The office was humid in the New York summer heat even as Roxanne Carter finished typing the last of the day’s invoices into the IBM selectric typewriter and sat back to smoke a cigarette as the type-ball danced across the page, furiously spinning to catch up with her expert keystrokes. She Exhaled a sigh and closed her eyes, doing her best to let the mechanism of the typewriter tune out the city noise from the open window.
She wore a high neck white blouse and a black polyester jacket in defiance of the heat and a black pencil skirt that reached nearly to her knees showing a significant length of nylon dark legs which contrasted her pale complexion. Her hair dark, mahogany-brown hair was up off her collar, but with enough curls and folds that she couldn’t be accused of looking unprofessional and her long false-lashes fluttered under darkly painted eyelids as she pulled another drag of her cigarette through her satin stained lips.
As if on cue the typewriter dinged to a halt and the door to her employer’s office swung open as two blocky, blunt men in boxy brown suits stepped out, talking loudly and clapping each other on the shoulder. The blunter and boxier of the two was Ronald J Sutherland: One of New York’s top publishers and her employer.
“It’s been swell, Bill. Just swell.” He repeated as he pumped the other man’s hand. His deep voice contrasted with the Mid-Atlantic accent he insisted putting on for clients. “Now, you don’t hesitate to come in or call us if you have any trouble. But I’ll warn you: Roxie here has a voice so sweet you won’t want to talk to me if you ever give us a ring.”
His heavy slab of a hand clamped down on her shoulder and she felt her skin crawl as the calloused palm pressed the fabric of her blouse against ther dewy back and into her clavicle. Had she been standing she had no doubt that she’d have instead received a swat on the behind and her fingers tightened around the smoldering butt of her cigarette at his hypothetical indiscretion. He smiled down at her but his face darkened as he noticed the pile of magazines at her feet and his fingers tightened around her collar bone.
“Well, I’ll be sure to take you up on that, Ron.” Bill spoke to Sutherland but his eyes traveled up and down Roxanne’s torso. As he mopped sweat from his brow Roxanne was thankful for the high necked top, despite the heat. Ron and Bill exchanged a last round of pleasantries before Bill saw himself out. For a beat after the door closed Ronald stood with his back to Roxanne, hands in his pockets. When he turned it was slowly, with the cool confidence of an experienced salesman and an easygoing smile on his face.
“What have you got under your desk there, Roxie.”
She smiled back at him, pulling her lips tight and doing her best not to seem combative. “Just some reading material. You know how slow it gets.”
“Oh! ‘Reading material?’” He sidled up to her desk and sat down on the corner. “Well, we are a publishing company. We can’t rightfully be opposed to literature, can we?” He leaned over, snatching the magazines from the floor “Let's see here.” He thumbed through the pile. “‘Science-fiction monthly,’ “Tales of Terror,’ ‘Astounding Stories of the Otherworldly, featuring the brand new creature feature by James S. Grant’” his eyebrows raised in mock interest at that and he looked up at Roxanne who blushed. “Well, let’s have a look.” He pawed through the pages until he’d reached Grant’s story, selected a paragraph at random and began reading.
As I entered the lab two things became immediately apparent. One: that the lights had been broken and that despite my attempts to turn them on the room would remain in eerie darkness. And two: That whatever had broken them had also escaped from the mangled cage that lay broken in the corner, bars wrent apart by some creature of inhuman strength and size.
Roxie this is garbage.” He scoffed as he tossed the magazine’s in the waste bin. He plucked her cigarette from her hand and drop it on top of the crumpled papers and turned back to her as they began to smolder. “We’re a publishing company. What are our clients going to think if we have this pulp crap lying around. A woman your age has no business reading this” Her lips tightened but she didn’t respond nor did she break eye contact. He sighed and pushed a lock of sweat-damped hair off of his forehead. “Roxie, you’re a good-looking kid, but I need you to take this job seriously. A lot of girls would be paying me to be sitting where you are.” He got up from her desk and crossed over to his office. “Go home, get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, but for god sakes, no more of that trash in the office, okay?”
He didn’t wait for a response, slamming the door behind him and leaving her alone in the waiting area. As soon as he was gone, Roxanne snatched the magazines from the garbage and brushed off the cigarette ash from the pages as best she could. She examined them for damage on her walk home. Much to her chagrin, she discovered that the cigarette had landed directly in between the pages containing James Grant’s new story. She clucked her tongue in disapproval realizing that she’d have to pick up a new copy from the vendor tomorrow. This time she’d hide it in her bag until Ronald was out of the office.
She reached her building in record time. Walking quickly to avoid the leering of men on the street of the teasing of boys on their way home from school. New York was a mean city, but if one kept their chin up and didn’t allow themselves to become embittered, it could be the kind of place that let a woman shape her own destiny… at least she hoped so. She entered the lobby and greeted Fritz, the doorman cordially asking if he had any mail for her. He nodded, handing her a pile of personal letters.
“I don’t know what a young lady like you does to get so much mail.” The old man said bemused, smiling a kind smile with too few teeth.
“A lady has her secrets, Fritz. You know that.” She offered him a good-natured smile in return as she turned to leave.
“Oh! One last thing, Ms. Carter.” He said, reaching under the counter and producing a parcel, slightly smaller than a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with old-fashioned wax string. “Package came for you too.”
Her smile widened as she took it from him and she tipped him before rushing to the elevator and heading up to her room. Her apartment was small, only a single room, but relatively modern with an interior bathroom and a private phone line. She set the parcel on her table opening up some of the letters as she pulled off her shoes. On the outside of the letters was her name: Roxanne Carter, and the return address of her agent in queens, but inside, each of the letters was addressed to “James S. Grant” the legendary horror author, known to children all across the United States.
The letters were different levels of legible. Some done in crayon by kids likely too young to be reading her stories. These were mostly praise for her previous work or demands that that child's personal favorite monster feature in an upcoming story, but others were written in the careful graphite penmanship of teenagers who had more specific questions. These inquiries tended to want advise on how to become a writer or questions on where “James Grant” drew his inspiration from. Roxanne made an effort to respond to all of her fan mail, but these she paid special attention to.
Ronald Sotherland had been right about one thing. Her stories did mostly appeal to kids, but she was writing the things that she wanted to write and she had a copy of each and every magazine that her work appeared in carefully preserved in a shoebox under her bed. It had been that very habit that had led to the add for the mail-order “Miracle-Drug” which now sat in the paper-wrapped parcel on her kitchen table. She eyed the package incredulously.
Every pulp book had its share of ads. They were mostly aimed at children as a way of relieving them of their pocket change. Promises of “X-Ray specks” and “real-life hover-crafts” painted the pages between stories in bright colors printed at greater expense than the monochrome stories and illustrations that the children purchased the comics to read. Roxanne knew better than to pay them any mind, but one such ad had cut through her defenses, and despite her better judgment she found herself filling an envelope with a portion of her hard earned pay-check and mailing it to Ankeny Iowa in return for the promise of “Doctor Floyds Fattening Wonder-Drug”
The claim had been absurd. “Prank your friends!” It said in bold yellow letters. “One tablet instantly adds 100 pounds to anyone’s figure for up to one hour, risk-free!!!” It had been the illustration that sold her. A cartoon woman stood in a pinup position wearing nothing but a slip. Her hands on her hips and with a sultry look in her eyes. A cartoon arrow next to her indicated progression and pointed to a cartoon of what was presumably the same woman, now with a cartoon Olive-Oil expression as she stared down in shock at a scale. Her slip now rode up to expose a large round belly, capped with an “X” where her navel should be. The cartoon was crass, obviously designed to entertain rather than to titillate, but Roxanne felt a stirring in the lower part of her tummy as she stared at the picture.
She wasn’t sure when she’d first fantasized about being fat, but it was at least as long as she had lived in the city. She couldn’t place it. Part of her rationalized that the leering and prodding of men like her boss might have contributed to her desire, but it was also more personal than that. There was something appealing about the idea of sitting at home and writing, not caring how much she ate or what anyone thought of her. Just letting her body expand and grow softer in a way that excited her, rather than some man on the street. Perhaps it was about control, or maybe a lack of it. The fantasies paradoxical nature made it no less alluring.
On nights when she wasn’t writing stories for her magazines she occasionally wrote stories for herself about women blowing up too ridiculous sizes and being burdened with billowing bellies that sagged in front of their thighs and plump behinds, far in excess of what most women could possibly want.
“Doctor Floyds Fattening Wonder-Drug” had felt targeted at her personally, and feeling silly and superstitious, she’d ordered it and now it sat on her kitchen table.
Carefully, she unwrapped the package. The box was made of cheap cardboard and had no branding. She opened it to reveal a small paper envelope and a folded piece of cardstock. She looked at the cardstock first.
Doctor Floyds Fattening Wonder-Drug
Step 1: Let tablets dissolve in any drinkable liquid. Each table will add aprox. 100lbs of fat instantly to your victim’s body.
Step 2: Give your concoction to your victim. For the full effect, make sure they drink the entire concoction.
Step 3: Watch as your victim swells to incredible size!!! Effects should last up to one hour so take pictures if you can!
She poured the contents of the paper envelope into her hand. There were five pills. It hardly seemed worth the three dollars she’d sent it, but the instructions seemed simple enough. She pulled a pitcher of sweet tea from her refrigerator and poured herself a glass. Taking a single pill and dropping it into the water with a quiet “plop”.
One hundred pounds would be more than enough to match her fantasies and she didn’t want to waste all of the pills at once. She watched as the tiny white disk turned to powder and then faded away to nothing before lifting the glass. She sniffed, cautiously at the rim. It was possible that whatever this actually was might make her sick, but then again, it was more likely that nothing would happen at all, and if she poured out the glass she’d always have that hint of curiosity gnawing at the back of her neck.
With a shrug she tilted her head back and downed the contents of the glass. She coughed as she set it on the table. She doubted that any “victim” could be persuaded to drink the entire thing. The sweet tea had been corrupted with an obvious chalky flavor that left her throat feeling dry despite the drink. She looked down at her blouse. No obvious sign of growth. She pawed at her stomach and then at her chest. Nothing.
“Instant my ass.” She mumbled to herself. She coughed, her throat and mouth feeling coated in whatever the pill had been made of. She turned to the fridge, pulling the door open and bending down to retrieve the pitcher, in hopes that another glass of sweet tea would rinse the chalky flavor from her mouth. As she leaned forward to grab the handle she heard a loud rip that could only be rending fabric and a distinct draft up the back of her pencil skirt. Her eyes widened and she stood, motionless, her torso halfway inside the refrigerator.
Had her skirt been tight enough to tear this morning? Sure, bending over was a risky venture with any of the close-fitting clothing that Ronald demanded she wear, but the timing did seem convenient. It was then that she noticed that despite her body being halfway into her fridge she was feeling remarkably warm. In fact, that warmth was only increasing the longer she stayed still. The ripping started again. And she let go of the pitcher as she pulled herself into a standing position and closed the door. Now her legs were beginning to feel constricted in her stockings and as she stood she began to feel a fullness in her belly accompanying the warmth as if she had just eaten a large, hot meal.
The skirt ripped again this time all the way up the back and she yelped as she felt her behind expand outward into the open air of the apartment. She grabbed at it with both hands, her fingers sinking into warm soft, dimpled, flesh. Her stockings, which were developing runs began to roll down her legs as they retreated from the expanding flesh of her legs. Her skirt was in tatters but the elastic waist around her middle held fast even as her stomach expanded.
She did her best to tugged at it in an attempt to pull it away from her rapidly fattening belly, but it refused to come away from her skin. Finally she shoved it down but underestimated the width of her hips. Her fattened behind was substantially wider than her waist, even with her belly quickly beginning to sag in front of her in a full-fledged gut. She attempted to pull the skirt-waist back over her belly, but it now hung over the offending fabric refused to slide over the dome of fat that was forming on her middle.
Roxanne was too worried about being cut in half to be titillated by her expansion and she was still so damn hot. She stretched to remove her jacket, pulling the sleeves off of increasingly pillowy arms. It slid free without incident, but the act of pulling her arms back thrust out her chest and buttons burst from her blouse in syncopated succession as Roxanne’s once modest breasts expanded into the titties of a fat woman. Her body changed before her eyes, burning in the already sultry summer heat. Each breath burst another button from her blouse until her fattened belly hung freely in front of her and her breasts overflowed her bra.
The pressure around her hips was growing extreme until finally her skirt waist exploded off of her with a loud pop that sent her sprawling backward against her kitchen counter. Her breasts pressed up toward her face and she reached behind her to unhook her bra but the hooks were nearly out of reach and much tighter than she’d remembered. It occurred to her that she hadn’t acted fast enough. She was going to have to let her fattening body burst out of all of her clothing.
Even now her arms began to shred the sleeves of her blouse and her panties stretched to their limit. In the end the hooks gave in first and her bra collapsed, exasued under the weight of breasts twice the size of what they’d been a moment before. She took in several heaving gasps as she stood naked in her kitchen and took inventory of her body.
It wasn’t just her breasts. All of her had doubled in size. Her belly was now round and hung down near her crotch. She thought her panties had survived, but reaching under her gut she found their shredded remains held in place between her fattened pubic mound and her lower belly.
She pushed herself up off the counter, adjusting to her new center of balance even as the momentum of her wobbling hips threatened to pull her over. Her ass had expanded the most, her hips now easily eclipsing her shoulder and the soft, dimpled flesh of her behind wobbled even as she adjusted her position. Her belly was also significant, hiding the view of her feet, and rising and falling with each breath, pushing her heavy breasts towards her chin.
She was still uncomfortably warm as she took in breath after, excited breath. She wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, excitement or simply a side effect of her new girth that she couldn’t control her breathing. She grabbed at her belly, shaking it up and down and letting the movement ripple through her. Was one hundred pounds enough to make her this big. The fullness in her stomach was still there, but more faint than before and she realized with fascination that she was still growing, abit much more slowly.
She hurried to the bathroom, noting the way her thighs rubbed together and stepped on the scale eager to check her new weight. To her surprise the numbers were completely obscured. And she stepped off, noting the way her behind bounced even with the small change in elevation.
“I’m fat.” She said aloud as she caressed her larger breasts making her nipples, which had gone from the size of peas to nubs nearly as thick as her thumb, stand erect against her proportionally widened areolas. She smiled, despite herself as she played with herself more. She ran from the bathroom as quick as her chubby legs would carry her, shedding the last shreds of her clothing as she ran to her bed. She reached into her mattress and retrieved a sheaf of papers and began pawing through them even as her free hand reached under her belly.
These were her private stories. Many a quiet night she’d spent reading them and touching herself to her secret fantasies. She thumbed through them, page after page as she looked for the right one to break in her new body. There was the one about the woman who’s suitor fattens her against her will and the one about the girl cursed to eat whatever food she saw, but none of them appealed to her tonight. Even when looking over her favorites her mind wandered to what her boss might say if her saw her, what her friends might think. Soon she was furiously rubbing and prodding herself, on hand between her legs the other grabbing at her tummy, fingers sinking into the soft warm fat which even now expanded before her eyes.
She thought of herself, sitting at home, bare-chested in front of a typewriter, churning out story after story as she dug into boxes of pastries and sweets. She was still getting fatter. It had to be more than a hundred pounds by now, but she didn’t have time to worry about that. She was well aware of her time limit and she was going to make the most of her expanded state while she could.
Finally, she climaxed. There was no distinct fantasy or scenario in mind, just her eyes glued to her wobbling tits and tummy even as the throws of her pleasure tried to force her neck back. She had to look. Had to see the way her body moved and jiggled out of her control. She wanted to see just how fat she had become, but as she reached her crescendo and her head pressed back against the pillow she felt her toes curl and her body tense before going limp and melting into a puddle of her own pleasure, uncovered on the bedsheets.
She woke the next morning to the sun streaming through her window. She blinked, in the light, eyes bleary and She raised an arm to shield her eyes and immediately something felt wrong. She shifted, noting the way her body seemed to move with her, carried by its own inertia.
Oh yeah, I’m fat now. She thought to herself, contentedly. I’m… still fat? She jumped to her feet, nearly carrying herself over due to her own momentum and stood, jiggling and huge in the light of day. Worse, she was even bigger than the night before. The sense of warmth and fullness was gone and she was reasonably sure she was no longer growing but now her tits hung on her belly, nearly larger than her head and her hanging belly slapped against her thighs.
What time was it? She rushed to her alarm clock, which she’d neglected to set the night prior and saw that it was already past one in the afternoon. It had been well over an hour. It had been well over twelve hours! She was late for work. She ran to the phone, grabbing it from the receiver and dialing her office. Ron picked up on the eighth ring.
“Hello, who is this?” He asked, his voice obviously barely constraining fury.
“Hello, Ron? It’s Roxanne. I… I just woke up. Something is wrong. I think I need to see a doctor.”
“Roxy? Christ kid, you could have called me four hours ago. You’re lucky I don’t fire you right now. Will you be in tomorrow?”
She looked down at her body, still jiggling from her mad dash to the phone. “Yes?”
“Good. See you tomorrow, Roxy.” The line went dead. Despite her fear and confusion, Roxanne was suddenly overcome with the urge to throw the handset across the room, but instead let it drop and hang by its cord. She had to figure this out, see a doctor; do something. She wanted to rush. Wanted to run and find a solution, but what could she do? She walked into her bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her angular face turned chubby and her naked breasts and belly on full display. Was this supposed to be her now?
She couldn’t go back to the office like this? She had no allusions of the fact that her job was at least partially dependant on her looks. If Ron saw her like this he’d fire her on the spot and there was no way she could make enough just selling her stories to survive. Dear god, what if she was stuck like this? What would she do? Who could she turn to for help.
That was when a thought occurred to her.. She waddled over to her bed and with some effort leaned over and retrieved the shoebox from underneath. She pulled it and flipped through the magazines until she’d found the issue she was looking for and the ad for Doctor Floyds Fattening Wonder-Drug. She brought the magazine to her phone and dialed the number listed in red block numerals.
“Hello, Ankeny Wonder Products. How can I help you?” It was a male voice, young and a bit nasally
“Uh… hello. Do you folks make…” She gulped, feeling silly saying the name out loud. “‘Doctor Floyds Fattening Wonder-Drug’”
“We don’t offer refunds.” the voice said.
“No, it’s not that. It worked fine it’s just…” she sucked in a his from her teeth. “Have you ever heard of the effects… not being temporary.”
There was a brief silence on the line. “Christ. Not again. There have been a few cases of allergic reactions. Did they only take one pill?” His voice sounded urgent.
“Why, what happens if they only took one pill?”
“What happens is they go back to normal in a few weeks.” Roxanne felt her heart leap into her throat. She couldn’t stay like this for a few weeks. She’d fantasized about being a fat woman, but she couldn’t actually be one! “If they took more than one it’s harder to say, but none of those cases have slimmed down yet. They might be fat forever. So, I’m going to ask you again. Did you take more than one pill? If so, Ankeny Wonder Products would very much like to settle this out of court.”
Roxanne cocked her head. “What do you mean.”
“What I mean is if you’re willing not to bankrupt us we can ensure that you live very comfortably… if you took more than one pill.”
Suddenly the fantasy of Roxanne, hugely fat and dining on pastries as she wrote her next creature feature flashed through her head again. She looked at the envelope sitting on her kitchen counter, four pills scattered around it and a smile spread across her face.
“I took all five.” She said confidently. “Let me tell you where you can send the check.”