, trying to be sympathetic.
"Yeah, it really is. Thanks for playing nice tonight, though. I had fun."
"Yeah, I did too. I'll see you around."
"Definitely."
You're about to exit the call when she speaks up again. "Hey, do you have a Friscord account?" she asks.
"Er, yeah?" you reply, a bit surprised.
"I'm feeling lucky, and I'll give you my contact info. I don't know exactly why, but I think I'd like to get to know you off of a Disk battlefield."
"Sure, that'd be cool.... Here's my info."
"Perfect."
You enter her contact info into your phone, and then send a friend request to her. She accepts, and mere minutes after your savage virtual duel, you're officially connected as friends. She goes by "TR69" on Friscord, you suppose to have a less aggressive image. Her profile picture is a brightly-colored cartoon girl in a military uniform with a comically-large machine gun. With that, you shut down your console, send TR a quick message confirming your connection, and heave yourself over to the bathroom.
While you pee, you consider your new friend. She seems nice, and interesting. You've had fun playing with her. But you're too tired to think much more deeply. You brush your teeth, then flop into bed, imagining TR's voice saying sexy things. You drift off to sleep, dreaming of battling on the simulated frontlines of the future with your new friend.