The bowl was empty, its contents dumped entirely onto the brick, a soggy white puddle hovering over the brown structure like settling cement. The aim of the project has been completed, we created an edible object capable of performing complete cellular replication, needless to say that room full of sweat-drenched intellectuals were looking at the solution to the world's hunger problem.

Snorts and belches slipped freely from her face between fleeting moments for air; survival instincts becoming secondary targets to her desire for more gratification. What didn't find its way to her meat grinder mouth smeared itself wildly in any supplemental direction; whether it was her face, hair, chest, or flying all the way to the floor. It wasn't her fault food tasted so good, it wasn't fair that she had no parents or hot boyfriends (or even just friends) to care enough and stop her. Operating this body was like towing a tank with a crane, swaying and stumbling with no equilibrium, exhibiting all the grace of a drunk camel.As she opened the door, Chloe was stopped in her tracks by the faintest of odours, a smell so secret only a trained fatty's nose could detect.

Chloe's weighted breaths turned to tight wheezes, the product of either an emerging panic attack or overall physical exhaustion. Her eyes were drawn to the wardrobe, snickering at the thought of what tarps Zoe would think qualifies as clothes. Tastes of rich cocoa and cream kept finding their way through her lips; the bliss she felt the first time repeated over and over as she swallowed as quickly as she could to make way for another.Her legs were saddled with lumpy, thick cellulite, spanning from her cylindrical cankles to her swollen ass cheeks. Babe scooch over, you’re suffocating me…”She wiggled from left to right, the weight clinging onto her like a magnet. Rearing such a prodigious child, though their parents would never say, diverted some attention away from Chloe’s double. The minutes soon turned into hours, and Chloe didn't even notice how she had hoovered up everything on her plates until her fork finally screeched on bare ceramic pottery.

Both the weight of which and her atrophied strength wedged in a seated position, leaving no room to flee from the verbal beration coming her way. Her bingo-wing biceps rounded out her spherical shape, rendering her akin to a muffin overstuffed with dough. Just laze about in the comfiest chair ever, eating anything she wants, not having to ever worry about waking up early? There has been an increasing amount of instances where death fetishers have been describing their crazed fanstasies regarding Fusa's characters. This was partly true, considering the 1 3⁄4 pizzas currently residing in the bottomless pit of her gut.Only recently had she lost the last semblance of her neck, a stark reminder of the extent of her gain and its unrelenting speed.