Fat Stacks
by Mich

"The elegant form of Clara Salinas enters the room and every head turns to look at her. The famous supermodel has graced the covers of more magazines than one can count, has headlined numerous fashion shows, and been seen in the arms of numerous Hollywood playboys, but today, in this humble Venetian bistro, she deigns to allow us a viewing in a more normal light. What can truly ever be normal about Ms. Salinas, though? From the top of her head of gorgeous hair to the tips of her dainty toes, currently poking out of €3,000 sandals, she is beauty, refined. The waiter arrives almost as soon as her tailored denims touch the seat and she immediately orders a pannecota gelato.

IMAGE MAGAZINE: That was fast. Have you been here before?

Her smile makes your heart melt, as surely almost anyone in the world can tell you--it makes her entire face light up, a slight blush appearing on her cappuccino cheeks, her almond-shaped eyes slightly widening.

CLARA SALINA: Oh, I come here every time I'm in Italy. I think I've tried every flavor!

IM: So you're a big fan? Have you considered doing an advertisement for them?

With a mischievous look around, she leans close, as if to convey the deepest of secrets. One can't help but lean in as well, her hand modestly pressing her draping silk top to her collarbone.

CS: Honestly? They can't afford me.

We giggle like old friends sharing a common joke, and, glancing at the ludicrous prices of the ice creams, one can't help but wonder at how much it truly costs to employ Clara Salina.

IM: I want to thank you once more for allowing time out of your busy schedule to meet me.

CS: Oh, it was no trouble at all! I find that I have too much time on my hands, it's fun to go out for a snack in between shoots.

IM: So you're shooting in Rome?

She giggles again, her tongue pinched between her bright white teeth, and flicks a dark strand of hair out of her eyes—it looked perfectly in-place either way. In the changing light of the Italy sun, one can see why she is such a versatile model: one moment she looks like your typical African-American woman, cheekily grinning at shirtless boys as they walk to the beach, the next a shy, coquettish Asian girl. The beautiful natural colors of her hair don't help solve the mystery, one moment looking pure black, the next a lovely rich brown, then almost a deep red. Her plump lips purse in a tiny smile, swallowing her laughter.

CS: I'm actually shooting in Venice. I charted a flight here for the gelato.

IM: Just for the gelato? Maybe I should get some.

CS: It's worth it!

Her pannecota arrives, a vanilla wafer emerging from the melting cream, and she relishes a tiny spoonful.

CS: Mmm! Always good.

IM: If you don't mind my asking, your figure is absolutely legendary. How do you manage to keep it, if you’re taking flights just for tasty ice cream?

CS: Hahaha! I keep it by indulging myself!

IM: I'm not sure I follow. You are a size two, correct? That's not a size normally associated with indulgence.

She playfully slaps at my hand and winks, forcing me to calculate if asking her to marry me, right this moment, would be worth more than my job.

CS: Don't be coy! We both know it's not my pant size that makes me famous. It's my bust! The other measurements are just part of the bonus.

IM: And do you mind if I ask--

CS: What my score is? The whole world knows! But for the record, as of this morning, I am five-foot-ten, 36-23-33, 132 pounds.

IM: [whistles]

Clara leans back, the gelato gone, and pats her flat stomach.

CS: It takes a lot of work, even when it feels like play, but it's all worth it.

IM: Worth what, exactly? How does a woman like Clara Salinas get up every morning, practice her exercise routines, and stay on top of being the top model in her category?

The grin is back, wolfish this time, and she leans in once more.

CS: The money.

We both roar with laughter, causing quite a stir among the other guests sitting on the sunny patio, and—"

"—The captain has turned on the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign as we approach Bismarck. It looks like the weather report was correct, as there are some moderate snow flurries, so please expect turbulence as we begin our descent."

The sudden announcement over the 747 speakers shook me from my daydream, just one of the dozens of imaginary interviews that I had written in my head to keep my spirits up in the past couple of years. Not a word of it was true, of course, aside from my descriptions of myself. The rest, I repeated over and over every single day with every tryout and call to my agent and posted selfie, was what I had coming to me. The only mystery was why it hadn't come yet.

Ever since I had been a little girl people had told me how beautiful I was, how perfect my facial structure, my figure, my hair, and I drank it all up. It was true, I couldn’t deny it, didn't want to deny it: my looks were, if not flawless, as flawless as a girl from a little town in North Dakota could be. As my sisters grew up and learned about things like business degrees or cooking I attended modeling classes and learned how to walk perfectly, how to apply makeup in just the right amounts, how to perfectly balance my diet. I learned the best ways to catch the eyes of any boy I wanted, the exact things to apply to my hair to bring out almost any shade that pleased me. I learned about pushup bras and girdles and shaping panties, not that I needed any of them, as well as developing a look and a style.

When the time came, I moved to the big city, on an assurance from anyone that I met that I would blow anyone else out of the water.

The thing was, even though I got almost no responses to my portfolio, to my bugging of agencies, to my self-advertisement, I looked around and saw that there were a million more things appealing about me than almost any other model out there. I had the shaped face, the luxurious hair, the perfect skin, the thin waist, the curved-but-slim hips, everything. Yet, to anyone other than one tanning salon that took two pictures of me in a bikini and then told me bye-bye, I was a nobody.

The plane touched down, the tires only briefly skidding on the icy tarmac, and inside my cherry red Ann Taylor cashmere sweater my delicious tits bounced with joy.

I refused to believe my tits were the problem, but they probably were.

One agent had told me that I looked like a stripper, that I should have never gotten implants if I wanted to be a model. Another had said to come back after getting a reduction, that they were completely out-of-proportion to my long, lithe body. But they were mine, all-natural, and I loved them. I had tried to go in to a doctor, to see about that reduction, but they had told me that getting one would probably "reduce my sensitivity", something I wouldn't hear of. It was unthinkable, like losing a part of what made Clara Simon herself.

It didn't make sense. The world loved tits, and all I wanted was to be paid for people to look at mine. With my complete package, what was not to love? And so I made my day job by waiting tables while continuing to show up for auditions, and every once in a while I got a pitiful piece to add to my portfolio. Still, here I was at 24, having just used my last extra dollar to visit my family back in hicksville. I did not have a penny to show for my good looks.

Not looking forward to meeting with the fam as quickly as they would probably like, I grabbed a taxi to my hotel. Call me spendy, even though I was mostly starving and barely scraping by, I did my best to pretend that I was not: the best clothes I could afford, the best service around town, the best hotel in Bismarck, North Dakota. I was on vacation, and like hell was I staying with my parents like my sisters were: I was going to live out the three nights I was spending in town in style. And, despite what you may guess, the best hotel in Bismarck was nothing to sniff at. The Hotel Plainsworth was 4 stars, with a swanky restaurant and bar, an indoor pool, even a valet, if you had a car. And since I was wearing my $200 top, my $238 Lafayette wool slacks, and my $150 Ivanka Trump pumps, I almost looked like I fit in, if I wasn't shivering my toned ass off. The weather in San Francisco is a little different from the weather in Bismarck, especially in the winter. Still, once I was in the deliciously warm lobby, I was able to uncross my arms and look fashionable behind a very attractive blond man in a nice suit. After he checked in we managed to make eye contact for a moment and I almost got lost in the depths of his green eyes, daydreaming about running my hands through his long, perfectly conditioned hair, before the girl behind the counter reminded me that she was open.

"See, Clara?" I thought to myself as I gave her my info, trying to be subtle about the way I was checking out Mr. Handsome's butt as he walked his suitcase towards the elevators. "When you have the cash, even terrible places like your home town turn into bastions of fashion and beauty."

With my key in hand, I check out my room and nearly fainted in excitement. I was on the fourth floor, looking out on the manicured courtyard that was beautiful even when covered in ice and snow. The minibar in my room was covered in things I couldn't hope to afford to eat or drink, even if my diet could allow them. The bathroom had real cups, not the fake plastic ones; the toilet paper was folded neatly; the pillows had mints!

I was in heaven.

Only after I got a text from my younger sister, asking if my plane had landed and if I'd be able to make Christmas Eve dinner, did I finally rouse myself from my bed. It was like laying on a pile of angel feathers, and this was just a four-star hotel! When I eventually started to make money, real model money, I wouldn't stay in anything less ever again.

My mood broken by a second buzz, this time from my older sister, I snatched the small collection of cheap gifts I had toted with me from my suitcase and returned to the lobby, this time making sure to grab a windbreaker. I soon found the thin jacket could not stop the cold from freezing my tits off, and my shoes were also completely inadequate.

Not wanting to be seen picked up in Kayla's old Oldsmobile by anyone at the Hotel Plainsworth, though, I toughed it out and walked a few blocks away to be picked up.

"Just take it slowly," I said, shivering in front of a brick wall that surrounded the hotel. "This will be over before you know it." Then Kayla pulled up and my little sister was barreling out of the car, pulling me into a hug I wanted to be nowhere near.

It's not that I don't like my family. I like them a lot—when they're half of a country away from me. Then I can tell them my woes and they can express the proper amount of sympathy, or I can lie about how well I'm doing and they can have no proof that it's otherwise. I also don't have to deal with the embarrassment that is, well, them.

For example, Kayla. High school counselor, probably makes less than $25,000 a year. Lives in a studio apartment, like me, but, unlike me, has no aspirations to move upward. Has a cat that she takes everywhere (I was surprised when it wasn't in the car with us). Considers our mom her best friend. And, like the rest of my family, weighed nearly three times as much as I did.

"Come here, sis!" she squealed, chubby cheeks squishing her eyes up as she wrapped her flabby arms around my shoulders and pulled me into her huge fur-lined coat. She was just under a year younger than me, and there was a time when people would ask if we were twins: same height, same build, probably even the same mannerisms. For a time. Then I had gotten into modeling and she had gotten into—well, eating, I suppose. Just like the rest of my family: tall, large, and in-charge. She pushed me back to arm's-length and looked me over, concern pushed onto her face. "Have you already forgotten what it's like here in the winter? You've only been gone a couple of years!" She patted me on the shoulder, nearly bowling me over with the additional force her weight provided. "Come on, the car is nice and warm."

She waddled back over to the driver's side while I gratefully dumped my armload of presents into the car, which was, as she had promised, toasty. Once in, Kayla popped off her hat and mittens, revealing she had finally gotten her hair cut down to a short pixie cut, which I had to admit looked good on her. Then the coat unzipped and she squeezed behind the wheel, her two enormous tits squashing below it.

I shook my head. Nothing ever changed in Bismarck, did it? The Simon girls were still fat, still happy, and still had enormous fucking titties. It must have come from my mom's side of the family, seeing as mom was burdened just as the rest of us were, but some fluke of genetics had given all four of us much bigger breasts than anyone else on her side. And it seemed that the more weight we put on, the bigger our boobs got, too, as if they fought to keep up the same proportions. My 4.5 inch difference between my bust and my chest meant I was forever destined to be a DD-cup, but Kayla's tits were K-cup, the last time I checked, meaning an 11 inch difference, if not more. Two gooey soccerballs hung from her collarbone, bouncing against her arms.

I would have been jealous, honestly. I loved my breasts the way they were, I loved how they drew the eye, I would love it even more if they had got me the jobs I wanted. But one Christmas, drunk on Schnapps, Kayla had admitted that she had lost a little feeling with every inch she had gained. "Nerves must spread out," she had slurred. Seeing as how having mine fondled and nibbled and stroked was one of my favorite parts of sex, I wasn't ever going to chance that, even if I found job as a plus-sized model.

Well, maybe if it paid well...

We made small talk on the way to our parents'. Boys she had met at a dance class, students she had talked to, her stupid cat, how I really needed to get warmer clothes or at least put on a layer of nice "cuddle fluff", as Kayla put it. I zoned out, wondering if all four days would be like this. At least after two nights, Christmas, they would all be too busy stuffing their faces with turkey to talk much.

The icy, windy streets soon gave way to the inexpensive suburbs that my parents had lived in for my entire life, and I finally saw what I was dreading: the same, cheap, drab house I had grown up in. Faded blue siding, peeling brown shingling, one story of boredom. In the kitchen window I saw the red face of my mom as she undoubtedly scrubbed the same cheap dishes they always had, and in the background my dad was playing with Chrissy's dog.

"Here we are!" Kayla sang out. Here we were indeed. I braced myself.

***

I had my four days of hell carefully budgeted out, which meant that I could only afford one drink that night. I relished it, slowly sipping my Davey Crockett at the Hotel Plainsworth bar. After the first dreadful night of keeping a false smile on while I nodded and hugged and congratulated and inquired, I had needed a desperate change of scene and had evacuated on a pretense of being tired. I wasn't tired—far from it, I was absolutely wired, bouncing off of the walls. So I had come back to the hotel with another taxi charged to my credit card, changed into a slinky red lace dress (Tadashi Shoji, $298 on sale), and escaped to a place where I felt I belonged.

Soft jazz music was being played on the piano by an old man with white gloves, the fireplace was crackling, and the bartender was handsome but stoic. I felt like I had dropped into a ritzy film noir movie, one where I should have had a matching maroon clutch instead of my black one. It went with my shoes, at least.

People I didn't recognize, people who didn't look like they belonged in Bismarck, mingled between the bar and the little private booths as I tried not to meditate upon my family. They had seen the bundle of tiny packages in my arms, they had known that I had picked out the least expensive things possible for them, and still they had all looked genuinely overjoyed that I had been so thoughtful. How had I been brought up by such cheap people? When my dad had talked about the broken oven, he only talked about fixing it himself. Chrissy had been so excited to tell us about some great deals on gloves she had found at the local thrift store. And mom, oh, mom, she had tried to force one of my old winter coats on me. Not only had it been musty from the garage, but it was so out-of-fashion, with silly rainbow lining around the sleeves and a button-on hood. Button on!

A glass clinked down in front of me, blue and orange swirling on crushed ice. I looked up and the bartender tilted his head to the side. "From the gentleman at the end of the bar." I could have sworn my eyes probably popped out of my head when I followed his gesture and saw none other than the man who had checked in ahead of me. He was sitting casually on his barstool, one elbow of his Armani suit perched on the polished mahogany. His dark green eyes were washing my body from head to toe, the tips of his dark blond hair only brushing the tops of his immaculate shoulders.

Trying not to faint, trying not to blush, trying not to trip, I delicately pushed myself to my feet and did my best slow runway walk down the carpet towards him. His smile was like a hot iron in a snowbank. "You looked like you needed another," he said.

I set my handbag on the bar next to my drink and lightly rested on the stool next to Mr. Handsome. "What makes you say that?"

He chuckled, and it was a deep, bubbling one that made my heart patter in my chest. "You're visiting family, aren't you?" I laughed along at his correct guess, which only made his toothy smile go wider. "That's what I thought. Me, too. Had to cut out early, though."

"Didn't feel like you fit?" I asked, nodding sympathetically. He winked and I probably shifted a few degrees in excitement.

"Exactly." He extended a hand towards me and I saw that the nails were flawlessly manicured, the wristwatch gold in a way that didn't match his suit. I took it. "I'm Isaac," he offered.

"Clara Salinas," I said, and I pictured us getting a couple more drinks together as we shared our woes, then taking a bottle of wine and going to a booth where we got to know each other a little better, his hand on my thigh, mine on his arm. The bottle mostly finished, we'd get a second and move up to his room, where I'd slip off my shoes and he'd remove his jacket and tie. Every glance at his face, every wink of his eyes, told me that he saw this same future. We made it happen.

Isaac was from Bismarck, like me, but his family had ridden through and taken advantage of every oil boom that North Dakota had gone through since the twenties. We probably would have gone to the same high school, had he not been flown away to boarding school on Long Island, which was probably where his swank-as-hell accent had come from. He now worked in Chicago for a big law firm I had never heard of, but came down to spend time with his family on Christmas. They still acted like they didn't have money, though, which apparently set him off in a way I could agree with completely, and in fact was more than a little turned-on by.

The wine was Altamura Cabernet Sauvignon, a dark, chocolatey red that smelled like financial success and tasted like passionate romance.

I told Isaac about my own frustrations with my family, how they didn't seem to take my modelling career seriously despite my immense success. I expressed surprise that Isaac had never heard my name before, and he heated me up by wondering the same thing, as I had the look of a serious fashion model, swearing that I had modelled the very dress I was wearing in a New York show. His hand on my thigh was hot, and the arm I felt under his jacket was muscular and firm.

The second bottle of wine tasted like Isaac's lips, and smelled like two lovers just before sex.

His room was even swankier than mine, with a jacuzzi that could fit four people, a king-sized bed, and a full bar instead of a mini. It was stocked with items that didn't even have price tags, indicating he had already paid to have it stocked or didn't care if using something could cost him. As soon as my heels were on the floor I was on him, grinding my hips into his pelvis while my leg wrapped behind his knee, our tongues locking and interlocking, my breasts mashing into his firm chest. A tangle of arms and legs, we were on the bed as soon as I wished it, Isaac's jacket and tie off, my dress hiking up around my hips as I straddled him, his fingers unzipping the back.

"Oh, god," I said. "You taste like chocolate." He smiled beneath my wanting lips, his powerful hands wrapping around my waist so he could position me against his bulging groin.

"You taste like roses," he said. I laughed at the cheesiness of the line, but it only made my heart melt even more. Chuckling as I pushed off of him, I unbuttoned his slacks and undid his belt, pulling them down with his boxers. The erection that sprang out was thick, long, and nearly purple with desire, and I felt my mouth watering in longing for it. First I tasted it, then I gave it a long, slow lick, then opened my jaw wide and went as far down as I could on him. The pulsing tip brushed the back of my throat while my lips still had an inch to spare before meeting his carefully groomed groin, so I slowly and carefully drew back, letting my teeth lightly brush against the tender skin of his cock. I was rewarded with a generous moan from my lover, so I repeated it again, and another time. When it was dripping with saliva and I could taste precum on my lips, I walked back up the chest of Isaac and locked our lips back together, this time with my wet panties grinding down on the base of his shaft.

"Oh, fuck," I said, breaking away again. His chest was now bare, my dress was on the floor, my bra unhooked. "Fuck me, Isaac. Do it." I was pleading. I needed him. I needed to be away from my family, to be enraptured in orgasm after orgasm by a man so completely unlike any of the poor people I was related to.

"Let me get a condom," he said, opening a drawer next to the bed and taking out a pack. I took his hand.

"But let me put it on." I opened the wrapper, barely glancing at it before realizing that it was branded: "Isaac Marster, Custom Fit". He had his own custom condoms made, to ensure maximum comfort.

I took the condom between my lips and, using a technique I had mastered over years of passionate sex with many different partners, rolled it down his swollen, engorged member hands-free.

I came back up grinning, and Isaac was hooking his fingers into my red lace panties. "That was fucking hot," he said. And so we fucked.

We used four of Isaac's custom-made condoms that night, as well as made use of the sound-proof walls of his hotel room. I was so ready to go from the moment that he entered me I was almost screaming bloody murder. There was something so hot, so exciting about fucking a man who probably had too much money than he knew what to do with, especially one who seemed to believe I belonged with him. And it didn't hurt that he was drop-dead sexy: that long blond hair, those green eyes, that toned body.

We fucked on the bed, with me on top, grinding and riding him until I came screaming and he came grunting. Then we fucked on the table, his strong arms holding me by the wrists as he pounded at me and I came again. After we finished the bottle of wine I bent over the bed and we fucked doggy-style, Isaac's strong arms holding on to my sensitive tits, his fingers working my nipples while I came once more, harder than either of the two other times.

The last time was slower, more sensuous, as we sipped glasses of wine in between the slow grind on his couch, gazing into each other’s' eyes. I never came that time, unsurprisingly, really, but I may have enjoyed it even more than any other love-making we had done that night.

I was just drifting off to sleep, my head resting on his smooth chest, his fingers running through my long hair, when Isaac dropped the bomb.

"How would you like to make a lot of money?"

"What do you mean?" I mumbled. Sleep was tumbling through my brain, the combination of three intense orgasms, more than I had ever experienced in one go, leaving me reeling like a fish on a drydock.

His fingers twirled in my long, dark locks, twisting, spinning. "I mean more money than you have ever seen. More money than you lied about making earlier."

Lied? I froze. How did he--

"It's okay, I lied, too," he said, and my heart turned to ice. He seemed to sense my fear and his eyes turned from the window to look at me. "Oh, nothing bad. My name isn't Isaac, and I'm not local." His serious expression was broken by that slow smile. "But this was one of the best nights of my life, Clara Simon."

I sat up, covering my bare breasts with one arm, stupidly worried about modesty in my frightened state. "How do you know my--"

He shrugged. "I probably know more about you than you do. I'm not a stalker, or anything. I just know almost everything about everybody." Isaac didn't resist as I pushed myself off of him, wrapping a sheet around my body.

"Okay, then, Mr. Not-Isaac-Who-Knows-Everybody, I think I'm just going to go." Somehow my feet found the floor and I began to push myself up.

"Don't you want to hear my offer?" he asked, and something in the tone of his voice said that he didn't think I'd say no. "It's not illegal, and I assure you that you won't come to any harm. It's a bit of a... a wager, how about. A game."

"No, I would not 'like to play a game,'" I said, making finger quotes with my free hand. He laughed at that.

"Nonono, I said I wouldn't hurt you. It's nothing like that at all." His face turned stony serious, and something about it made me stop fumbling for my shoes. "It's exceedingly simple, and you can make five thousand dollars before tomorrow is over. If you keep it up, you can make millions in just a few days."

Millions. That stopped me in my tracks. I had to admit, my racing mind thought, whoever Isaac truly was, he had a lot of money. You couldn't get this kind of stuff on credit and a lie—he had cash. And if he had millions, well, even $5,000 would give me a nice kicker.

He had me. Just like in the bar, he had me. "What's the catch?"

"The catch is the game," he said, the grin returning. "You put on weight, and I make you rich." He threw his hands back. "Filthy rich. Richer than any other human alive, if you want to."

"'I put on weight'?" I echoed. "What, like I stuff myself at Christmas Eve lunch tomorrow? You'll pay me five thousand dollars to do that?"

He laughed, throwing his head back, that long blond hair of his flying. "Haha, no, it's even simpler than that. No no no, if you agree to play, you'll gain weight."

I can't be hearing him right, I thought. "What, like, in a few months?"

But his smile was weirdly sure of himself. "No, in a few hours. A pound here, a pound there. You may not even notice. But it'll add up, and so will the cash you earn."

It was then that I realized he was pulling my leg. "Is this what all of tonight was about? The most amazing sex of my life, and you just want to weird me out with some bizarre fetish roleplaying thing?"

"The goal wasn't to weird you out, and there is no roleplaying," he said. "The sex was to entice you. I wasn't sure about the 'burly Brad Pitt' thing, but it looks like it worked. I was thinking more of a 'roguish Italian lover'."

And, just like that, he changed. The blond hair sucked back into his head, turning a deep brown until it was short and swept back from his forehead, where olive skin now met an aquiline nose. The green irises faded, replaced by a cheerful blue, and his soft pink lips thinned just the slightest amount, turning into a permanent smirk. In seconds he had changed.

I sat down.

"So you see, now!" he said, and even his accent was the same one as the Italian waiter from my daydream on the plane. "I can do all sorts of things you didn't think possible."

I couldn't think straight. I couldn't SEE straight. I had just seen a man change into a completely different man. The world no longer made sense. "But, how, what... why me?" I at last spat out.

He shrugged, and I had to admit that it was an amazingly sexy, roguish shrug. "Because you are beautiful. Because you deeply desire to make so much more money than you ever will, even with your beauty. Because I think the idea appeals to you, no?"

God, but it did. Not the fat part, the fat part was immaterial. It was the money. I let the sheet drop as I pushed my hands through my hair. "How... how much money?"

He laughed, and his voice changed as he turned into a third new person, this time dirty-blond, with slightly shaggy hair, sharper features, and an American accent once more. "That's the best part. The money will compound."

"What do you mean?"

"First fifty pounds, let's call that the taster. Fifty pounds seems like a lot to you, but it is an amount you could work off with your current exercise regimen. Every pound you gain will get you one hundred dollars."

The math was easy to do. "So that's where the first $5,000 you were talking about came from." He snapped a finger and winked. "So how long will that take? A day?" The man who could change his shape shrugged a shoulder.

"Eh, less. Maybe fifteen hours."

"Okay. What then?"

He smiled. "Then the game really starts. The dollars gained per-pound doubles, and will continue to double for every hundred pounds you gain."

I licked my lips. "So exponential growth." He grinned back. I knew my powers of two, and it was even easier when you were calculating money. "But that means I'll have gained something like six hundred pounds before I make a million."

He spread his hands wide. "That is the price of money, beautiful, and how this game is played. Of course, with that much money, I'm sure you could find a way to easily lose it. Heck, even with the $5,000, you could just get liposuction to drop that fifty."

But even with liposuction, there would be scars, loose skin, stretchmarks. There'd have to be. My career as a model would be over. Then again, if I made enough money...

"So how would we start it?" There was a light in his eyes that looked like victory, but I hadn't made up my mind yet. He snapped his fingers and on the coffee table in front of us appeared a candle unlike any I had ever seen. It was a golden-yellow, almost transparent, but shaped like a woman with her hands over her head, her legs and back twisted like she was in the middle of a dance. She had full, round breasts, and long, flowing hair, high cheekbones, slim hips... It was me.

I looked back at Not-Isaac. "So when the candle burns down, it's over?" He shook his head.

"No, no, this is a special candle. As it burns, more wax drips down the figure, making it grow." The grin almost cut his head in two. "If it gets blown out, growth stops. But only one person in the world can blow it out."

"Me," I said. "And let me guess: there's a time limit on when I can decide by."

His face was almost comical with how fast it fell. "You mean you haven't decided yet?"

I smirked at him and shrugged one shoulder. "I need to weigh my options, I suppose." A thought occurred. "You said no harm would come to me, but there's this thing we call morbid obesity?"

He held his hands up like he was offended. "Hey, my fat is no normal fat. If anything, you'll be healthier than you ever were before if you gain several hundred pounds. No stretch marks, no pains, not even loss of sensation or feeling. You'll still have to deal with the weight, but that's part of the balance of the game."

"Hmm," I pondered. No loss of sensation... did that mean, if my tits did blow up like every other woman in my family's...

There was only one more catch I could think of. "I've seen you change yourself. I've seen that you have money. You even magicked this candle, somehow. But how do I know you can change me?"

The smirk came back, as well as a strange twinkle in his golden eye. "Did you like that haircut your sister Kayla got?" With a sudden, burning itchiness, my scalp lit on fire, and I had the oddest sensation as my long, perfectly-conditioned hair drew back over my shoulders as it sucked itself into my head. I looked at the mirror over the fireplace and saw an immaculately-reflected haircut of the one that my younger sister had been sporting that evening.

"Holy shit," I breathed.

Not-Isaac snorted and that burning itch returned, only now my hair was flowing down my face and over my shoulders, tickling my shoulder blades. "There," he said. "I think that's all of the information you should need. Will people notice? They may, they may not. Depends on the person. It shouldn't cause major problems in that direction, apart from the normal social and physical problems overweight people experience. Might you ruin your possibilities at modelling? If you stop when you're too fat to ever work it off but haven't made enough money to afford surgeries, possibly. But you were unemployed, a waitress at a stupid diner in downtown San Francisco." He leaned in, and I could still smell that musk of chocolatey sex. "This is the most amazing offer anyone will ever make to you."

I was intoxicated. I could smell it. The cash. The possibilities. "And the money? You'll deliver?"

He laughed and reached over my head, Just as I lifted my eyes to look at what he was grabbing, his hand was pulling back, only it wasn't empty: spread between his fingers were crisp, green bills. My mouth watered, and another chuckle erupted from between his velvety lips. Casually, as if it meant nothing to him, he tossed the money over the back of the couch to flutter onto the bed. Then another handful, another. I couldn't keep my eyes off of it, the twenties and the hundreds and the tens. More money than I had ever seen in one location, piling onto the bed, blowing into drifts on the messed pillows, sticking in the wet spots. Then covering in another layer as he magicked more money into being. Entranced, I rose from the sofa, the sheet falling from my shoulders, and watched the notes pile up. "It's all legitimate," my mysterious benefactor said. "Legally it's all mine, as much as I want. The US treasury will find no fault with it, and you'll owe no taxes. It will appear in your bank account, if you prefer, or..."

I grabbed him around the neck and pulled him onto the bed, my bare back cushioned by an inch of slippery bills. As he kissed me, his tongue diving deeply, my fists clenched into the money. I broke off the kiss with a laugh and threw dollars and dollars into the air, letting them rain down on us. "If I'm going to start tomorrow," I said, "then fuck me one last time as a skinny girl."

Roaring in delight, covered in money, he did.


"So what should I call you?" I asked as I drifted off to sleep, this time with him spooning over me. The unlit candle stared back across the room, sitting in its place on the coffee table.

"Dee will do," he said.

"Like the letter?"

"Like the cup size..." But I was drifting off to sleep.

***

When I woke up, Dee was standing there with a matchbook at the ready, his Armani suit impeccably pressed, his look once more the look of the Isaac I had met. I got up from the bed, noting that the thousands of dollars in US currency was mysteriously gone. Taking the matchbook, holding a match in my hand, I looked for one final time at the little wax figure of myself before me. The perfect, bountiful breasts. The lithe thighs. The flat stomach with the abs that I had worked so hard for. But I wasn't beautiful for beauty's sake, was I? I was beautiful for the money. Now I could be fat for the money.

The wick was lit before I realized that I had even lit the match. As I stared, a single drop of hot wax welled at the base, right where the little wax hands met, and rolled down the toned arm, along the ribcage, over a sharp hip, and down a thin leg.

Dee's face was glowing as I looked up at him. "For now, you'll gain about a pound every twenty minutes. Try to enjoy it, dear. I'll see you tonight."

Tonight, I thought, shivering. When I would be fifty pounds heavier, and five thousand dollars richer.

Easiest five K ever earned.

It took me an hour of going through the wardrobe I had brought with me before I could decide what to wear. If I truly was going to be around 180 by the end of the day, I would need to have room to gain an extra fifty without losing a leg to circulation problems. The cheap fleece leggings from Forever 21 I had brought, with a red and black holiday pattern, claimed they were "one size fits all", but the tag said it only guaranteed sizes 0-10. Here was where my fashion know-how would shine, since I could estimate I may be up to a size 12 by the time I reached my checkpoint. In the end I went with them anyway, since they were the only good-looking thing I had, and the elastic-waist skirt that I wore on top of them could easily come off without my modesty getting too harmed. If the leggings got too tight, I reasoned, it would be near the end of the night, anyway; I could easily escape to the hotel.

The harder question was my top. Topshop's black and white chunky sweater would work with a changing waist (and probably arms?), but my bust would be a disaster if my body gained anywhere near the rest of my family's proportions. I tried to hold a picture of Kayla in my head, then create a series of Claras of increasing weight until I matched her. "If Kayla is almost 400 pounds..." I mumbled. There was too much math involved, too many guesses at what my band and bust measurements would be with fifty extra pounds spread across my body. In the end I slipped into the biggest bra I had brought with me, a Panache 32DD which had a little bit of give in the cups, and hoped that I'd be able to improvise by the end of the day. Then a red long-sleeve shirt on top of that, then the sweater. I brushed my hair out, wearing it loose, and took my time getting my makeup just right. I slipped into my boots, slung my purse over my shoulder, and almost left before remembering what all of that preparation had been for.

It had been two hours, at least, since I had lit the candle. Dee had told me maybe a pound every twenty minutes, which meant I should have put on, at least, six pounds by then. I peered into the mirror, looking for a change. My clothes all felt like they still fit, but then, I had planned ahead by wearing pretty stretchy things. Would I notice?

Despite myself, there was a sinking feeling in my chest as I looked back over the lines of my body, the curve of my cheek, my hips. Damn, but if I couldn't just feel the money slipping out of my bank account at the thought of quitting. But what if something went wrong, and I didn't gain weight? What if it was all some bizarre, cruel joke?

I couldn't think that way. I had to press on. Besides, there was nothing I could do, was there? Magic either existed or it didn't. If it didn't, well, I'd know by that night. Until then, it wasn't like I'd do anything differently.

Kayla had texted me while I was getting showered and primped to see if I needed a ride, but I had refused, figuring that I'd make at least enough to pay for taxi rides, and didn't want to deal with the trouble of going around the block for a pickup, anyway. In ten minutes I was at the house, straightening my skirt, still trying to decide if anything felt different.

I was greeted at the door by Chrissy's woofing border collie, Harry, then by my mother's enveloping arms. Kayla and I had inherited our heights from our dad's side of the family, while my mom, like our older sister Chrissy, was barely pushing 5'2''. I let her wrap her arms around my ribs and squash me into her pillowy tits, happy to see her, despite myself. "Come on, Mom, I was just here yesterday," I said.

"Happy Christmas Eve, anyway, sweetie!" she smiled up at me, her eyes winking closed over her chubby cheeks. Then she was back into the kitchen, where I could smell at least two pies and a batch of cookies baking. My stomach rumbled and I looked at the clock, wondering when lunch was.

"Did you miss breakfast, Clara?" my dad asked from the kitchen table. He was still sipping on a cup of coffee, half of a buttered bagel sitting on a plate in front of him. Next to him sat Chrissy, typing on her computer with a frosted doughnut hanging from her mouth, and Kayla stood at the counter, chatting with our mother while she grazed on a bowl of homemade Chex mix. It was a regular Christmas scene: all four of the fat Simons chatting and munching away.

"I don't really eat breakfast anymore, Dad," I said, sitting across from Chrissy. I didn't mean to make it into a thing; for me, it was a fact of life. Yet all four pairs of eyes turned to look at me as if I was committing a grave sin.

Chrissy broke the silence first. "Well, no wonder you're as thin as a stray at my work! You could put on a few, don't you know?" I rolled my eyes and, begrudgingly, picked up an apple from the basket on the table.

I had worked it all out the night before: I would put on weight for Dee, enough to be comfortable for a while, but then I would either work it off or get surgery, depending on how long I lasted before getting fed up with the entire "game". If I was going to do that, I'd need to maintain my eating habits. The apple didn't seem to satisfy my sisters, though.

"Come ooooon, Clara," Kayla said, joining in. She leaned over the table, her heavy breasts resting on the smooth wood for a moment, and snagged a maple bar from Chrissy's plate. "It's Christmas! Indulge yourself!"

I was about to refuse, I really was, when I had a terrible premonition: me, naked in front of Dee, without a single additional pound on my body. "I don't know why it didn't work," he said, "but you didn't even gain weight the normal way. That doesn't satisfy our agreement." Just like that my resolve broke and I took the doughnut, wagging a warning finger at the gleeful faces of my sisters.

"Just the one! Just because it's Christmas!"

Biting into her own doughnut, Kayla winked and turned back to talk to our mom, who was now mixing something rather furiously in a ceramic bowl. Chrissy pulled the plate of pastries out of both of our reaches, mock scowling for a moment, before going back to work. "What's that about?" I asked, swallowing a delicious bite of sugary dough. "A sick pup need its forms filled out?"

She laughed. "Basically. Just some stuff before the holidays start for real." She was a secretary at a local veterinary clinic, and last I had heard was dating one of the doctors there. To be completely honest, I was glad for my older sister: while Kayla and I were less than a year apart in age, Chrissy was nearing her thirties, and with her weight it would be even harder to get a boyfriend. Unless, I suppose, he really enjoyed little brown butterballs of women. With her height and hips, her round belly and overstuffed tits, the eldest of the Simon sisters was about as close to spherical as you could get. Not to say she wasn't as pretty as Kayla and myself, it was just hard to see under the layer of fat.

By the time I get to that size, I thought with a thrill, IF I get to that size, I'll be almost 100,000 dollars richer.

With that thought in mind, I stuffed the rest of the doughnut into my mouth. "So, when's lunch?" I asked.

The clock had been running for five hours before I escaped to the bathroom to check on my progress. Lunch had come and gone an hour ago, and while I still felt more full than I had been in months due to the acceptance of an extra sandwich and then a dessert doughnut, it wasn't my weight that had clued me in that something was going on: it was my bra.

As soon as the bathroom door closed I was shucking off my sweater and top, looking at my bare torso for signs of change. What I had suspected was true: the 32DD now fit my spectacular tits perfectly, completely filling the wiggle room that had been present that morning. The band felt tighter, too, and now I could see that there was a tiny puff of extra flesh squashing out along my thin back. Other than that, I thought, looking over my stomach and hips, I was nearly indistinguishable from the Clara I had been that morning. Maybe there was a little softness around my belly button, maybe it was possible that my leggings were digging into the soft skin around my waist.

How many pounds? I ticked off the hours on my hand. Maybe fifteen, by now. Fifteen hundred dollars, I thought with a shiver. That easily. In another eleven hours my rate would double. Then it would double again, thirty hours later, assuming I kept up this rate.

It was too easy. The line of my income was too clear. I had done nothing, nothing that morning but chat with my family, catch back up, and I had made more in a morning than I did in two weeks at my waitressing job.

I took a deep breath. "You haven't seen real proof yet, Clara," I whispered to myself as I pulled my top and my sweater back on. Flushing the toilet for good measure, I adjusted my hair, and emerged back out to my smiling family. "Wait for the proof."

It was so hard to wait, though. It was the easiest way I had made money by far, much easier than standing around while a jerk took pictures of you, even easier than a relative kicking the bucket and leaving you a small inheritance. Nobody got hurt by this method, I didn't even expend any energy. I just... waited.

With some regret I realized that my dieting plans were already out the window when I accepted the second cookie from my mom's offered pan. Was it my fault that she was trying out a few recipes to try to imitate Pepperidge Farm macadamia nut cookies, my absolute favorite in the world? It definitely was not. And don't think that I didn't miss the look Kayla and Chrissy passed, the white grins standing out on their faces like the Cheshire Cat's. Do they think they're fattening me up? I wondered. The irony of the situation almost made me laugh out loud. If they do, they may already be able to see results.

The main thing that I noticed as the day wore on, with old family jokes and card games and Christmas movies on TV, was my bra getting tighter and even more uncomfortable. Glad that I was wearing the heavy sweater, I decided not to bother taking it off until it got too painful to bear, instead using it as a helpful marker for my growth. Around dinner I suspected I was starting to get too big for the cups, as that telltale little ridge began to appear around the seams. But then there was food to distract me, and I found that letting myself actually enjoy meals was a bonus to this entire "game" that I had never considered.

Christmas Eve dinner was a special occasion at my house, a special meal between the five of us before the crazy Christmas Day when the entire extended family would descend upon the house, and Mom had not disappointed. The turkey was being saved, but we still had pies and yams, home baked buns and roasted carrots, and roast beef that had been simmering since before I had arrived. I tucked into everything a little bit, still not completely stretching out my unexpecting stomach, but eating far more than my usual fare of quinoa or kale.

Afterwards, Dad filled me a little snifter of Irish cream and I may have lost track of time. In between the full stomach, the warm alcohol, and the stupid, silly family jokes, I drifted into a haze on the couch, Kayla's jiggling warm body next to me, Chrissy's collapsed onto a recliner, as we giggled together.

"And remember how Gary—"

"—the lemons were right in front of her—"

"—but Mr. Parker never knew!"

I woke up from a doze when the family clock struck ten. "Oh!" I said, looking at the hour hand. "I, uh, need to get back to the hotel!"

Mom and dad looked up from the worn loveseat they were nestled on, with Harry stretched across them. "The hotel?" Mom asked, scratching at the stupid dog's ears. "It's Christmas Eve! You're not staying here?"

"Oh, uh." I hadn't thought of that. It made sense, didn't it? "I can't believe I forgot," I admitted. "Well, I'll need to go grab some things, anyway. A change of clothes, my toothbrush."

Dad started to heave himself up. "I'll give you a—"

"No!" I interrupted, loud enough so that Kayla stirred next to me, her gentle snores breaking for a moment. "No, I'll be fine. I'll grab a taxi."

"A taxi?" Dad repeated, but I was already on my phone, calling the service. I was lucky, and the wait would only be about ten minutes. Dad shrugged, and turned to my mother with an annoyingly knowing look on his face. "She must be making a lot as a model, to afford these taxi rides."

"Maybe I am," I said in as mysterious a voice as I could muster, before pushing myself up from the couch.

And things... felt different.

According to Dee, I should have gained over forty pounds by 10pm, and I could feel it. Not just around my chest, where my bra was now biting into me, but all over. Each step brought more wiggle to my hips, a little swing to my torso. My arms felt heavier in subtle, strange ways. I made my way to the bathroom, not even needing to pretend that I needed to relieve myself, and after I did my business pulled my top up. The changes to my belly were so much more obvious: a round curve went from one side to the other, where the fat on my hips were collected into shallow hills. There was not a hint of abs on my torso, just soft flesh around my belly button, curving hotly under my hands. The elastic band of my skirt wasn't quite cutting into me yet, but I could tell that another few sizes would make a hell of a difference.

My bra, though. Reaching under my top, I unhooked the pleading metal eyelets and slipped it off of my shoulders. My tits thanked me as they sagged a good few inches. Thankfully beneath the heavy wool of the sweater nobody would be able to tell the difference. As I was tucking the bra into my purse, there was a honk from the front door.

"Your cab's here, honey," my dad sang.

"Cab?" Chrissy asked as I whisked through the room, but I was already kissing my dad on the cheek.

"Back in a flash," I said.

Forty pounds, forty pounds, I found myself singing in my head, soon to be fifty pounds, fifty pounds. Multiply that by one hundred and you get four thousand dollars, thousand dollars.

The driver wasn't as amused by my holiday cheer as I was.

Traffic was terrible, and we pulled into the lobby with ten minutes until eleven. A handsome, muscular man in a very nice Hugo Boss suit grinned at me from the counter, his brown eyes roving up and down my profile. The dark blue color of his outfit perfectly complimented his dark chocolate skin, and there was something very enticing about his smile. "Dee?" I asked, knowing the answer. He offered me his arm and led me to the elevators, where, once the doors clicked closed, we found our tongues deep in the other's mouth.

"Wait," I said, not wanting to stop him, not moving his hand from under my skirt, his arm from around my back. "I need to go back. I can't stay long."

"So we'll be quick," he said in London accent.

This time we went to my room, our clothes dropping to the floor as we played tag with our hands, our mouths. Now that I was naked I could see the changes his magic had wrought to my body even clearer: the plumped, swaying hills of my breasts, the new curves of my hips, the soft plumpness of my thighs. I had thought I would be disgusted by it, just that morning. I had thought I would want it gone as soon as possible. But now, with Dee's hands roving over me, tenderly loving the new curves of me, gently stroking the sensitive skin of me, I was unsure. All I was sure of was that I loved that moment. If only...

"Dee," I gasped, as his tongue flicked at my clit, then rode up the curve of my pussy lips. "Let's fuck in your—your money a-again."

He looked up at me, over the little curve of my belly, and seemed to be amused by something. "What?" I asked, but he only sat there, waiting. Then, he lifted a hand, brought together thumb and finger, and—

SNAP.

"Fifty pounds," he said. "Which means, I believe, we can fuck in YOUR money." And then we were rolling in it, passionately humping and fucking and making those terribly awkward sex noises that get so goddamn hot when you're with someone you desperately want to be making awkward sex noises with, all the time surrounded by $5,000 in cash. And, as we fucked, another dollar dropped down from the darkness of the ceiling, then another.

I came, screaming. The perfect Christmas Eve surprise.

We were basking in the afterglow of another amazing fuck when I realized that the lights were flickering a little bit and my eyes were drawing to a wiggling candle flame. There, on the hotel vanity, was my candle. My wax Clara. I gently pushed Dee's arm off of me and padded over to it, seeing all of the details my first-person perspective couldn't afford me. The way that my butt had plumped up, thickening, no longer the toned, firm ass it once was. The sexy way my hips flared out from my waist, which was still thin enough to give me that amazing hourglass I hadn't realized I wanted. My face was even rounder, the sharp cheekbones every model desired somewhat worn down under a pound here, an ounce there.

"I figure the shops will be hard to get into tonight, and you don't have much to wear tomorrow," Dee said from the bed. I turned and he was already dressed, his tie perfect, the sweat from his cropped hair wicked away.

"Wait, where's the money?" I asked, noticing that it had all mysteriously disappeared.

He gave me an earnest look. "Back in your bank account, of course. Where, even as we speak, another two hundred dollars is about to join it." I involuntarily licked my lips and Dee graciously ignored it. "In any case, I picked you up a few things you should like, until we can meet again." He nodded towards the door, where several plastic garment bags hung.

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you my sugar daddy, now?" He just smiled.

"Was I ever anything but? Now, you should meet your next checkpoint next evening, by around six, I imagine—"

"Six?" I asked. "I assumed it would take twice as long to—"

"—to get twice as fat? To get four times as much money?" The look on his face was that coy, playful one he had worn across all of his faces. "Do you really think I'd make you wait that long for your pay? No, no, no, you have places to be, in your young life, so many ways to spend your money! It's only downhill from here, love. In fact..." he pointed past my naked arm at the candle. I turned to watch a drop of wax well and run down the figure, and when I turned back, he was gone.

I couldn't help but wonder if the clothes Dee had picked out for me would come out of my "paycheck". The cuts seemed tailored, the materials expensive, the tags gone. Still, despite the care put into them, it didn't appear any of them would fit me at... well, at whatever weight I was. "Need to get a scale," I murmured to myself. Still, one hundred more pounds in less than twenty hours would mean around five pounds an hour. Assuming that ridiculous meal I had eaten with my family hadn't added surprise weight, I was probably sitting happily at 185. "And 285 will mean I've earned twenty-five thousand," I said out loud. Still, the clothes were beautiful: an elegant green dress with stones across the shoulders and a silk sash; a blue georgette blouse and black handkerchief skirt; two bra-and-panty sets, one that would probably fit me in a few cups and pant sizes, the other probably by the time I saw Dee again; finally, to my amusement, a black halter bikini. Did Dee expect me to go swimming in the hotel pool like this? Shaking the daydreams from my head, I folded all of the clothes into my overnight bag. As an afterthought, I tossed in my pajamas. They were extremely stretchy and part of the set of clothes that I tried not to wear in public: the clothes that I bought because I couldn't afford better ones. Still, I reasoned, needed to sleep in something.

Flipping my hair from my eyes, hoping the sex had washed off of me as I dressed, I hailed another taxi on my way downstairs.

***

My pajamas were not too difficult to pull on that night; the main obstacle had been my bust. Already out to prove that I did, indeed, have my mother's genes, the classic button-down top had refused to stretch enough to go over my tits until I had layered them under a t-shirt. After that the slight hitch in getting the bottoms over my padded behind seemed trivial. My old bedroom had been all made up for me, most of the things I had left behind when I moved out were where I had left them, and I set myself down to sleep a little after twelve thirty, Christmas morning.

When I was woken up by my little sister bounding down the hall shouting that it was Christmas as if she was six years old, I could see that the pajamas had been a bad choice.

The clock told me that it was just past 6:15 AM, which meant that I had probably put on close to thirty pounds since I had laid my head down. Thirty pounds in six hours is a lot. The button holding back my breasts had popped off at some point in the night, letting my boobs push out through the top, their dark nipples anxious for air in the stretching t-shirt. They were getting huge, I couldn't deny it, each of them larger than a healthy melon and approaching that "holy shit" size the rest of my family had. No, that was expected. What was unexpected was how my belly was now pushing at the lower buttons of the top, pulling them apart just as my bust had done before I slept. Or how the circulation in my legs felt almost cut off now, the bottoms as tight as a pair of leggings, only made with cotton instead of a lycra-polyester blend. Even my arms felt encased, fat packed into the tightly-sewn fabric, straining as I pushed off of my mattress to get to my swollen, chubby feet.

A heavy pounding on my door let me know that Kayla, despite being 23, was as excited to open presents as a six-year-old girl. "Get up get up get up," she panted, "or I'll come in and drag you out!"

"I'm up!" I said quickly, not wanting anyone to see me in my entrapped state.

"You have thirty seconds," she warned, and I heard stomping footsteps go down the hall as she hailed Chrissy.

I looked around my room for anything I could shove on over my clothes, unbuttoning my shirt as I did so. It was a relief to let my stomach out a bit, but my t-shirt, which had felt fitted just 24 hours earlier, was riding up and letting the bottom of my new belly sag a little over my waistline.

My eyes lit upon my old terrycloth bathrobe, dark blue, and it thankfully slid over my shoulders with enough material to mostly hide my figure after I belted it on. I say mostly because nothing was going to be hiding my F-cup tits for long; my braless wonders jiggled and danced their way out of any place I tried to keep them, the thick material of the bathrobe only serving as a bowl for their jelly. I couldn't ignore the rough texture as they rubbed at the robe through my t-shirt, and every step or so a grind in the right place sent goosebumps down my body.

Dee hadn't lied, as it turned out: my tits were just as sensitive before, plus, there was now so much more of them to be sensitive about.

And yet I paused with my hand on the doorknob. My weight gain was completely undeniable, now. There was no way, even under the fluffy robe, that my family wouldn't see how my ass was colossal compared to where it had been yesterday, let alone the bouncing shapes beneath my strained t-shirt. I was sure my face was puffier, too, as I poked at it with my manicured, but thickening, fingers. How would it not freak them out?

The answer was simple, I found, as I opened the door and got yanked out by my younger sister's grabbing hand. They just didn't notice.

Opening presents in a five-person family, when you have as large an extended family as ours, can take a while, and I was really feeling the tightness of my clothes after two hours of sitting on the floor. I got my fair share of presents, of course, but by that point I didn't care: if I kept up Dee's game long enough, I could buy myself anything I wanted. Besides...

"Oh, that's far too small for you! I'm sorry, Clara, how could I have made such a mistake? I'll get it exchanged tomorrow."

"Thanks, Mom," I said, handing back the petite-sized top. "I think I'm an XL now..."

"That's right," she said, her brows furrowed in confusion for just a moment before she cheerfully grinned again. "But maybe I should get a size up, eh?" She winked and pinched my side, causing my cheeks to burn and the rest of my family to howl in laughter.

So they knew that I was gaining, it just seemed that their brains were tweaked to not really think too much of it. It would make everything much more convenient for me, at least. Really, that meant the only real question was: how big was I willing to go?

It was a question that I asked myself half-an-hour later, standing on the scale in the bathroom. I had found it hidden under the sink, dusty and unused; I had been the only member of the family who ever seemed to think about their weight. Standing on it now, I could see why it would fall into disuse: I had to hold my bulging tits down with my hands and stand on tip-toes to even see the numbers as they flashed. "235", they read. A nice, round number, I thought distantly, before it hit me: 235. I had now gained over 100 pounds, and over $12,000 dollars.

With twelve thousand dollars I could get a decent new car, or live in a nicer apartment for a year. I could go on a fantasy spending spree, filling out my closet with everything I had ever dreamed of affording. I could get new headshots, or even minor plastic surgery. Maybe invest in a new gym membership, I laughed, and lose all the extra weight while saving the extra money.

Or...

It wasn't really a question, was it? I was only on the second level, and the money would only increase exponentially. Hell, I was nearly getting wet just thinking about it, knowing that I had doubled down on my money gained by sleeping for a little bit and then wasting time with my family, imagining how much more money awaited. By the time I was Kayla's size I would have made more than triple her salary.

I could make it that far, I reasoned. 235 was nothing. I was still thin, by my family's standards.

Humming, I turned on the shower.

My family traditionally attends Christmas Mass on the day of, something I've always found terribly boring, and today would find even more stupendously boring as I sat, counting the pounds piling on. I had raised an eyebrow at the dress Dee had picked out, wondering exactly how much he knew about my family, to so accurately gauge the size I would be when I needed a fitting bra, panties, and dress, but I found that it all fit wonderfully.

The bra was push-up, sized FF-cup with a 44'' band, and it encased my monster puppies with no extra room to breathe. I took a few more minutes than necessary to admire myself before putting it on, running my hands around my swollen, soft tits, gently pinching my enlarged nipples. It was amazing how they had also fattened up a little with the rest of me, though the tracts of skin that surrounded my dusky areolae dwarfed the more sensitive tips. I shook them, and cupped them, and bounced on the balls of my feet, watching my breasts rebound further than they ever had before. Getting fat definitely had its advantages, and in the bra my boobs looked even more amazing, 

In fact, I had to admit that I liked a lot of the effects that had spread themselves across my body. The belly I could do without, as I was losing my hourglass shape now that my ribs were thickening up, and the flab around my arms would have embarrassed me if I wasn't so fixated on my goal, but my ass was stand-out juicy. Whether naked in its brown glory, or teased at in the festive red panties Dee had given me, it was round and jiggly and were I flexible enough I would have hugged it.

The subject of my flexibility came up as soon as I had slipped my new gown over my head and tried to reach behind to do the zipper up. It was a short zipper, just a few inches, but those inches were the difference between the cap sleeves turning Princess Jasmine on me or not, and my chubby arms were having much more difficulty bending the right way to reach the little metal handle in question than I had ever had before. I finally managed to pull the fabric up enough to be able to grasp it between my pointer and middle finger, then yanked the zipper up.

There was no tag on the dress, no brand, but it was beautiful, no question, even before I tied the ribbon belt and cut a dramatic silhouette. My shoes were going to be a problem, I realized as I forced my feet into them. It was a place you never thought about fat collecting in, but my feet were definitely fatter, and the leather straps of my open-toed heels dug in.

Still. Even though I was nearing twice the weight I had been before meeting Dee, I had to admit I looked fucking good. Half of a foot of cleavage jiggling beneath my softened chin, freshly-brushed hair curling around my rounded face, hips pressing tightly against the flowy material of my dress. My wobbling stomach was even suppressed, somehow.

As I put on makeup, I did my best to calculate how long I would be in this dress, trapped in this tasty bra. We were going to the church almost 45 minutes before service started, to make sure to get seats, then count on another five or ten minutes afterwards of schmoozing. Chuck on a half-hour just to get home, counting the parking lot fiasco that was sure to happen. That was more than two hours, which could mean a lot of weight. Ten pounds? Fifteen? Stress over bursting through the surely-expensive dress almost overcame me before I realized that was another $2,000 earned.

I grinned and applied my lipstick.

The realization that I was earning and, yes, growing while sitting in a pew made sitting still in church a nightmare. As I only came to services when I was visiting my parents, I wasn't really used to the idea of sitting (then standing then kneeling then standing) for over an hour, and I quickly got restless, which would cause my mind to wander. It wandered down my cleavage to where my cups were, once more, pressing into my tingling nipples. It wandered over my belly, which was pushing against the sash until I loosened it. It wandered down the zipper in my back, which I swore I could feel ripping apart, tooth by tooth, as I packed on another pound.

By the time were escaping back to my parents' SUV, where Chrissy and I sat side-by-side, our meaty hips pushing against each other while Kayla chatted away behind us, the zipper I had worked so hard to do up was completely unzipped, pushed down and apart by my swelling, fattening physique. I pulled my sandals off as we trouped back into the house, pushing aside Harry and trying to ignore the red lines on my feet.

"Dinner's in three hours, kids!" Mom sang as she returned to the kitchen. "Everyone'll probably be here by one!"

My stomach rumbled at the thought of all that food waiting for me and I actually felt a small thrill of excitement. Any of the thoughts from the previous day about sticking to my diet, about resuming my normal life once I was done playing Dee's game, were completely gone. All that remained was the thought of satiating my newfound hunger—and of the money that awaited me.

"Another three thousand," I sang to myself as I slipped out of the beautiful, straining dress and zipped on the black skirt and blue blouse. Once more, they fit me as if I had them tailored only moments before, both of them a little stretchy and a little flowy, but still showing off my curves. Dee had known what he was doing when he gave me this bundle of clothes.

To pass the time I helped my dad get the house ready for the influx of guests we would experience in just a few hours. There was still a lot of work to be done: getting the extra tables up from the basement, setting out chairs, having games close-at-hand, stocking up the coolers with beers and soda.

It all turned out to be harder than I had anticipated. Ignoring the overly-friendly dog and cat pair that constantly were underfoot, I found myself getting out of breath far faster than I had ever done before. Even after something as simple and helping Chrissy carry a card table up a flight of stairs prompted a break for both of us, which we spent giggling and munching a couple of sugar cookies each. The extra weight I was carrying shouldn't have taken me by surprise, and yet it did. My stomach pressed up against anything I carried, and if I lifted it too high my fat, hanging tits would get in the way. Each unexpected brush sent a shiver of feelings through my body, first at the pleasant sensations, then at the thought that I was only making more money.

While I helped my family get ready for guests, I made $800 and put on four pounds. While I chatted with my mom in the kitchen I put on two pounds and made another $400. While I grabbed a quick nap, with Kayla's stupid cat curled up on my tummy, I made another $600 with three more pounds.

Then our grandparents arrived and my internal counter got thrown aside in distraction.

The house filled with relatives of every type as the scents from the kitchen only became more overwhelming. Cousins, aunts, uncles. New in-laws, old in-laws, surviving in-laws. Even my great-grandmother on my dad's side made it, her fierce little wrinkled walnut of a body bursting with energy even while she was pushing 98. "Oh, Clara," she said, her weathered face burying itself into my chest as she hugged me, "it's so good to see you looking so healthy! I was worried you'd be starving off on your own."

"Nope," I said, unable to contain my blush. "Certainly not starving." That got a laugh from the pressing crowd, one that I actually shared back.

I had more fun that Christmas than I had managed for the past ten years. Now that I was bigger I felt less like some thin alien, forced to interact with these people, and more like one of them. The only difference was that I had already raked in more dough than any of their Christmas bonuses.

That may have helped my mood, too.

Then the food was served and all formalities ceased. I found a seat as quickly as possible, squashing with fresh difficulty between seatbacks and the wall to get to my chair, and dug in with the rest of them.

If I had managed to keep my food intake down until Christmas dinner I would surely have lost all willpower at that moment. Turkey and bacon and mashed potatoes, fried broccoli and homemade rolls and so much stuffing. I dug into it all with a speed that I had never experienced in my life, every bite passing between my teeth a joy to behold. Normally I would take the minimum amount: a slice of white meat, maybe a scalloped potato, a small roll. But now I let loose, and I really, really let loose.

The idea that maybe I could put on more weight than Dee's candle was giving me certainly crossed my mind, as it had the day before, but this wasn't quite fueled by the money. I was just hungry, and the food was just tasty, and I just did not want to stop. Even after my stomach filled enough to press against the cheap plastic of the table, after the kids had all gone off to play with Harry and talk about whatever video games had come out, after my dad and uncles had retired to the office to sip bourbon, I kept sampling. There were maybe fifteen different families there, and all of them had brought multiple dishes.

The clock struck five and I came out of my reverie when some voice in my head whispered "four thousand dollars". Had it really been four hours since I had last looked at the clock?

Looking down to see that my plate was empty, I stuffed a few more forkfuls into my mouth and then pushed away from the table. My stomach squeezed down to get out from under the lip, and I realized how extremely full I was: the loose blouse, before so billowy, was now tight enough to show off all of the curves of my torso. Distantly, below my bloated breasts, there was a breeze across the lower half of my belly and I assumed my flabby torso was on display. An aunt nudged my mom in the side and they both giggled at the sight of me.

My swagger as I came around the table must have signaled to someone that I was drunk on alcohol instead of just food, and before I knew it I was in Kayla's car, my overnight bag carefully tucked away. "I hope you had a good time, sis," she said with a lopsided smile as we jumped onto the interstate. "It was fun having you over for Christmas Eve! Like old times."

"Yeah, it was," I said thickly. I was still in an odd haze, my body trying to fall asleep to process all of the food I had stuffed down my throat. I was even too out of it to tell her to drop me off around the block, instead allowing her to pull up right to the front door of my fancy hotel, peeling paint on her car and all.

The sight of the handsome man leaning casually on the check-in counter, though, shook me from my reverie. His curly black hair was pushed back from his head, aquiline nose proudly jutting out over smirking lips, impeccable Italian suit perfectly complimenting his thin body.

"Hello, Dee," I said, smiling and trying to hold my suitcase over my exposed stomach. He just winked and took the bag from my hands.

"Hello, gorgeous," he said in a soft Scottish accent. I nearly melted to his kiss. "Meet me by the pool in ten minutes?"

"The pool?" I laughed. "Like this?"

"Mmmm, just like this," he purred. "I want to see all of you."

"You can see me naked on your bed any time you want," I said, but he just gave me another of those intoxicating winks while leading me to the elevator. How could I deny it?

The bikini was unlike any other plus-sized swimsuit I had ever scoffed at on the beach or alongside the pool. Those were normally meant to suppress round stomachs, to hide overfull hiplines. This garment was instead sewn like a bikini for a swimsuit model, only with measurements nearly twice as high as normal. The low-rise bottoms curved under my round, stuffed belly, stretched around my jiggly thighs, expose my fat, poufy ass. Miles of flesh away from that, over my belly button, my H-cup tits bounced in the halter-top's cups, pulling my neck and threatening to expose themselves at the slightest breeze. They did expose themselves in their own way, with my giant nipples hardening at the breeze as I stomped down the hall towards the pool. It wasn't on-purpose stomping, I just found it hard to walk without sounding like an elephant, now that I was nearing the 300-pound mark.

Dee was waiting for me by the empty poolside in a pair of tight spandex shorts. His fat member bulged in the front of them and they only seemed to tighten as his blue eyes spotted me entering. Reflected light bounced off of the ceiling and onto his face while he grinned at me. "I had imagined you would be this delicious, love, but seeing you in person…"

I snorted, but couldn't stop my feet from finding their way around the pool towards him. "I'm a whale, so it seems appropriate to go swimming, I guess."

"Oh, you are a whale," he said, taking my hand and kissing it, his lips moistened already by his tongue. "You are beautiful and graceful, indeed. And I imagine that you're wet," he added, tilting an eyebrow as he pulled me into the pool.

When our lips parted, I found myself laughing again. "If I was wet already, it's only because of your accent. How did you know I love British guys?"

His grin made me feel like I truly was drunk. "You responded quite well yesterday. Besides, your accent is so cute, I thought it only fair to return it."

"What? I don't have an accent."

He gave me an infuriating, deliciously small smile, and we were kissing again. Then, as if from nowhere, he snapped his fingers.

"What was that about?" I asked, looking around, expecting something to have changed. Piles of money appearing, perhaps, or a new pile of clothes. Nothing seemed different, so I looked back to that ever-present smile.

"Nothing," he said, making me roll my eyes. "You just passed the two-hundred eighty-two mark, meaning the price-per-pound gained has doubled once more."

"Meaning..." I said, my thick knees weakening. He nodded and smiled, white teeth glittering in the dim light.

"Four hundred dollars per pound."

My lips quivered as I tried to do the math before remembering that I got my first double early, at only fifty pounds. "And when will it go up... again?" He laughed at that, his head rolling back, his perfect chest shaking.

"Well, that would be telling, wouldn't it? Just know that it'll be soon, cupcake."

That seemed unfair. "How am I supposed to know when I can quit? What if you're not with me?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I never said that you could only quit when the money went up, Clara. You can stop this game at any time." Winking, he waved his hand at a nearby table, and I realized there was flickering candlelight there. The wax Clara stood, proud hips now as wide as her shoulders, enormous naked breasts sitting atop her fat stomach, chubby fingers still holding the burning wick. "Just ask for it, and you can blow out the flame."

I stared at the candle, then, thinking. Trying to think so hard. I was nearing three-hundred pounds, and the weight hit me as if it was all dropped on at once. Even now at 280-ish I was probably considered morbidly obese, though my sisters had a hundred pounds on me. How far could I take it?

I shook my hair over my chubby shoulder and turned back to Dee's satisfied expression. "Cool," I said, and leaned in to kiss him again. His strong hands dug in to my thickened waist, his erection pushing in to the underside of my gravid belly. Playfully biting down my neck, Dee's teeth met the soft flesh of my burgeoning left breast and I gasped with delight at the sensations, his tongue provoking shivers even through the thick fabric of my bikini top.

"How—how much have I—I made?" I asked, each little lightning strike from his touch making every swollen cell in my body sing.

"You mean you don't know?" he asked between grinning teeth. "Twenty-five thousand four-hundred." His fingers were stroking my swollen pussy below, and the stimulation combined with my announced wealth nearly made me come. I had made more than my silly waitressing salary, and in less than two days. I couldn't stop now. Not at $25,000, I decided. Further than that.

With the swimming pool working against gravity, I was able to wrap my fat legs around Dee’s muscular waist, my enormous tits pressing into him up to the neck, and kissed him so deeply I swore I could feel his tonsils. I was going to be so rich when this was all over.

***

A soft snap awoke me, and I briefly wondered if it was the crackling fire in Dee's suite before opening my eyes and seeing him leaning on one arm, his other hand held out.

"What was that?" I asked, my tongue too swollen to speak properly.

"Another hundred pounds," he said, and my brain rushed back to reality. I threw his plush covers off, revealing my naked body, now as big as my younger sister's.

"Holy shit," I breathed. I was enormous.

My huge, round belly rested on my meaty thighs, both legs as thick as my waist had been not three days before. I had to part my soft breasts to see the effect properly, my fat fingers attached to chubby, smooth wrists, and I could feel the weight in my arms swinging with the movements. My tits themselves were even fatter and rounder than the day before, as huge as sacks of flour and almost as heavy, though they still managed to retain a lot of their shape atop my flabby ribcage. Even my face felt strange, and I ran my thick hands over it to find that my cheeks were as puffy as a chipmunk's, my chin just a marker before my fat neck puffed out with a second chin.

"When did this happen?" I gasped. Dee shrugged.

"Last night, while you slept."

"Of course," I said, trying to sit up, then getting a hand behind myself to push off of. My belly squashed against my tree-trunk legs first, and then my tits hit my belly. Behind I could feel my ass, previously pooled on the king-sized mattress, now plumped up behind me. "God, I'm getting so huge."

"You are," Dee said. "And so rich."

God, the money. $400 for every pound, and I had gained, in an instant, another hundred. $65,000. "Fuck, that's a good salary," I said after making the calculations. "But I can't keep doing this."

"Why not?" Dee asked slyly. "I told you: no repercussions, health or anything else. It goes on for as long as you're willing to get fatter."

"Jesus," I said, running my hands through my hair. I tried to remember when I had finally fallen asleep the night before, how many hours of gaining I had even experienced. At this rate I may pass the point I was willing to take this whole thing before I knew that it was gone. I only realized that Dee's strong hands were stroking my belly after a few moments of delightful musing, and I was enjoying it far too much to tell him to stop. "How many other girls have you done this with?" I suddenly asked. Maybe knowing what they had done in this situation would help me decide how far I wanted to go, but I would soon be disappointed.

"This particular game? You are the first." He leaned in and kissed up the soft flesh of my belly, stopping to lick up a breast and nibble on a fat teat. The sensation was delicious, little shockwaves of joy spreading along my widening body. "I have played others, though," he said, without a thought. "You've even met one."

"Like... like who?" My eyelids were flickering in pleasure. I have to keep my concentration, I thought. This may be important. "I think I would have noticed."

"Like your family noticed?" he asked, before continuing. "You certainly did not. One wanted to be famous, so she had increasingly exciting events happen in her life. Some of them terrible, but she knew about all of them in advance and could not help but give in. One wanted lovers, more and more lovers, and is happier now than she had ever been."

"And you made them fat in exchange?"

He laughed. "Oh, no. No, you are the first, as I said. Sometimes I plump up just their breasts, as a healthy breast pleases me." He hefted my own in his hand as an example, running a finger down it and sending more shivers along my body. "Sometimes we make other exchanges. Knowledge. One astrophysicist wanted to know enough to win a Nobel prize, and I wanted to know how muscular she was willing to let her body become in exchange." He sighed. "She did not last as long as I had hoped, though she is now a world-class bodybuilder instead of a researcher."

I laughed at the thought. "But you wanted me to get fat. Why?"

His eyes met mine and mirth dropped from his lips. "Because I knew you were beautiful, yes. But I also knew your beauty would only increase as your mass did. And it is true, anyone can see it."

"Yeah, right," I scoffed. "I'm huge, now. In fact," I looked across the room, at the huge mirror Dee had. "I looked nearly identical to my sister Kayla, minus her short hair. You're saying she was more beautiful than me before you and I met?"

He tilted his head. "We may disagree on that point. But," and the smile returned, "During this conversation you've made $1,600."

Sixteen-hundred in ten minutes. Dreams and delight engulfed my body, and I let myself fall back on to my lover, reaching under my spreading stomach to find his wanting, ready erection.

***

"I can't believe it's your last day here," Kayla was whining as I reclined on my parent's couch. We were all enjoying a pre-lunch candy pig-out, watching It's a Wonderful Life as we enjoyed each other's company. "It feels like you just got here!"

"Really, she did," my mom added. Now that Christmas was well and done, she was finally finding time to relax, doing a puzzle with Dad, who was having a heck of a time keeping Kayla's cat away from the extra pieces.

None of my family had made a single comment on the fact that I was now nearing four-hundred pounds. When I had pushed into the house wearing a gigantic v-neck shirt and a tiny cardigan over it, my plump legs stretching out elastic leggings, I had been engulfed in hugs and greetings and then business had proceeded, as usual. No one mentioned that my butt now scraped against the doorframe when I entered, or that I was puffing just from the short walk up my parents' lawn. Instead they had set me down on the couch, handed me a plate of sweets, and engaged me in the delightful art of small talk.

My clothes were new, purchased at a department store that I stopped at on the way to my parents'. I hadn't paid attention to brand, only size, reasoning that, soon enough, they wouldn't fit. I paid with my credit card, but then on my way out stopped at an ATM and checked my balance, just out of curiosity. $74,392. I waited a moment, then pressed the "Check Balance" button again and it updated: $74,458. Fifty dollars, I had thought, the shiver making fat ripple down my body. In just a second.

I took a step, and knew that I was fatter now, a little bit richer, now. Then another step, feeling the weight swing across my body, the jiggle of all three-hundred ninety pounds of me. Every ounce was another $50, every minute another three ounces.

My new leggings, and extra-large panties, left a wet spot on the passenger seat of my taxi. I couldn't help thinking about the money flowing into my bank account, even as fat flowed onto my body. What was fat? A little more weight. Money, though. I always could use more money.

If I seemed happy with my family, happy to play around with Harry and hug my mom and snuggle with my sisters, it was only because of other thoughts in my head. Thoughts of passing the time even faster. Could Chrissy have known that I had made more in two days than she made in two years? Was it so strange that I was now actually Kayla's big sister, literally as well as chronologically?

I found myself absentmindedly running my hands over my soft belly, feeling how tight my elastic shirt was getting, how soft the brown flesh hidden underneath it had grown. By noon I was well over four hundred and twenty, surpassing my mother by a good ten pounds, my tall dad far outstripped. I showed it, too, filling my stomach with leftover turkey and stuffing and potatoes and cranberries and cookies and ice cream and—

Fifty more pounds, I thought. That's $40,000, right there. I had made over $100,000, playing Dee's game, enough to buy a cheap house outside of SF, or a really goddamn expensive car. One hundred-thousand dollars worth of fat that had overtaken my body, swelling my breasts until my nipples were over a foot away from my thickened chest, puffing up my bust so that, when I sat down, my flabby chins nearly tucked into my cleavage. Thousands of dollars worth of pounds thickening my ass, my thighs, forcing my stomach to swallow up my elastic waistband, stretching out the seams of my leggings. Piles of greenbacks filling me out, filling me up, packing weight on and on and on.

"Come on," Kayla whined, pulling at my fat hand, trying to move me from the couch. "Let's go! It's your last night in town, we have to do something fun!"

"Like what?" I burped. I had probably eaten several pounds of food in between lunch and dinner, but that hadn't stopped me from pigging out when Mom had made hot turkey sandwiches.

Kayla just rolled her eyes. "The club? Come on!"

"A club? I have nothing to wear at all, Kayla, don't be ridiculous."

"So we'll pick something up on the way! Come on, shopping, like sisters? Chrissy's coming!"

I looked over at my big sister, who had already changed into probably the most expensive dress she owned, a black and white pinstriped thing, strapless, with her big ugly parka over it. "Okay," I said, and let myself be squeezed into the backseat of Kayla's car.

Just before she turned the radio on I could have sworn there was the sound of fingers snapping. Another hundred pounds, I thought, making me, by far, the fattest person in my family. 485.

And every pound more meant another $1,600 in my bank.

"I can't be out too late," I reminded Kayla for the hundredth time from within the changing room. "My flight is at six tomorrow morning."

"Who cares?" came back Kayla's voice, impatient. "Come on come on come on! How does it look?"

I honestly couldn't tell how it looked—the changing room, despite being in a dress shop that specifically catered to extremely large women, still didn't have mirrors in places that let me take in my whole body at once. It was probably due to practical concerns, but I thought that the ragged zebra striping, the long sleeves, the mini skirt hem length, would all add up to an absolutely atrocious look on me. The tight fabric clung to my bouncing stomach, bulging around the horizon of my tits. I don't think it was supposed to be a scoop-neck, but I made short work of that idea.

"Oh my god you look AMAZING," Kayla said, clapping her chubby hands to her mouth. "I love it!"

"Are you sure?" I asked, trying to look over my shoulder at my butt and just seeing, in the distance, a huge mass wobbling behind me.

Chrissy was even raising an appraising eyebrow, counter to her usual deference to fashion. "You look pretty good, Clara," she said. "I can see why you get those modelling jobs."

I suppressed a laugh at the thought, wondering if my sisters really believed I was getting modelling work still. Or maybe Dee's magic was making them imagine a history? I didn't know, but I paid for the dress, some new shoes to fit my newly-fattened feet, and a nice, warm coat. "Come on, girls," I said, failing to zip the parka up over my huge tits. How big were they, again? My new bra said N cup, but it was custom made by some shop Chrissy and Kayla knew. The band difference had been about 13 inches, though, a number that made my sisters whistle in approval. "It's dancing time."

Dancing, as it turns out, is far harder when you're about four times the weight you're used to, wobbling on unfamiliar heels, and even more so when your sisters keep shoveling tequila into your body. It was hard to resist testing if being fatter meant I could drink more, and, after the sixth shot, I realized that I normally just throw up after three. Maybe it was the atmosphere: the pulsing bodies, the shaking booties, the sweat flying from my hair and soaking my new dress as it tightened and tightened around me.

Although I was definitely the biggest girl in the club that Kayla had dragged us to, we were far from the only big and beautiful girls there, a fact that surprised me. Maybe it was the places I normally went to that only had fit, attractive young girls in them, or maybe it was just North Dakota, but it seemed that the average girl in there had more than her fair share of pounds, and the guys didn't even care. Hell, my size seemed to mean an advantage: I was easy to spot, and also easy to accidentally end up dancing with. It couldn't have been an accident, the number of guys that ground my waist, or grabbed a handful of belly, or swapped a kiss and a grope before we moved on. And I was just as picky and discerning as ever—but then again, I had Dee to go back to. Why waste my time on some stupid boy toy?

It was only when I was panting, soaked in perspiration from my head to my naked toes, that I checked the time and saw, through woozy vision, that it was approaching 2AM. I pushed myself up from my cheap chair, hearing it groan under me, and felt a draft down my front. I looked and saw that my new dress had split open at the stomach, showing a long stripe of skin that thankfully blended in with the ragged pattern apart from my soft belly button at the bottom. "Fuck," I slurred. "How rich am I, now?" I certainly felt rich: very, very heavily rich.

Tits leading the way, I stumbled through the club until I pulled Chrissy off of some hapless, hopelessly in love college boy, and found Kayla in a stall in the bathroom, puking her guts up like she was in high school again. I called two cabs, kissed them goodnight, and wished them a happy new year.

I was about to pull open the door to my cab, the driver impatiently tapping on the steering wheel, when a hand grabbed my arm. It was Kayla. "Hey," she said, in that exaggeratedly serious way that drunk people, especially sisters, get. "You know, I know that you, that you've put on weight," she said.

I laughed, and my entire body shook with it. "A little."

She held up two fingers and pinched the air. "A tiny, a tiny bit." Her grin fell away again. "But you look happier, you know? I like it." And she fell into what I assumed was a hug before realizing that, no, she had passed out.

After heaving her into her cab, and throwing money at the driver, I got into mine. I was fatter. And I was happier. But I was also making more money than ever before.

***

I remember telling Dee that I was thinking about stopping, after hazily stripping my ruined dress off. That the thought, at least, had crossed my mind. "How fat am I?" I asked him.

"Five-hundred and seventy pounds," he said, now in the soft syllables of an accent from Latin America. "Making you two-hundred eighty-five thousand, eight hundred dollars richer. More, now," he added.

"Mmmm," I said, burying my head in the pillow. "That is a lot of money." I could buy hundreds of dresses with that. Tons, literally, of food. Maybe three bras in my new, fancy size.

But Dee had leaned over and tucked my sweaty hair behind my ear, and I felt his hand tickling down my chubby back. "But do you know how much money you'll have made in a little less than ten hours?" he murmured.

"How much?" I asked, shivering in anticipation.

His lips touched my ear, his tongue flicking against it. "One million dollars."

I was too drunk to even tell him I wanted to fuck, but when my hand managed to creep beneath my sagging belly, squeeze between my overstuffed thighs, I was sopping wet. And when I came and drifted into that deep pit of darkness, Dee snapped his fingers...

***

All planes that leave Bismarck are, by nature, smaller planes. Not two-motor biplanes, but not 747s. You have to walk out on the runway, take a flight of stairs up, then squeeze between seats to find yours. Hungover, very tired, and approaching 700 pounds at a breakneck speed, I was not happy about these obstacles. So when the flight attendant coolly told me that they'd have to charge extra for the extra seat I'd be taking up, I almost didn't question it. I just wanted to be off of the plane.

But then a thought occurred.

"You didn't charge me for the extra seat on my way down," I said, leaning my head forward so I didn't bump it against the overhead compartments. My huge ass was blocking the aisle, preventing anyone from even being able to see around me. I looked at the seat through my sunglasses; there was no way I would only take up the one. No possible way. Yet the odd delight that spread through me, the tingle in my vast stomach at the silly argument, was impossible to resist.

"Ma'am," the flight attendant said, her face working to figure out how to politely tell me that I was fat beyond belief, "I would not believe that we'd only charge you for one seat on the way down. If so, it was a mistake that will need to be rectified via credit card." But her friend was on a tablet, tapping away and looking very confused.

"It says here she did only pay for one seat. And that she was in a middle one, with people to either side..."

I eventually paid up, extracting my purse from within my sweaty cleavage, and turned to plop into two seats, managing to completely fill both of them. While the flight attendants hurried to get extra seat belts to help strap around my belly, I did my best to push my tits down with chubby hands but merely managed to push them harder into the seatbacks in front of me. It was only after a tiny lady squeezed into the seat beside me, pushing up against the wall of fat that I created, that I realized I had almost had to pay for three seats. I tried to apologize to her, brushing my hair back so I could look over the horizon of my bust down at her, atop my throne of overly-padded bottom, but she was gazing intently at the safety manual, probably trying to figure out if she could use the woman next to her as a flotation device. It didn't matter to me; when the plane touched down, I'd be at least $150k richer, and increasing.

I could feel it, too. After the first hour I had to grope for the seatbelt and loosen it up, and could feel my enormous hip pressing against the window. I hoped it wouldn't be a serious problem for my neighbor, until her elbow poked into my side and she squeaked with embarrassment, squeezing even tighter against her armrest away from me. It was a good idea, actually, as I was running out of space: my belly, shaking and quivering with every little bump of turbulence, was pushing my knees apart, filling up the space in my $200 jersey pants, even while my breasts rose steadily towards my chin. It was clear how quickly I was gaining, so fast that I could almost see it. And yet I didn't feel gross, or ugly. I checked my face in my compact and though, yes, it was much softer, and rounder, with my neck completely enveloped by a second chin, my porky cheeks puffing around my thick lips, I was still pretty. I was even beautiful.

When the plane touched down my neighbor disappeared just as the flight attendants arrived to help me get out. I had heard Dee's phantom snap a little over an hour before, meaning I had probably passed 700 pounds by now and was piling on $6,400 per pound. Getting down the aisle was even harder with sixty extra pounds, both butt cheeks squashing up against me as I pushed through, my belly constantly trying to escape from between my stretchy pants and embroidered top. Once free from the tiny interior of the plane, I realized just how different I felt: belly fat bouncing against my knees with each step, tits pushing out in front of me, hips quaking with the force of a small earthquake.

The stairs to the jet way were difficult to manage, but, huffing, puffing, and carefully stepping, I made it down, then thought of how terrible the trip would be to get to the front of the airport, to get my baggage, and—well, and get home, I suppose. To my tiny studio apartment.

Apartment-hunting was in my future, I thought to myself, as I took another arduous step.

To my surprise, a man inside of the terminal was waiting for me, with a wheelchair that looked the size of a small sofa. "Miss Simon?" he asked me, grinning broadly. I nodded, grateful for relief, and sank into the wheelchair. With a grunt, but no hint of complaint, he began wheeling me down the hallway.

This is it, Clara, I thought at one point. This will be your life, from now on. After gathering my bags, which were much larger than I remembered, and leaving me with a taxivan driver, my shepherd disappeared, but not before I tipped him very, very well. This is your life, but you can tip. It's a trade-off.

When I climbed into the taxi and collapsed into the backseat, noting that the middle seats were gone to leave my stomach nearly scraping the floor. I appreciated that my fat breasts, both of them now far too large for me to ever hope to hold them in, could breathe in the extra room. At last afforded a little bit of privacy, I let my hands roam over the soft, squishy landscape of my body, feeling how much I had changed in just four hours. I had gone from "large but mobile" to "out of breath from a couple of stairs," but who cared when I could afford to install an elevator in the new house I'd be buying?

Or had already bought...

The taxi didn't seem to be going to my terrible studio apartment downtown and instead had turned towards the North Bay. He seemed to know where he was going, and didn't seem to have any concerns about looking past the mountain of a woman blocking his rear view mirror. We stopped across the bridge at a burger place, where my driver disappeared, reassuring me he'd just be a minute. He came back with three bags full of hot, greasy food, which I tore into once I felt the rumbling in the several hundred pounds I called my tummy. Four double-cheeseburgers, six helpings of fries, and an extra-large milkshake disappeared into me to feed the beast, and I giggled at the image of me modelling for McDonald's. Maybe they needed someone to show off the body junk food could buy.

It was 11:30 by the time we pulled into the driveway of a nice-looking house in the hills. By "nice-looking", I don't mean a single story with a separate garage and maybe a basketball hoop. I mean a manicured lawn, double-doors, three story thing, with a driveway that didn't just end at the garage but looped back to the street. The kind of place that I had always imagined living in, back when I had first moved to the city, but knew it would be years or even decades before I could. That was assuming my career ever took off. I giggled with glee at the sight before a milkshakey burp escaped from between my lips. When the van stopped in front of the doors, they burst apart to reveal a long-haired man with dark features, his muscular arms aching to rip out of the tailored dress shirt he wore. He pulled open the door of the van and said, in that delicious British accent, "Welcome home, Clara."

I tried to heave myself up off of my ass but found that my legs couldn't quite get the right support under me. I tried to move my arms around to push against the seatback but my flabby upper arms couldn't seem to get past my enormous saddlebags, which threatened to rip my straining pants open. Dee watched me struggle with joyful satisfaction for a moment while signing the credit card slip for the driver, before climbing into the taxi and offering an arm for me to grasp.

"Thank you," I gasped, holding onto his rocklike forearm with thick fingers, rolling forward and feeling my belly press into the carpeted floor as I did so. I managed to get my feet under me, but my huge breasts pushed together like overstuffed sofa cushions, leveraged on my grasping arms, and pushed into my neck and chin. "God, Dee," I said once I had determined I was standing up, "I'm so fat."

"Yes," he said, his eye roving over me as he stepped down to the ground, leading me gently. "You are."

Taking those two steps out of the van was even harder than it had been to get up, with my tits and stomach completely blocking my view. Looking down I could only see acres of my perfect, porky flesh, distorting the embroidering on my fancy top by pulling it far tighter than even the Big and Tall store I had purchased it from would have guessed. "Too fat," I added, and we began our slow journey up the drive to the doors. Dee had left them open, revealing a pristine white interior, every wall rounded without sharp corners, every hallway twice as wide as a normal one. Looking around, I almost couldn't believe my little piggy eyes.

Dee was watching me just as carefully, just as hungrily as I drank in the luxurious interior. "Too fat?" he asked softly. "Are you saying you're too rich?"

No way could I be too rich. The carpets under my feet were thick enough for an angel to sink into, leaving deep footprints behind my squashing feet. The furniture was huge and soft, the sitting room we entered filled with several couches and a chaise that were detailed in leather and suede, with a chandelier overhead and an extra-thick rug below. A gleaming kitchen sat over a mahogany bar, where an industrial mixer and a walk-in fridge complemented stacks of elegant dishes and place settings. There was an elevator, far in the back, behind a large set of stairs that lead to the upper levels, but I wondered if I would even fit into this thing, brass and ivory and an expensive-looking dial. "No way am I this rich," I breathed, my lungs emptied both from an insane lust for wealth and the short walk from the drive.

"Eh, not quite," Dee said, making a ticking noise with his tongue. "I had to take out a loan, but your credit is good, and, besides," he grinned, "you'll be able to pay it all off, shortly."

"No way," I said.

"Oh, yes." His grin was so wide that I felt I could count every one of his teeth. "In fact," the grin disappeared as he looked at his watch, then held up his right hand, thumb and middle finger pressing against each other. "I believe..." The tendons in his hand clenched. Then his eyes dove into mine and his smile returned with a vengeance. "Only fooling, Clara." I let out a breath, realizing that my lips were wet from me licking them. I had wanted to be passing another checkpoint, to be over 780 pounds, to be gaining money at an even faster rate. Dee's eyes laughed mercilessly at my realization. "But you are now a millionaire, beautiful," he said, sweeping away, one finger tracing around my bustline, then dropping down to stroke my exposed stomach.

"I'm a..."

"Yes, a millionaire. How about we celebrate?" He had moved to the fridge and disappeared into it. When he came out a bottle of champagne was in his hand. "Well? Sit down, sit down."

I looked at the inviting suede couch and moved towards it. "I'm not sure if, uh," I started, suddenly unable to voice my concerns, but Dee just flapped a hand at me.

"If you'll be able to get out again? Of course you will. At least," and the wolfish grin returned, "if you decide to stop before you can't. But then you'll never get as much money as you could."

Having reached the sofa, I turned around, a laborious process, and backed slowly up, until the fat insides of my thighs touched the cushion. I sank backwards and soon realized that I was not sinking into the cushions as I had thought, but instead was merely settling into my comfortable, enormous ass, my cushiony back providing more than enough of a relaxing seat. "As much as I could," I mused, reaching for the glass of bubbling wine Dee passed me.

"Look," he said, sitting into an armchair that I would never fit into again and crossing his legs, "I don't know if you've realized, but every hundred pounds you double not only how much you're making per pound, but also how much you've made total."

"So if I've made a million dollars," I said, realizing his math was good, "in a hundred pounds, I'll have two million."

"Exactly so," he said, sitting back and sipping at the champagne.

"And," I continued, squirming in excitement and feeling myself sink further onto the couch, my butt spreading as its shape reacted to gravity, "a hundred after that—"

"Four," he said, simply.

A familiar dampness was growing deep within the valley my overstuffed legs created, and it wasn't just sweat from my little walk. There was still so much money that could be made, couldn't there?

"Show me the candle," I said, and Dee beckoned with an arm at a nearby table. I turned, feeling my body shift and shake with it, and looked at the golden wax figure of myself.

I had to trust that it was me, as I was unrecognizable, even from the mirror in the bathroom before my plane ride. The stance was the same, with fat arms clenching the wick from below, eyes turned upwards, but now my wax visage was greedily, hungrily looking up at the flickering flame, desperate for more wax to run over her. And run it did, a droplet welling and running every five or six seconds. Running down an arm like a ham hock, over a breast as large as a trash bag, spilling off of a thick, stretched nipple, dribbling down a belly like a mattress. Or running through her thick hair, splatting onto the fat curve of her back, rolling down over the rolls of her sides to pool onto her hip, then trickling down to her ass, along a curve and a dimple an inch long, down a thigh thick as a redwood, over a chubby knee, down to the tiny, fat feet.

I considered the wax Clara for a moment, swirling my champagne. Then I drained the glass and shook my head, feeling my jowls and cheeks, my double and triple chins, waggle. My hair didn't flap anymore, as it had purchase all along the fat of my shoulders and back. "No, I'll stick with it for a bit more." I tried to match Dee's smile. "Maybe we'll see how having ten million feels."

Leaning forward to have my glass refilled, there was a straining feeling along my thickened, enormous waist, and then a snapping. My pants which had been marked "one size fits all" no longer fit me.

With a growl, Dee was on me, his tongue pressing into mine, his hands roving over my extensive body. Massaging my belly, pulling pounds of ass closer, feeling around and around my breasts, tracing a nipple. His pants were gone, either magically or with such speed that it didn't make a difference, as was his shirt, showing that he was built not only for muscular displays but for assisting a fat woman with movement. And move we did, from the couch to the double-wide hall, then through French doors to a bed even bigger than a king's. Dee pushed me onto it, his straining and lifting somehow turned erotic instead of comical, and my belly sat heavily between my knees, squared feet resting on the silk sheets.

My top was gone, ruined, but I knew I could easily replace it. After a few hours of being pleasured endlessly, of having my current net worth said to me, the sheets were ruined, too, but they could also be replaced. What could not be replaced was this chance, this opportunity. I couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, until I was satisfied.

Dee satisfied me many different ways on that bed, but the best one was when I was kneeling, my belly and breasts propping me up, as he rammed me from behind again, and again, and again, my buttocks swaying and bouncing with each thrust. I could feel my fourth orgasm nearing, so close, and wondered if this exercise might be working against me by burning calories, when a hand lifted from the sensitive skin of my right ass cheek and Dee snapped his fingers.

Every pound was now making me over 12k. "300k per hour," Dee said, his speed increasing slightly with excitement as my climax jumped close, too.

"Three hundred," I panted, trying to calculate. "In four—four—four  HOURS—" I shrieked while Dee roared. Neither of us had to finish the statement; in four hours I would have over another million, and be close to the next checkpoint.

It was another hour before we finished our fuckfest, and I was too elated to feel the weight of my decision anymore, both figuratively and literally. Instead, Dee helped me into a flowy cotton dress that he assured me was both expensive and would stretch, for the time being, and then we walked back out to the sitting room. I once more collapsed into the extra-large, reinforced sofa, and this time Dee got to work in the kitchen for food, cooking up a storm to fill my 10XL stomach. He roasted chicken, turned hams, braised steaks, made rolls and pastries and a loaf of sourdough, poured glass after glass of wine, stuffed mushrooms and fried asparagus and everything else. As soon as it was finished he plated it and brought it out to serve right into my mouth, hot but not too hot, delicious and filling, or at least would be filling to a skinny bitch.

I knew he was using some kind of magic to make it all so quickly, but I didn't care: I was hungry, hungry for food and for weight and for more wealth.

"Some of it is going into liquid goods, like this house," Dee explained when I asked about my money. "A lot of it into offshore accounts. Some to pay taxes or to get accountants set up, you know, that sort of thing."

"Liquid?" I asked, and he had brought out a milkshake before I could clarify that I wanted to know how much was cash. Teeth bared in a smile at my pursed lips as I sucked it down, he patted my arm, sending shockwaves through most of me as he did so. "So much that you won't be able to spend it fast enough, love," he said. I hadn't noticed, but he had changed again, his hair now blonde and wavy, his accent Mediterranean in some way. Then there was an entire pizza sitting on top of my breasts and I dug into that, too.

I had eaten what seemed like an entire larder's worth of delicious, expertly-made food, when Dee emerged from the kitchen in nothing but slacks, carrying a tray of strawberries. A bowl next to them was filled in melted chocolate, and, gingerly, he dipped a strawberry in, rolled it through the air until the chocolate stopped streaming, then leaned into me, my hardened, excited nipples digging into his bare stomach. The bite was succulent, chocolatey and fruity and juicy, and I hardly noticed when he had placed the tray on my bosom and disappeared under my dress, my stomach lifting up on his strong, naked back, my thighs parting to his gentle touch. His tongue licked at my permanently drenched privates, and then he was eating me out while I ate.

The juxtaposition was too much for my poor, oversensitive body, and I cried out in erotic desire and need, all 850 pounds of me shaking and pounding. No—just then I heard it, with my entire body: Dee's snap. Make that 882 pounds of me. The four hours had gone by, like that, and I was 1 million dollars richer. I crested another wave...

***

Two more checkpoints passed before I collapsed, exhausted, against the couch. They were coming fast, now, too fast for my poor, money-addled brain to comprehend. I think it was me hitting that mark that I had said early, the 10 million mark, that made me sit back and realize how far this was going. Or maybe I just sensed that I wouldn't be able to stand on my own power, some weird survival instinct telling me that I wouldn't be able to run if a crazed murderer chased me.

I was about to tell Dee to summon the candle, my mind already made up to stop, when his head slipped up into view. He had been below me, in an area I'd never see again, doing unspeakable things to my sex with just his tongue and a few fingers. The other hand was still massaging a tit, my enormous and chubby nipple playing between his knuckles. The hand that had previously been in me was in the air, having just snapped, and Dee's eyes met mine. "Do you know how big you are?"

"Too big," I gasped. "I... need to... stop." Breathing was difficult, but I wasn't sure if it was because of the inhuman weight on my torso, caused by my beanbag chair breasts and my cow-like belly, or just the excitement and fear of how much I had gained.

His face was serious, though, and he absent-mindedly played a finger down my soft, stretched skin. "I told you when we first started, Clara: you don't need to stop. You'll have no health problems, nothing from your obesity."

"I don't know if, if I can walk," I said, and the fear in my voice betrayed me. He chuckled.

"Why would you need to? You used to want to walk down catwalks, showing off your severe lack of curves." His eyes twinkled.

"Hey," I said, indignant, "I had curves."

He tsked and gently slapped my belly, sending shockwaves up through me. I realized that his elbow was digging into my thigh, somewhere below me, and I wondered how big that thigh was; I swore I could feel the entire length of a sofa cushion digging into the soft flesh under me. "You didn't have curves like you have now. Your arms curve, your elbows curve, your cheeks curve outward beautifully."

With an effort I dragged my arm along my breast and touched my face with a chubby, sausage-like finger, unable to help noting how my arm bloated out like a sausage from my wrist, how even the backs of my hands were padded and rounded. Manicured nails dug in to my cheek, feeling how the drooping fat enveloped my skull, my jaw. 

"You're over 1,000 pounds, love," Dee said, savoring the words.

"I am? No," I gasped. "No way."

He smiled up at me, then stood up, dusting his hands off, his erect, engorged penis dragging a hot trail up me, causing a shiver to run, like an earthquake, from my bones. "I suggest, love, you sleep on it. You're already exhausted, I can tell. We've had a busy day."

I laughed harshly. "Sleep on it? In a couple more hours--"

He smiled, not unkindly. "You'll be no less able to walk than you currently are. You really think you can get up unassisted?"

The reality struck me. "You can't possibly mean," I started, then tried to get my arms under me, tried to work my legs to push up off of the floor. I couldn't find leverage in the thick carpet with my feet, though, couldn't reach for a spot that wasn't just more Clara.

Dee leaned in from behind me, his arms reaching down my sweat-soaked back, massaging at the square feet of bare skin. "You already can pay off this house, Clara. I'll make the necessary phone calls. By the morning, you'll be able to buy ten more of them."

"Ten of them?" I asked, stopping my futile struggle.

"And you'll be able to enjoy them all just as much as you currently can," he added with a wink. "Fucking, eating, sitting on your ass and enjoying life."

My heart hitched. "And... and my money?"

He knew he had me, and his belly laugh filled the corners of my mansion. "In twelve hours you'll be a billionaire, love."

A week earlier this idea would have been incomprehensible to me, would have had about as much impact as trying to sell me the Bay Bridge. But at that moment I forgot everything: the couch, Dee, even my vanishing ability to take an assisted step, and instead I leaned back in bliss, letting Dee rain hundred dollar bills down on me, feeling the money cover my entire, luxurious body.

***

My eyes snapped to alert the next morning when Dee snapped his fingers, leaned in, and told me that I was now a billionaire.

One billion dollars. In my account. In my closet. All around me.

The sheets of my bed had been replaced with something silky, along with the entire bed, which now had hydraulics to help lift me out of it. Dee then transferred me to an enormous powered wheelchair, one that was more of a throne with a plateau in front for resting my adipose torso. There was a remote control for it that I could clutch in one tight, fatty hand, but my fingers didn't work as well as they had the previous day, so, after knocking over a priceless vase, Dee suggested that I let him drive.

"One... billion," I gasped after he moved me to the living room. It was now void of most furniture, apart from some velvet chairs, and Dee had cooked up a breakfast that could have gone to feed a family the size of an NFL team which awaited me at a buffet table.

"To be exact, 1.71 billion," Dee said. "You slept in a bit longer than I expected."

"And... how... big am I?" I gasped, this time knowing that it was my bountiful body causing my breathing problems. "I should... stop..."

"Oh, nonsense," Dee said. "You're only two-hundred pounds away from hitting your second millennium."

Two thousand pounds. A number that should have struck me as unreasonable, just as a billion had the night before. But now I had a billion dollars, almost two. What would two hundred more pounds be?

We had barely begun our feeding session, with Dee having to hoist my breasts to the side each time to reach my wanting mouth, when he snapped his fingers again. It seemed like only a few minutes later, my belly had only just stopped growling incessantly, when he snapped yet again. Then it couldn’t have been any more than a moment when he grinned at me. "Two-thousand pounds," he said, simply.

"And?"

"And ten billion dollars, lovely," he said, wiping bacon grease from my lips. I closed my eyes. What could I do with ten billion dollars? Anything I wanted, I suppose. Except go for a run. But why would I want to run, anymore?

"Each pound is worth around 50 million dollars, all on its own, dear," Dee continued, now laying across one breast with his entire body. I could almost feel him rising, my body continuing to plump up along with my bank account. No, it was my imagination; it had to be.

I needed more. More pounds meant more money. My thighs were permanently squashed against each other, my breasts a horizon constantly threatening to block my view of the world. The act of craning my neck to reach Dee's teasing fork caused all of the breath to leave my lungs.

More.

The banquet table was soon empty, my belly full and heavy on the ground. Most of it was supported by my rich carpets, now, until Dee propped it up and dove under, inserting his throbbing member into my slick, fat folds. How could he reach between my legs? My ass alone was the size of a Mini Cooper--when I instinctively tried to spread my legs to welcome him in, I found that my hips were already spread to their maximum, and still my packed thighs were pressed tightly together.

But Dee snapped two fingers and I orgasmed. More money. Snapped again. More weight. Snap. Snap. Snap. More more more more more.

A white heaven enveloped my eyes as they rolled into the back of my head, and I leaned back into my own fat, too happy, too fulfilled to care about anything. Somewhere, deep inside the cushion my mountain of a body was, I quivered and shook with orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, too pleased by Dee's thick cock and stroking hands and endless amounts of cash and fat.

"Do you mind if I stop snapping my fingers?" Dee asked me, and I rolled my head forward. There was pressure on my body, crawling up me. I looked to see a beautiful hunk of a man, his tightly-curled hair pulled back in a knot, his brown eyes laughing at me. His elbows and knees were digging into a light brown mountain that extended in front of me. Where were my breasts? "In another hour I'll have to stop pleasuring you to snap them every two minutes or so."

"Go ahead," I said, shaking my head, and realized it was easier to breathe. Dee laughed at me and reached out a hand to slap some of my flesh.

"I can only fight gravity so much, dear," he said in his deep voice. "Your beautiful, delicious, succulent, enormous breasts now rest on the floor, beside your belly."

"Oh, god," I said. It was all I could say, and it made Dee's eyes twinkle again.

"Do you want to know how big you are?" he asked.

"How big?"

He grinned wider. "Some would say too big, but I wouldn't."

"How big, Dee?"

Laughing like a schoolboy, he rolled across my belly and breasts to lay on his back, then rolled his head back to look at me. "Nearing 5k," he said, simply.

"Five... five thousand?" I said in shock. He winked.

"Want to know how much you're worth?" he asked.

God, yes. God, I wanted to know. God, I wanted to know why that five thousand had only made me more excited. "Yes."

"Well, see," he said, suddenly thoughtful, "it may be kind of meaningless to list it in dollar amounts, seeing as how you passed the global GDP about an hour ago..."

"How much, Dee?" I asked again, an anticipatory shudder going through my body, a plea-filled, almost erotic moan coming from my flabby lips.

"Around 69 quadrillion US dollars," he said. "Every pound you gain, which happens about once every five seconds, is another 27.5 trillion in your bank account, which is being used to fuel space flight programs, keep the struggling economy afloat and, ironically, feed millions of starving children."

I almost missed those last parts, as I was too busy shooting off with the mountain of cash, the positive Everest of money that was spread across the globe, all of it mine.

My eyes had to leave Dee's endlessly mirth-filled ones to cast about the room, and I saw, on the wall, a large picture of my family. My mom, dad, and sisters all looked the same: plump, happy, arm-in-arm, as they stood in front of my huge visage, which was hidden under a shaped, tightly-fitted velvet dress. Even there, sitting down, I was two feet taller than my dad. And I knew that I was bigger than that.

"Show me the candle," I said to Dee.

With a small sigh, he waved his hand, and a wax blob appeared floating in front of me. She, if it still had a gender, was truly a giant of a person. No longer standing, instead she sat, as I did, atop two ass cheeks the size of the sofa I had sat on the day before. Slabs of fat cascaded out from under her enormous, ponderous breasts, which rested to either side of her, both plump enough to rise to the height of a teenager, their cheerful nipples standing out in gold. Two little feet, both almost perfectly round from the juicy weight around them, poked out from soft tires of flesh that once may have been calves. Atop the two rounded cushions of leg slopped a belly as large as an SUV, its graceful curve resting on the floor in front, while it rose almost to the chin of the statue. Above her head were two hands, which arms flowed down from to cover her ears in almost liquid coverage. From between the folds of fat poked a face, firmly set in a pillow of flesh, her cheeks and chins and neck all indistinguishable, but her features still recognizable as mine.

And in my fat, waxen fingers, clutched a wick that was spurting and flowing wax down my body.

"Are you sure you want to stop?" asked a voice, a female one, and I looked up to see that the handsome, impish man had disappeared from my stomach, and instead a beautiful, sexy girl was perched there, her Minnesotan accent rounding out the vowels in her speech. She had delicious mocha skin, round, full breasts, luxuriously flowing hair, and a tight body with a butt that a quarter could bounce from and a stomach as flat as an ironing board. "You could have so much more," my thinner self said.

"What would be the point?" I asked, my fingers nervously kneading into my breasts. "How can I use all of this money? I don't know much about economics, but it seems, at this point, to be useless."

"It might be," Dee said, absent-mindedly running a finger down her naked collarbone, over a rounded, perfect breast. Although my breasts were also perfect. "But there's so much more you could be. Bigger houses, fancier clothes." She snapped her fingers and instantly I was clothed, my breasts pushed up onto my chest by a brassiere the size of a car, my doppelganger resting atop some material smooth and silky and expensive. "You could pay for expensive research to find out how to cure your bizarre, incurable disease." She ran her hand down to her hips, pushing into the flesh of her bottom. "You know, if you decide you don't like your current body."

"Disease?"

She shrugged. "Reality fixes itself, you know. I hardly have to try. I don't even know where that family portrait came from," she said, glancing at the picture on the wall. "Looks a bit out of date, though," she mused.

I shook my head, and realized that my bra was tight, that there was pressure around my hips, presumably from a skirt that was made to fit an inhumanly large waist. "Who are you, Dee? Are you the devil?"

Dee-Clara shrugged. "Maybe I inspired him. Who knows? What's important is: are you going to blow out the candle, or not?" Her eyes glimmered, her tongue licked her lips.

I looked at the wax Clara, at the gargantuan person I had become, made up in gold. More money than the world even knew what to do with. More money than I could even comprehend, anymore. Enough to do anything, whatever I wanted, provided I could get a person the size of a whale there.

Dee-Clara hummed to herself as she lay on her belly, swinging her feet in the air. We were lying stomach to stomach, I realized, and it made a sensation that was as delicious as the first time Dee had showered me in cash.

But maybe it was too much.

I looked at the flame and drew a breath, and saw a reflection of anticipation in the face Dee had borrowed.

And the wax figure in front of me continued to smile benignly. She looked so satisfied.

I hesitated.