Undertaker33
patreon
Bloat Therapy
🕑 Added 2021-01-28 03:09:48 +0000 UTCIt had been four days since Jing ‘Pandora’ Min had slept. There was no hope for it. She’d done it to herself, and now she had to live with the consequences.
Despite all of the pillows in the Phi Alpha Tau sorority house, despite all the fluff that could be packed into Fulsome Academy, she was never going to be able to sleep without the comfort she’d let herself get hooked on.
The sweet, soothing tune that carried her to sleep. The playful voice of a girl, the sight of her pale skin that was as bright as the moon… where it wasn’t marked by meteoric stretchmarks… Tight, little, pink and gray scars, the evidence of her heavy gain and heavier indulgences, giggling so hard that she’d devolve into snorts while playing some cursed video game until four in the spirit-drained morning.
Pandora groaned. It took some effort to pull herself out of bed, being the size and shape of a minor moon herself, but she managed to plod over to her dresser. Her work shirt, now serving as a XXL bed shirt due to several tears, was growing beyond ‘comfortably tight.’ She’d had eaten too much in her boredom and sleeplessness, unable to remember exactly how much.
The litter of wrappers marked as Chubby Debbie’s double-oatmeal, triple-cream pies gave her an idea, but they couldn’t be accurately counted due to the trail that led out of the room. Three empty boxes hinted that the number might be about thirty-six. The number sounded more like her roommate than it did Pandora, but maybe her tummy was trying to fill in for the big girl’s absence.
In the mirror, Pandora saw the large, tired circles filling out her soft face, her sharp eyes blinking wearily. She wore a bright blue shirt with the words ‘Pandora’s Garden’ inscribed in calligraphic text. The flowing words, as well as the flowered designs on each side, were supposed to look enticing and exotic. You were meant to look at the insignia and go ‘I wonder what that place is? I should check it out! Ooo, a massage parlor?!’
You were not supposed to look at it and think ‘I thought Asian girls were supposed to be flat, not fat!’
Pandora’s finger lifted to the tears her chest had pulled in her shirt, poking the meaty breasts that strained the rips with every breath. It was cotton fabric, meant to be durable and to last while also feeling soft to the touch, though now the softest thing that she wore was her own swollen chest.
Well, that wasn’t true. But Pandora’s shirts weren’t being destroyed by her tummy. Namely because, they didn’t fit over her stomach.
Full, heavy, round, Pandora’s stomach would stretch out her sorority shirts if she tried to wiggle into one right now. She looked about as stuffed as she felt, packed with enough cream to be her own over-stuffed dessert, with her wide belly button pulled into a neigh vertical. The swell of her belly hung over the top of her pair of the Phi Alpha Tau sorority yoga pants, tugging them down around the top of her butt. She turned, looking herself over in profile, and was impressed by the size of her thighs.
It looked like she was gaining more in her lower body lately, especially since she’d sailed past the halfway point of her Sophomore-sixty. Only then did Pandora notice the color combination on her stretched leggings, red on black, and it made her groan with exhaustion. She had to lean on her dresser to keep her balance, her desperate muscles trying to communicate with her brain and tell her ‘Go back to bed!’
Pandora did not want to get up for the day.
She wanted to listen to that dumb fatass and her stupid, cute, voice. To watch her stupid, cute face, and finally let herself fall asleep to the sound of piggy laughter and wake up to the sound of a speaker-shaking belch.
But that wasn’t really an option now. Not unless she was going to go into her roommate's bedroom, perch herself on that well-worn love seat, and play whatever the hell that dumb kickboxer played. There were still seven bottles of soda in the fridge…
No. She couldn't. Soda wasn’t good for Pandora. It restricted the flow of energies throughout the body, diminishing alertness and inspiring a wandering mind. Not that cream pies seemed to be doing the young girl much better…
If Pandora stayed another sleepless night wandering around their empty dorm room, the negative energy would start to seep into the walls. Then she would have to replace them, again, and it’d be even worse this time. The other sisters had already revoked her sledgehammer privileges, so she’d be stuck using a normal hammer, and Panda had already let herself get so out of…
Pandora blinked, before very slowly looking up into her reflection, and glaring at the girl in the mirror.
Slouching, sleepy, fat, the winter season was turning Pandora a ghostly pale. Faint skin that was beginning to look like a hospital bedsheet, tightly pulled over a belly so stuffed that she was missing the tiny indents of her forming love handles. Her F A T pants, which she was increasingly coming to terms with needing to be upgraded, were forced down another inch by an elongated breath.
The shadows of her eyes, the darkness of her hair, Pandora had a perfect silhouette for her overfed body, making ‘Pandora’ into ‘Panda.’
‘Panda’ was something the Sigmas had started calling her first. During her Freshman forty, when her belly had gone from non-existent to always relevant, they had thought that it would be something scathing and embarrassing. A dig at her Chinese heritage, as the bitchiest white girls are usually the most unimaginative.
The Phi Alpha Taus had a way of wearing their insults with pride, hence the sorority-clothing being covered with FAT rather than the Greek-accurate, PAT. Though, to be fair, Pandora would much rather be labeled as FATrather than someone taking PAT as a term of instruction…
It was getting to be too often that Pandora considered herself ‘Panda,’ though. That was a nickname her father wouldn’t be pleased with. He didn’t even like Pandora, despite his daughter proving that ‘Pandora’s Garden’ was a far more marketable name for a massage parlor than his proposed, ‘Jing’s Jungle.’
Speaking of which…
Pandora stopped glaring at the Panda in her mirror, though she was more aware than ever by the swing of her tummy and the war of her thighs as she waddled to her phone.
The young woman clicked her phone screen, then scrolled past the sixty-three notifications that were all variations of ‘Hey, are you offering massages today?’ to find it was two in the afternoon. They’d still be serving the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet at FAT Girls’ Breakfast, a nearby establishment that really leaned into their proximity to the Phi Alpha Tau house. They wouldn’t stop serving breakfast for another six hours, at eight in the evening, when they would finally begin serving lunch and dinner..
Pandora was really, really not looking forward to returning to a world which didn’t run on FAT Girls’ time.
Her mind properly wandering, Pandora set about affixing her hair into its usual twin tails. She tied them high on rear of her scalp, one on either side so that her hair would only come to her shoulders, then secured them with a pair of red ties that were a gift from her father. Checking herself over, she then left her bedroom, stepping over the grisly remains of her belly’s needs.
Walking like a girl nearly twice her size, Pandora glowered through her daily slew of notifications as she lumbered through her communal living room. She had personally shrunk the space from an extravagant void to a much more intimate area. Her and her roommate had moved most of the supplies into the corner, forming well-stocked, if small, entertainment center. A Fulsome Reinforced couch, a single Fulsome Reinforced loveseat (her roommate had stolen the other one to use as a gaming chair / bed back at her home), and had their 120-inch TV mounted on the wall.
The rest of the living space, a few hundred square feet, had been transformed into Pandora’s temporary massage parlor. Four beds, four chairs, two deep clean bathes behind Japanese-styled curtains, and six mini-fridges for the hungry clientele. A hanging sign promoted the parlor as ‘Pandora’s Garden: Release all your bad energy and keep only the good.’
Most people at Fulsome Academy for Young Women were in because of their connections. Mommy the Congresswoman, Daddy the Prince. People who were coming from green, and who were going somewhere greener. The Academy was famously restrictive for admittance, and didn’t even have a registrar’s office to read through applications. There wasn’t any dancing around the bush, no attempts at to have a refined public image, the school offered zero economic-based scholarships. You could either buy yourself in, or you could earn your way by being exceptionally talented.
Pandora had earned her way.
Twenty-five years old, Pandora was likely the most knowledgeable masseuse in the United States. She combined Western medical techniques, such as anatomical studies and the facts of the body, along with Eastern techniques, such as the study of energies and the meaning of spirit. Then, the young woman had taken the next step forward, demonstrating this mastery by manipulating the color of her own eyes, changing the iris from a common brown to a unique violet solely by focusing these internal energies.
Pandora had recently added a few ‘Fulsome techniques’ to her repertoire. Yoga, for any girls that actually had fitting yoga pants, helped to keep their muscles limber and their spirits malleable. Usually, though, it just meant she’d keep their bellies full. A happy tummy is much easier to rub.
Most of her professors assured her that her practices were, at best, placebo. A back rub can't improve your breathing and lung health. Shiatsu doesn't help your grades. Foot rubs don't improve your track times, acupuncture can't cure addictions, and you sure as hell can’t change your own eye color just by achieving and maintaining an internal energetic balance. It was all pseudoscience, after all.
Unfortunately, this meant Pandora had to focus on achieving a Physical Therapy degree, as Fulsome didn’t yet offer a Pseudoscientist program, and probably wouldn’t until Pandora graduated with high honors.
There was a lot of truth in the old saying, ‘The body is like a garden, and your masseuse is the gardener.’ Pulling out weeds, feeding the healthy flowers, Pandora did her job well, and it showed in just how much the fat ladies bloomed.
Today, Pandora wanted to go through each and every message and tell each girl to go jump off a cliff.
She didn’t, naturally. There weren’t very many cliffs in Wisconsin Valley, Wisconsin, but should someone find one… Well, either the snow would break their fall, or they’d split open the planet by landing on their ass. Pandora couldn’t be sure, but given the size of some of these girls, she had decided it was better not to chance it.
The mood wasn’t there. The touch wasn’t there. Pandora knew that she needed sleep, or she would never be able to properly redirect the flow of her clientele’s energy. She could feel herself losing the control her own body, made clear as her violet eyes faded back into their icky mud brown.
She went to the front door. She put on her shoes, put on her coat, closed her eyes…
And woke up on her couch after what felt like three seconds later, a massive two liter lifted up in the air and sugary soda spilling down to her throat.
Pandora fumbled the bottle, nearly losing her grip, before accidentally squeezing it and sending even more soda streaming into her mouth.
“Ppppffffft!” she sprayed the soda over her shirt, cupping the bottle so more didn’t spill onto her neck. She tasted the rootbeer before she even noticed the label, and then the fat Panda noticed the pain.
A moan and a groan, her swollen stomach flexed against her grasping hand. She tried to roll, but there was too much tummy holding her down, and Pandora felt her eyes kick back as a rumbling throb shook out of her center, followed by a deafening belch.
Pandora nearly dropped the two-liter onto the living room floor. Her tummy hurt so badly, but she couldn’t move, could barely grunt as another bout of pain hit when she breathed.
“Oooogggghhh,” she gripped her tummy, feeling that it didn’t have an ounce of give. She was as tight as a drum, her stomach burbling like a frothing volcano. Heat and gas were rolling inside, forcing Pandora to swallow it back. Negative energy swirled around her stomach, washing through her veins. Pandora felt as if she were about to burst.
She feared that she might, as another bubble twisted up from her stomach and compelled the bloated girl let herself burp. Pandora tried shifting, tried sitting up, and felt the crinkles of wrappers shifting beneath her.
Her shirt had been torn further, now resembling a tight button-down with huge gaps between, while her snowy white belly was now an angry pink. It howled, gurgled, growled and sloshed, with Pandora’s small movements shifting the mixture of sodium and calories round and round like a bartender with a fattening drink.
Pandora couldn’t see her toes as her legs kicked, couldn’t twist to fall off the couch with her weighty tummy holding her into the divot. She was trapped, rumbling and gasping as fresh stretchmarks glistened against her pink swell, still trying to figure out what the hell happened.
“H-heeelp,” she moaned to no one. She dropped the soda, hearing the carbonation spilling onto the floor, but she didn’t care. Pandora’s stomach was about to burst open, the throbbing distress holding her down.
Her hands latched onto her middle, straining to reach all the way to her belly button. Fingers flexed, rolled. Flexed, rolled, pushing in towards her navel, and out towards her sides.
She was covered head to toe with sweat from exertion, soaking her eyelashes with the dribbling heat. She couldn’t tell the state of her pants, but Pandora felt as if she we wearing nothing at all, trying to lift her legs but pinned down at the thighs by her titanic tummy.
Another belch followed by Pandora’s head sagging to the right, where she saw something that made her feel three times worse. Two empty two-liters, still wet with their cargo, were perched on the coffee table. Behind them, on the TV, Pandora saw that she’d pulled up the Twitch stream.
‘FATNora is live!’
Her stomach rumbled and Pandora leanded back, covering her mouth before burping into her hands. She could feel herself tugging on her twintailed hair and tried again to adjust, leaning up as high as she could.
Three inches was enough to free her trapped hair, but Pandora sank back with another painful quiver before moaning, “N-N-Nora…”
“Hello? Hello hello? Is this thing one?”
The Twitch steam snapped to a full screened background that featured of a chibi version of Pandora’s roommate, her best friend, and her muse, FATNora chugging from a two-liter of soda with the words underneath, SUGAR RUSH INCOMING!
“There we go! Hey there! How are yooooou?” the TV’s speaker rumbled. Pandora’s gut rumbled painfully as butterflies fought with cream pies and soda for any room they could find. “Hello, hello, it’s good to see you.”
Pandora groaned, crossing her eyes as another tremor shook through her, seething for air. She could feel her heartrate, overworked and under-exercised, berating her for eating and drinking so much like the fatass Panda she’d allowed herself to become.
She heard Nora’s voice again, the big butterball who had become Pandora’s necessity over the last two years. She could hardly believe that she was here, that she was talking, and found herself blinking again and again as tiredness came.
But it wasn’t enough. Pandora wanted to see her best friend.
Her left hand clamped on the couch backboard, seized into the cushion, and Pandora forced herself to sit up. Several more threads snapped in her shirt, tearing down the middle while Pandora felt the pressure squeezed by her ribs flex outwards to fully exposing the weight of her chest. She then had to open her legs for her belly to have room to fall between her smooth thighs.
She had taken off her pants. What the hell happened? She was leaving to go get breakfast. Now she’s surrounded by an extra fifteen wrappers and nearly three two-liter bottles? It was too much. Even a fat girl couldn’t stomach so…
“Hoooogh,” Pandora groaned, twisting to look at the TV. She snatched the remote, slowly navigating to the chat window before she realized they were spamming what she already wanted to say.
Four thousand voices, almost all of them shouting for ‘Camera!!!’
“Good to see you,” Nora was still saying. “Yeah, I had to take a few days off because I’m back home in New Jersey right now with my roommate, Ashley. I was helping her with a gift for her mom. Yup, mhmm. Her mom’s a bit… aheh, plus-sized, so she asked me to help her pick out some nice underwear.”
There was a slight pause in which Pandora stared at the TV. The chibi chugger seemed to switch, become a full-bodied fatass. Nora’s moon-colored skin and her moon-shaped hips, full and round and covered with ham. The chibi girl bounced up and down, finishing her two-liter before tossing it over her head. Nora’s flabby arms then lifted into the air, the avatar shaking her quivering hips back and forth while her bloated belly jiggled, and the fat girl burped.
“You guys want the camera?” Nora asked, bringing Pandora out of her bubbly haze. The chibi chugger kept drinking. Nora’s stupid, cute face. “No no, not today,” she continued. “I actually got a pair of underwear and I’m just hanging out and… Did I kiss her? No,” Nora laughed. “Why would I kiss her?”
The butterflies were drowning un the fire that was Pandora’s stomach. She lifted her feet, each one thudding on top of the coffee table and kicking the empty bottles astray. The motion caused the butterflies to burn, heating the soda and sending bubbles tumbling up to Pandora’s mouth. She burped so loud that she was able to almost pretend she didn’t hear what came next.
“I’m straight, doofies.”
Almost.
Fuck. She said doofies. Fuck, fuck, fuck why the fuck did that fat-assed witch have to be so fucking… cute!
Pandora tried breathing deeper, but a bright hiccup then caused her belly to flex out another swollen inch. She couldn’t focus her energy at all, but the rolling emotion turned to gush as a heavy sigh came from here speakers followed by, “Alright fine! Here.”
The lower right corner of the SUGAR RUSH screen popped up to show Nora’s stupid fat, stupid cute, face. It showed her soft pale skin, her bright green eyes, and that loving curve where her porky chin came to her naked shoulders.
She was closer to the camera than normal, too close, though when she sagged back into her chair, it revealed that she was disappointingly not entirely naked.
“Gonna get me banned!” Nora complained. “Some day! I’ll turn that camera on, and you’re gonna just see white! And then you’re gonna wonder, ‘Why did Nora get banned?’”
She stuck out her tongue and wiggled back and forth in her chair, but a sideways look at her camera and those mischievous green eyes sparkled in the soft lighting of the fat streamer’s room.
“I’m wearing a tube-top!” she chuckled, plucking at the spaghetti straps of what was clearly not a tube top, then rolling down her large chest. “See? No ban, please.”
Another pause followed before she read from chat.
“‘Show us your bottoms.’” A snigger turned into a cheerful snort. “No! You’re not gonna see my ass this steam, okay? We’re not having a Connect Four debacle, where you get to see my doofin’ panties again.”
Doofin’. Why?! It’s the same way that Beatrix talked, but Nora was a girl who once used to swear like a sailor!
But Nora wasn’t a sailor. Nora wasn’t even a cheerful white whale. The obese kickboxer was the size of a ship, carrying bottle upon bottle of bubbly soda, and Pandora was a dehydrated woman who was stranded at sea.
Surrounded by salt water, desperately thirsty for one sugar rush.
“Alright, today we’ve got… are ya ready?” Nora asked, leaning up in her seat.
Her tummy pinched over the top of the desk, sagging between and forcing her thighs to make room.
Pandora then looked at herself, comparing her own body to Nora’s, and had a very scary suspicion…
“Ta-daaaaa,” Nora sang drawing. “This is called Vegas Stakes for the Super Nintendo. Any of you guys play it before?”
Pandora shook her head at the screen, followed by another hiss-eliciting hiccup.
“Don’t you resident sleeper me, hey! It’s exciting! Do you have any idea how much money’s on the line here?!”
Nora’s lips furled into a pout. Pandora found herself blushing.
“‘Card games are boring.’ No there not! You cou-you could… listen. Your entire lifecould rest on the outcome of a card game.”
Pandora sagged. Just listening to her… hearing her voice. Why did Nora do this to her? How? Every night for nearly a full year, Pandora had put on Nora’s stream and fallen asleep to that wonderful voice.
Nora gave a soft piggy snort that made her heart sore. “‘Only if you’re bad,’” she read. “Well, I guess we’ll see how bad I am, eh?”
Pandora’s fingers immediately cheered. “Y-you can… ooogh…” she groaned, giving up halfway through. She realized she’d stopped rubbing her tummy and resumed, feeling less pain this time. The good energy was returning.
“Alright, so, I was checking this out for a few minutes. There’s a little intro where a guy that looks like Channing Tatum,” Nora held up her hand to mutter to her camera, “if Channing Tatum looked like he was hit in the face with an iron.” She straightened back up and continued, “So he’s complaining. You guys drove to Vegas, for some reason…” Nora turned to the camera. “Yeah, I don’t get that! If you’re going to Vegas, you should probably fly right? Then you can at least drink or something.”
As if reminding herself, Nora then looked around to her left. She had to roll back a few feet, too much tummy in the way, before she could reach down to the floor and get her first two-liter for the night.
As it always did, the chat erupted into an intense soda war when Nora unveiled her first soda was a cherry flavored Barq’s Rootbeer. There was a loud hiss that made Pandora’s thighs squeeze together when Nora opened the top, triggering an immense fizz cascade inside of Pandora’s own belly, and forcing the relaxing release another burp.
“Anyway, yeah so I named my character the usual, Ms. Redd,” Nora leaned forward to point at her screen, her other hand holding the opened soda near the top, “which you can see… why am I pointing…?” she lifted her finger before emitting a jiggling belly laugh.
Pandora couldn’t take it. She was blinking heavily, a true and real sleep finally at her doorstep, but now that it was here, Pandora wanted it to go away.
She wanted to listen to Nora’s voice, hear the little inflections. A husky fat girl that was cheerful and silly and just a big doofy creampuff. Good vibes that coasted over Pandora’s exposed belly, poked between the tears over her chest. It drew the ache from her fingers while folding around her like a caring blanket.
“You guys know how to play Blackjack right? Well, I don’t!” Nora winked at the camera. “I came to the table, hit the all-in button, and got my first blackjack! It’s a ten and an ace. Here, I’ll go ahead…”
Pandora felt herself immediately drawn into the blackjack table labeled ‘Buffalo Head Black Jack.’ A bobbing western tune was playing from the game, and she saw Nora’s cursor move over her money to bet all in. A laugh came, a heavy wheeze turning into a snort of her own, as Nora licked her lips and drank from her soda before returning to chat.
“Of course I’ll bet all in twice! It’s-listen, it’s beginner’s luck!! Watch!”
She must have tapped confirm, as the dealer swiftly dealt her a card, then one for themselves, then another to her. An Ace and a king confirmed another blackjack.
“Oh, shoot,” Nora mumbled, “I wanted a ten…”
It was like a knockout punch. Pandora simply closed her eyes and didn’t open them. She could ‘hear’ the excitement as Nora realized that she had actually won again, but none of it registered. She was remembering her nights with that voice, her fingers on that body, her massage flexing a soda-bloated belly while a kickboxer laughed and burped and bloomed into a beautiful flower she’d never get to have anywhere except for here, where her Nora was a as large as the moon, and Pandora was a soft, tubby Panda.
Comments
David Oh
Reading this made me wish for a thin Asian streamer doing soda chugs and inflating her own belly. Why didn’t god make those things?
