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Get Away for a Spell by Jordan Holder Man, did I need a vacation; work had been driving me crazy lately. But replacing the car's transmission last week had tapped me out. With the couple of hundred left in my checkbook, I could check into a Motel 6 on the other side of town and eat at the Golden Arches, but that was about it. Not only that, but my company had a use-it-or-lose-it policy on vacation time. If I didn't use my two weeks by the end of the month -- we were on a March 31 fiscal year end, I could kiss it good-bye. I suppose I could just stay home from work, but I wouldn't put it past my boss to call me there every day. So I was in a real funk as I drove along on my way to get some groceries for the week. I was stopped at a light for the entrance to one of the strip shopping centers on the road to the Wal-Mart when I noticed a banner in the window of the back corner store there. 'Low Cost Vacations!' it said. On impulse, I pulled into the center and found a parking place near the store, which had a more permanent illuminated sign naming it 'Get Away for a Spell -- USA, Russia, World Travel', and went in. Looking around, I wasn't so sure this was a good idea. The place was pretty scruffy looking -- there was dust on the counter, and the travel posters looked like they had been new in the 1960s. The vinyl chairs in a corner could have come from a cheap hotel lobby. Well, I supposed that this was the necessary ambience to go with low-cost vacations, as advertised. That didn't explain the profusion of knick- knacks and miscellaneous just plain junk that cluttered the office, making it look more like a flea market than a travel agency. As if travel were a mere sideline. I also started to wonder where one could go at low cost these days, although I'd certainly heard that travel bargains were available, what with terrorism and war fears keeping people from wanting to be victims. Even a free vacation, let alone low-cost, to the Middle East wouldn't be a deal. The place seemed to be empty when I walked in. After a few moments of waiting, I noticed a hand bell on the counter and decided to ring it. That produced a muffled, "Coming, coming," from the back of the store. In another minute, a figure appeared through a doorway, tying up a -- was that a bathrobe? "I'm sorry," I said, "I'm afraid I've interrupted you." "No, no, that's all right. I... ah... live in the back of the store, and sometimes I take advantage to follow a rather casual dress code. I'm certainly open for business, Mr. Vuh... ah..." I thought he'd been about to address me by name, but we'd never met before, so that was impossible. "Vernon. James Vernon." "Ah, yes, Mr. Vernon. I expect you're interested in our low-cost vacation offer?" "Yes, I am." "Certainly that's what attracts most of our customers, I'd say. Can you tell me what kind of vacation you are thinking of? What would you like to do?" "Something completely different. A real change." The travel agent or proprietor seemed to perk up at that. "My job is driving me crazy. My car is driving me crazy. My _life_ is driving me crazy. I need to get away from everything I'm doing now. But I don't see how I can do that on what I can afford to spend." "Nonsense, my boy. Here at Sp... I mean, Get Away for a Spell, we can do almost anything in the way of a change." He laughed, as if that were a joke, but it was definitely a private one. "Do you want to go someplace totally exotic, or is the good old USA satisfactory?" "Well, I only have two weeks and a couple of hundred bucks, so I guess leaving the country is out of the question. Besides, I don't have a passport, and I gotta use my vacation by the end of the month. Or is that too restrictive?" "Not at all. We can work with that. There are plenty of opportunities right here in this country for inexpensive vacationing. In fact, I think I have the very thing. How would you like a working vacation?" "Uh, what kind of work? Is this like... oh, I've heard about ranches and lumberjack camps that take guests? Is that it?" "Not that active, actually, although there might be some weight lifting. But work is how we keep our vacation trips inexpensive. You won't really be paying for much more than transportation." "I guess that would be OK. As long as it isn't anything like my current job." No processing insurance claims eight hours a day on vacation. "Absolutely not. Completely different. Like nothing you've ever done before. Guaranteed." "OK, I guess I could sign on to that. Where and what kind of place is it?" "I'm afraid that the exact details don't get settled until the last minute. We're never certain where there might be a vacancy. It's kind of like the Priceline concept -- you don't know when you're traveling until after you buy the ticket, so to speak." "Geeze, how do I know what to pack for, then?" "You don't have to pack at all. Everything you need will be provided for you. Package deal." "You mean, no luggage?" "No luggage. Just be ready to leave your house at the specified time, and our car will pick you up." "This is kind of weird," I said. Going someplace unknown to do something unknown was kind of a big leap. Especially in dealing with a travel agency I'd never been to before. "I don't know..." "I guarantee you won't find a deal like this anywhere else in the travel industry. If you pass this up, it might not be available next week. And if you need a vacation as badly as you say you do, you aren't going to be happy checking into a cheap motel across town and eating at a fast-food place down the street." Was he reading my mind? "Which is about what you could afford in place of our deal." He reached under the counter and pulled out a large multi-copy form. "Sign here." "Uh... well..." I paused for a minute. Then, "I guess it's the best I can do, huh?" I pulled out my pen and signed the form, after reading the first couple of paragraphs, which seemed mostly like pretty standard liability limitations -- I _was_ in the insurance business, after all. There wasn't much about the details except the price of $99.95 for transportation and the two-week duration. "I'll need your check for $99.95, of course." I took out my checkbook and paid him. He gave me a receipt and one copy of the form I'd signed. I folded it up and put it in my pocket, intending to read it later. Sure I would. "Now what?" "Our car will call for you next Saturday morning at 8:30 AM. Don't pack anything, not even a toothbrush. The driver will make you leave it behind anyway. Just be ready at that time and get into the car. It's that simple." "What happens then?" "Everything will be explained to you when you get there." There seemed to be nothing else to ask. I had a week to look forward to a mystery vacation somewhere in the US. "Oh, wait? Nothing, not even my camera?" "Nope. Nothing. Photos will be taken care of at the destination and sent to you when you get back. It's all-inclusive, as they used to say about tours." "OK, well, I guess that's it, huh?" "Yes, indeed, Mr. Vernon. Thanks for coming in. Bon voyage!" The whole thing had taken less than half an hour -- shortest vacation planning I'd ever done. I still had errands to run, so I left and got into my car. The sign on the travel agency looked different from the way it had going in; some of the lights had burned out or malfunctioned, leaving only the "Spell," the "S" in "USA," and the first three letters of "Russia" illuminated. I thought about going back in to let the travel agent know his sign needed to be fixed, but decided he could figure it out himself. * * * The week passed slowly. The mystery of where I was going to be spending my two-week vacation was gnawing away at me. I started out intensely curious on Sunday and Monday, spent Tuesday and Wednesday trying to put it out of my mind and concentrate on work before my boss got on my case, and by Thursday and Friday could hardly think of anything else. I'm not sure how I got through the days. I made arrangements to have my papers stopped and my mail held and paid a couple of bills in advance, which really emptied my bank account, although there'd be an automatic deposit on pay day in the middle of my vacation time. I didn't sleep too well on Friday night and woke quite early the next day. Since I'd been told not to pack anything, there wasn't much to do Saturday morning, which left a lot of time before the car arrived to pick me up. I turned on the TV, but I couldn't have said what was on. At 8:15, I started peeking out the front window, looking for the car to pull up. Checking every minute or so didn't make the time pass any faster. At 8:30 on the dot, by my digital watch and the tone on the radio I'd decided to leave playing while I was gone, there was a car in front of the house. I hadn't even heard it arrive; it was just suddenly _there_. A small magnetic sign on the door said "Get Away for a Spell." I grabbed my jacket -- it was nippy out, with spring still a couple of days in the future, if not longer, in terms of temperature -- and locked the door behind me. The driver had the back door open for me. I think I'd have rather sat in front, but there was no polite way to do that. Maybe if we had a rest stop on the way I could change. So I got in. We pulled away from the curb and headed west. That wasn't the direction of the airport, so I asked the driver, "Where are we going?" He didn't respond, and then I noticed that, like a fancy limousine, there was a panel of glass that cut us off from each other. Not the commonest thing to have in an ordinary sedan, but I supposed it was part of the transportation service I'd paid for. Probably more appropriate to carrying couples than singles. As we rolled on into the countryside, it became apparent that the driver had left the heat on full. I tapped on the glass to try to get him to turn it off, but he paid no attention. As it got warmer and warmer in back, I felt myself getting drowsy. The monotonous scenery of late winter farmland didn't help, nor did last night's restiveness. I fell asleep. * * * I woke up slowly. Something wasn't right. I wasn't in a car any more. That was certain. Or if I was, it wasn't moving, and I was lying on the back seat. No, that wasn't right. I was definitely not in a car; I was too comfortable for that. I had to be lying on a couch or bed. How had I gotten there? Surely being moved from the car would have awakened me? That wasn't the only thing that wasn't right. It was harder than usual to breathe, like there was a weight on my chest. And I felt a bit chilly, as if I could feel a breeze all over. Had someone removed my clothes? Suddenly, the thought hit me. The car had been in an accident! A sudden surge of panic ran through me. I must have been knocked out instantly. Was I in a burn unit? That would explain the feeling of bare skin all over. On the other hand, I didn't feel any pain, and burns were excruciating. If I were that doped up, how could I be awake? Or was the pain about to kick in, now that I was aware? I felt another, greater surge of adrenalin. I took a couple of deep breaths, again noticing the weight that seemed to be pressing on me. Or was that the consequence of burns -- scars making the skin less flexible, hard to move? Then another thought hit me: Hospitals were usually noisy places. Wouldn't there be a lot of equipment in my room -- heart monitors and such? I listened for a moment. Besides my own heart thumping from my panicked thinking, all I could hear was some music playing somewhere. I also realized that I couldn't feel any IV lines draped anywhere on my body or needles stuck in for drips. That certainly ruled out a burn ward; dehydration was the greatest killer of burn patients, as I knew from some of the claims I processed. Maybe I wasn't in a hospital at all. It could be a long- term care center, of course; could I have been comatose for months after the accident and just now be regaining consciousness, long after other injuries had healed? That might explain why I wasn't in pain. Maybe the shortness of breath and feeling of weight came from lung injuries in the post-crash fire? How sick was I? I opened my eyes. The room was quite dark. Odd -- usually some light would leak in around or through the window blinds. Maybe the room had no windows? That would be unusual, except in an ICU. Where was I? Was there a nurse's call? I decided to see if I could get my hands on one, if it were there. I started groping around, and that didn't feel right either. My arm felt very heavy, or I was very weak. Well, that would fit with the coma hypothesis: If I'd been lying in bed for weeks or months, I'd have lost a lot of muscle tone. Anyway, I couldn't find a nurse's call button next to the bed. There should have been one, if this were a convalescent facility. Stranger and stranger. I'd decided that someone might at least answer me if I called out. "Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?" My voice sounded very different. High-pitched, almost soprano. Had I breathed in enough of the burning gas from the accident to damage my vocal cords as well as my lungs? I waited a minute or so after calling and then decided I'd better get up and look for someone. They needed to know I was awake; I needed to find out where I was and let people (like my boss) know I'd been in an accident. My own insurance might not cover the care if they weren't informed promptly of my need for treatment, for that matter. I tried to sit up, but my body didn't move right, and it felt like I was too weak to move my weight around. How long had I been immobile? Just then, the door from the hallway opened. Against the sudden light from outside, I was almost blinded. All I could see was a silhouetted figure that blocked almost the entire door. "I see you're awake," a female voice said. She flicked on the light. I was dazzled for a moment, as the light seemed to reflect off of every part of the room, and then completely taken aback. Standing just inside the door was a hugely obese, naked woman. At least I assumed she was naked; she could have been wearing a g-string or something which would have been hiding beneath her enormous belly. But certainly nothing hid that, or the massive breasts resting on top of it. "What... what... what are you doing? You're naked! And where's the nurse or doctor?" "Ha! You're no one to talk about being naked. But what do you mean, a nurse or doctor?" "Wasn't I in an auto accident? Isn't this a long-term care facility?" "What gave you that idea?" she asked. "Well, I fell asleep in the car and just now woke up here. Something must have happened. An accident is the logical explanation." "You can forget logic from now on, at least while you're here. As for falling asleep and waking up here, well, that's what happens to _everyone_. At least those who don't intentionally visit. That's how you get here." "Where is 'here?' What is this place?" "The simple answer for 'here' is Pahrump, Nevada. A town about sixty miles west of Vegas," she said. "And 'this place' is called 'The Plump Rumps of Pahrump.' It's a brothel, about eight miles out from the center of town, if Pahrump can be said to have a center. Considering that the town calls itself the Gateway to Death Valley." "A brothel?" I said in astonishment. "Bordello, cat house, house of ill repute. Whatever. They're legal in Nevada, you know. By local option. A lot of the ones in Nevada are right here in Nye County, in Pahrump or Beatty." "What am I doing in a brothel? I signed up for a vacation." She laughed. A laugh with an edge to it. "I'll bet it was a 'working' vacation, wasn't it?" "Yes," I admitted. "Well, that's what you're doing here. Working." "Working? Doing what?" It still didn't make any sense. "Geeze. You must still be asleep. This is a _whorehouse_. There are mirrors everywhere. Look around." I did. There were mirrors on the walls, and even one on the ceiling. But how could they be mirrors? I didn't see myself at all. What I saw was a fat woman standing by the door, and another huge, fat woman lying on a bed. Where _was_ I? "I don't understand," I said. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Talk about _denial_." She waddled across the room towards me, and grabbed my hand, pulling me up off the bed a ways. "That's YOU," she said, pointing to the mirror. I looked at the mirror she was indicating, saw her holding the arm of the massive woman on the bed, looked down at myself for the first time to see a mammoth belly and breasts like hers -- and fainted.... Being slapped in the face really didn't agree with me. "Stop that," I said crossly. "You fainted. What else should I do?" She stopped doing it, though. "You've been lying there long enough," she continued. "Time you got up. It's almost lunch." "This is impossible. I'm a man. A man in reasonably good shape. Not a fat woman." "Whatever else is magic -- and I can't think of any other explanation for how this place runs -- the mirror is just an ordinary mirror. You're one of us, now. Get used to it." "'One of us?' Who is 'us?'" "I told you," she said impatiently, as she resumed pulling on my arm to get me up. "The Plump Rumps of Pahrump. That's us. Probably the only whorehouse in the country that specializes in big, fat chicks. Like Y-O-U. Come on, I'm not strong enough to haul my weight around and yours, too. Put some effort into it." Just sitting up wasn't easy; there was a lot of weight to move on my front. No wonder I'd been having some trouble breathing; each of the breasts resting on my chest had to weigh over twenty pounds. I couldn't even guess how much weight was in my belly. Which kind of got in the way of trying to sit up on the bed, because my legs were huge, too. And there was something wrong with the angle, anyway. Finally, I rotated around and hung my legs off the edge of the bed, bracing my torso more or less vertical with my arms behind me. The angle still wasn't right, and I finally realized that my sitting posture was totally altered by having buttocks at least as huge as what was in front of me. The effort left me out of breath for a minute, so I just sat there. I'd never felt anything so strange in my life as having a huge belly resting on my thighs -- and if it hadn't been in the way, the mammoth mammaries would have been resting there instead, rather than sticking out more than a foot in front of me, supported by that same belly, sticking out just as far. I looked in the mirror -- everywhere I looked, there was a mirror, so I hardly had any choice. I'd always liked big boobs (what man didn't?), but the rest was gross. Well, maybe not the face. Except for the double chin. The face wasn't bad looking at all. It wasn't anything like me, but it was pretty enough if it hadn't been so fat. Needed makeup, though. "OK, Narcissus. Enough with the mirror. I told you it was almost lunch time. We _never_ miss a meal around here. Come on." She started to turn around, which wasn't exactly a fast process. "Never miss a meal? I thought fat women were always trying to lose weight." I began trying to heave my bulk off the bed and stand up. It wasn't easy. She turned back. "The rules are different here. We're _supposed_ to be fat. Miss a meal, or don't eat enough, and you will find yourself so hungry before the next one that you will be trying to break into the kitchen." I'd gotten my feet onto the floor -- I must have become shorter, as well as wider -- and turned around to push myself upright. This was awful! How was I _ever_ going to deal with what I'd gotten into. What was that I'd said -- about wanting something 'completely different' for my vacation? No way I could have expected that to mean something like becoming a fat woman. At last I was standing up. I looked in the mirror, to see what appeared to be a collection of flesh-colored beach balls and sausages. Everything about me was enormous, except my head, hands, and feet. My behind stuck out as far in back as my belly and boobs did in front. I guess I wouldn't have been able to balance otherwise. "Attagirl. Let's go," she said. "After lunch, you can get ready for work." "What do you mean, work?" "What do you _think_ work means here? You're not going to be making cole slaw in the kitchen. This is a bordello for men who like fat chicks. You're a naked, fat chick. Get the picture?" I was shocked. "They can't make me do that! Even if I've somehow become a fat woman." "Actually, they _can_. Just like they can keep you from losing weight. It's about noon, right now. By late afternoon today, you -- and every one of us -- will be so horny that you will do _anything_ for any man who walks through the front door of this place. Not to mention that you will find yourself doing whatever a man tells you to do, anyway." She again turned to leave and this time, kept going. I tried to follow her, but I couldn't seem to make any progress. My legs were just too big. She stopped and turned part way around; looking over her shoulder wasn't possible, with all the fat in the way, I could see. "You can't walk like a man," she said. "Spread your legs wider. Get your thighs apart some. You can't force them past each other. Then rotate your hips around some. Like this." She gave an exaggerated demonstration. I was really starting to feel horrified at what I had become. She turned again and went out the door. I did my best to imitate her; as I left, I noted that like her, I was almost as wide as the door. The hall was wider than the doorway, but if we'd been going in opposite directions, passing would have involved close physical contact. I followed her -- what was her name? She hadn't introduced herself -- down the hall, trying to keep walking the way she'd showed me, before I got stuck again. As I followed her, I could scarcely believe my eyes, watching the movement of her enormous behind, rolling and wiggling and bouncing. The feeling from behind me told me I was making a similar display. The rest of me was bouncing and jiggling too. I wanted to try to get a grip on my breasts to stop them from doing that but found I needed to use my arms to balance, given the way I had to walk. I heard the floor creak more than once from our weight. There was a staircase at the end of the hallway. "Hold onto the railing," she advised. It was good advice; my huge breasts and belly kept me from seeing my feet or the steps. Going down was an effort; I didn't want to think about going back up just now. There were two landings on the way down, and both of us stopped to catch our breath on each, although it was pretty crowded doing so. From the lower landing, I could hear a hubbub of women's voices. "Is it lunch yet?" was one of the few things I could make out. We rounded the corner to the lower floor, and I was confronted with a scene such as I'd never seen or even imagined before. A room filled with at least two dozen enormous women, all naked. All with the obvious characteristics that allowed the place to be called "Plump Rumps." Most were white, but there were a few black women, and one or two looked Latina. And one other woman, not fat and not naked, although the black corset she was wearing didn't hide anything important. She also had on fishnet hose hooked to the corset, black leather boots with spike heels at least five inches high, black gloves. Long black hair cascaded down her back. In her right hand, she had what I thought was a riding crop, with which she was tapping her left palm. "That's the Madam," the woman who'd accompanied me downstairs said in a low voice. "You will do whatever she says, too." "What if I don't?" I responded. "I didn't say you had a choice. She tells you to do something, you do it. Just like with men. It's wired in." "Huh. Hey. What's your name? You never said." "Call me Martha. And your name is Liz." "No, it's not. My name is..." "Never mind what it was before. Here, it's Liz. Like everything else, get used to it." "How do you know that's my name?" "It's on a card outside your room, silly. At least we have our own rooms. You use your own room for business, as well as your own time. Except when a guy wants two of us or something like that; there are a couple of party rooms with special furniture. No ordinary bed could take two of us porkers." That I could believe. At that moment, the doors on the other side of the main room opened, and the odor of cooking food poured out. Oh! I was suddenly SO hungry! I could hardly think of anything else but food. All the other women must have been feeling the same, because there was a stampede to the dining room. As much as women forced to waddle like ducks at less than half the speed ordinary women could walk were able to stampede, anyway. I found myself in a crush of female flesh trying to get through the door all at once. If I'd still been a man, having all those huge breasts and buttocks thrust at me might have done who knows what, but now, it hardly mattered. I just had to get to the _food_. Lunch was served in a sort of cafeteria line. We were each given a tray with several dishes piled high. It was a little hard to carry with my breasts and belly in the way, but I was motivated by the aching hunger, as I made my way to one of several long tables. Lots of fatty and starchy dishes. It didn't taste bad, but I hardly had time to notice, as I shoveled in ten or twelve pieces of fried chicken, a mountain of mashed potates with gravy, four or five cobs of corn with butter, and pretty much half of a chocolate cake. The rest of the women were behaving similarly; a trough instead of trays might have been just as appropriate. Finally I was finished with everything on my tray and noticed that I didn't even feel full, let alone stuffed. Had I eaten all that? I had a feeling of being disgusted with myself. Were there really men who thought women like me were sexy_? It seemed hard to believe. I sat back a little and used several napkins from the dispenser in the center of the table to wipe off the grease from my hands, face, and front, and then tried to catch my breath. Martha had stuck with me, and I was wedged in between her and a woman I hadn't met yet on one side of the table. Probably six or seven ordinary-size people could have sat where the three of us were. Maybe eight. The bench seat was wider than it would have been for ordinary people, since we couldn't get too close to the table with our giant bellies, and our huge behinds and legs had to be accommodated. The feeling of their huge cushiony thighs up against my similar legs was very strange. There hadn't been any conversation while we ate; getting fed was too important to delay with chit chat. Now that I had my breath back, I turned to the woman on my left and said, "Hello, I'm Liz, I guess." "deVina," she answered. Strange name. "You're new." "Yeah. Just woke up here this morning. I guess you haven't seen me before." "That, and you're still pretty small." "Small?" I felt enormous, although I realized that she and Martha and the others did look a lot bigger than what I had seen of myself in the mirror. "Yeah. But you'll gain a few pounds a week or so, until you reach your full size. Like the rest of us. You start out small so you can build up the strength to carry the weight around." "I don't think so. I'm only supposed to be here for two weeks." On the other side of me, Martha laughed. "What makes you think that?" "I told you, I signed up for a two-week vacation. That's all." "And I keep telling you, forget logic. Oh, you'll be gone for two weeks on the outside, but the equivalent here is _two years_." I started feeling faint again. Two years? I missed hearing some of what deVina was saying, which was "...probably around three hundred pounds now, so you'll be up over four hundred eventually. Guys who come here sure like big asses -- sorry, I mean 'plump rumps.' Gotta stick with the advertising. And if you think your boobs are big and heavy now. Well, it's gradual, not like the big change, so you'll get used to it. We all have. Not that there's any choice." I found that hard to believe. I didn't feel like I was getting used to _anything_ today, from the contortions of just getting out of bed, to what was necessary to simply walk down the hall, not to mention eating like a pig. Lunch was over, signaled by some of the kitchen staff starting to clear trays, and the others were getting up -- oh, so slowly -- and leaving the dining room for the main room. I wasn't sure to call it a lobby or a living room. Martha took my hand and said, "I'll introduce you around." The main room was full of oversize furniture, most of which was occupied. I didn't remember all the names, but I was hoping I wouldn't have to get that well acquainted. I also noticed a bar at one end of the room and a stereo system. I made a bet with myself that the only music would be C&W. Finally, she led me to a sofa and sat down. I squeezed in next to her, our naked thighs pressed firmly together as before. I could feel her huge breast against mine, too, as well as our bulging bellies being in contact. Being that close to a naked woman, even a fat one, should have turned me on some. But nothing. "I gotta get out of here," I said. "Don't even think about it. It's impossible," she responded. "Why?" "First of all, we're in the high desert. A long way out from civilization. You're naked and huge. There are no clothes here that will fit you -- they've seen to that. How far do you think a fat, naked woman is going to get in the desert? The sunburn alone would probably kill you the first day, if dehydration didn't get you first. Even now, and it's still months until high summer. This time of year, it gets frigid at night, too. Also, it's eight miles to town. How fast can you walk in that body? You don't have shoes, and it's a gravel road much of the way. If someone sees you, they call the deputy sheriff, and he's paid off by the brothel, in addition to the usual county fees -- back you come. Or if they want to give you a ride, you think you can fit into anything other than the bed of a pickup, lard lady?" I wasn't giving up the idea, but her argument had force. So I just said, "I see what you mean." "If you so much as step off the front porch, in fact, you get to spend a month as a 'specialist.'" "Specialist?" I asked. "Whips and chains, mostly. Handcuffs. Gags. Blindfolds. Other kinky stuff. I don't know personally, and the girls who do wouldn't tell me everything. I don't know -- and I _don't_ want to find out." I shook my head. This "vacation" was a real trap. No wonder it was a 'magical mystery tour'. I guess there were always enough suckers like me looking for something for nothing. But _two years_ like this! Or worse, getting bigger all the time. I hefted one of my breasts. Enormous. "Mind?" I said to Martha, and I picked up one of hers. Or tried to. One hand wasn't big enough and one arm wasn't strong enough. Unbelievable. "Yeah, that's you in the future," she said. "If I get out of here in two years, how long have you been here, if you're at your 'full size?'" "A long time," she said. "I made the mistake of signing up for the retirement package, which was an unbelievable bargain. I don't ever get to leave. So stop feeling sorry for yourself." "I'm sorry," I apologized. "'s OK," she said. "You didn't know. Anyway, I got the job of breaking in the newbies. Like you." "Well, what happens now?" "Unless someone gets off work early, the afternoon is pretty quiet. Sometimes we get a retiree or vacationer, but they're usually playing golf down at Willow Creek in the afternoon this time of year, or at a pool when it's really hot. In the summer, the golfers stick to early morning tee times. Four o'clock is when things start to get busy. First with locals, and then later on the wealthy tourists and businessmen finish up in Vegas and drive on over." "Until then?" "We sit around. You don't feel like moving around much after eating all that, do you? You can take a nap or maybe read a magazine. That's about it. A cat house isn't that exciting a place, no matter what you might have thought." "Guess I'll read, then. Where are the magazines?" "Over there," she said, pointing across the room. It was a lot of effort to get my huge bulk (another hundred pounds by next year? my imagination was getting a workout and giving up) up off the sofa and across the room. To avoid making the trip twice -- I was beginning to understand why everyone just sat around after lunch -- I grabbed a big handful from the rack without looking to see what they were, and lumbered back to the couch, falling heavily into place next to Martha again. I looked over the magazine covers. "Geeze! These are all _porn_." "What did you expect in a brothel? _The Economist_?" She laughed. I wasn't feeling sleepy -- I'd done enough of that already -- and I was bored enough actually to look through the porn magazines. Maybe there was an article about something other than sex, or a readable story. On closer examination, they weren't just porn; they were porn featuring mostly fat women. One was all black models, with the title, _Baby Got Back!_. Every one was a different title, in fact. I had no idea there even _were_ fat porn magazines, let alone so many of them. The articles weren't real interesting. "Chocolate Sauce and Whipped Cream: Things You Haven't Thought Of." "Fatten Up Your Chick." "How to Answer, 'Do I Look Fat?'" Besides the articles, there was also some fiction. Judging by the illustrations, I wasn't going to find them interesting. Obviously written for men. Except maybe the article on chocolate sauce. Despite just having eaten a huge lunch, the stray thought of how good a snack would taste, like ice cream with plenty of chocolate sauce and whipped cream, drifted through my head. I began reading the article. The first suggestions were pretty obvious. Then things started getting kinky. How did people think of such things? I turned another page. Geeze! I couldn't imagine asking a girl to do _that_. Then the thought occurred to me, what if _I_ had to do _that_? I put down the magazine with the article unfinished; I figured it could only get worse from there. At that point I realized I had to use the bathroom. I whispered to Martha, and got pointed to a corridor at the far end of the bar. The experience was unsettling. Not so much because of doing it as a woman as because there was just so much _fat_ in the way of everything. I felt grosser than ever when I was done. There was a shower in there, and I took a quick one, just to try to feel cleaner. My spot on the couch, marked by two huge round indentations that had not sprung back while I was gone, was still open, and the pile of magazines I'd picked out was still there. I didn't want to go back to the first one, with the article I hadn't finished. Maybe one of the others. The first mags had just had women models. This one had an "XXX" on the cover with a strongly worded "over 18" notice. Inside were men and women together. Fat women, of course. The men weren't, though; they were mostly young, good looking, kind of athletic. Oh, maybe one or two had a bit of a gut, but they were quite attractive. Big, too. I mean, where it counted. I found myself staring at a couple of them. I shook my head to clear it. "What am I thinking? I know what a dick looks like. I had one this morning, after all," I thought to myself. But not like those guys'. I found my eyes straying back to the photos. Each of them had to be ten or eleven inches. Maybe more. And no wonder, as I turned to the next page: No way an ordinary-size guy could have done _her_ from behind, not with her huge butt sticking out like that. I turned the page, because I found myself wanting to see more. Especially if there were any really "big" guys. On the next page, a guy was doing his best to straddle a fat girl's huge belly, while she was wrapping her big breasts around his dick. Or trying to. I realized I was starting to breathe harder and thinking, am I big enough to do that? I hefted my breasts, and tried comparing them to the girl in the magazine. Yeah, I thought, I can do that. Better'n her, in fact. And then the what-was-I-thinking struck again. I hadn't been stuck in this body even four hours, and it was taking over my thinking? Was Martha right? Was I going to be looking forward to being treated like a sex object by late afternoon? Thoughts of how nice it would be to get my hands on a big, stiff dick were already invading my consciousness, though. The compulsion to turn to the next page became irresistible. I _had_ to see more. I turned the page and went back to my heavy breathing. Absently, I began stroking one of my breasts, which felt pretty good. I kept staring at the two guys who were doing the fat girl. It was fascinating, not repelling any more. I wanted to go back and read some of the stories, too, and imagine myself being used by a guy. I felt really hot. Was this what it was like to be horny as a woman? "Getting to you, huh?" Martha leaned over and said. Her voice sounded breathy, too. "Uh huh," I panted. "Told you. It's almost four." I looked around for the clock, but saw none. "Oh, I can tell. Geeze. You don't have any makeup on! Come on! I'll show you what to do." "Does it matter?" "Are you kidding? You're going to be so horny, you won't want anything to get in the way of attracting a customer. Upstairs -- now!" She struggled to her feet, and I heaved myself upright and followed her. Climbing the stairs wasn't easy, as I had expected. We had to stop about every three or four steps. Why wasn't there an elevator? Being this fat was sure hard to deal with, even if it meant I had the boobs to wrap around a guy's dick. I hoped Martha was right about building up some strength, especially if I couldn't help getting even fatter as the two years went on. The effort had put some of the thinking about sex out of my mind, at least for awhile. We reached the second floor and wiggled our way down the hall to the room with "Liz" on a card outside the door. A good thing; I couldn't have recognized my room from before, since they were all pretty much the same. Martha showed me where the makeup was (in a console table at one side of the room, which I hadn't noticed in my shock and confusion when I'd awoken earlier) and helped me do my face. "I'll help you a couple of times until you get the hang of it." The results were rather garish when I looked in the mirror, but not much different from the other girls; I just hadn't paid that much attention to their mascara, eyeliner, and such before. "That'll do. We gotta get back downstairs," she said, just as the sound of a doorbell echoed from below. "Oops. We're late. Hopefully, the John will want a drink before taking his pick. We'll be back down by then. Tomorrow, we do your makeup when you get up." She led the way back down the stairs, with the usual stops to catch our breath. I was rapidly losing interest in having to deal with these stairs. Holding her finger to her lips, Martha waved me to slip into the main room quietly. It was not a good thing to be late, apparently. Things hadn't changed much since we made our trek upstairs. A few more girls were standing around, rather than sitting. But most important, there was a man standing at the bar at one side of the room, talking to the madam who was wiping the bar with a rag after having poured him a shot. He was casually dressed, and still had his western hat on. No boots, just sneakers below the cuffs of his jeans. A plaid western shirt. I didn't care what he was wearing; I was imagining him naked. So were the other girls, I'm sure, judging from the heavy breathing and the fact that every eye in our chubby faces was turned on him. He finished his drink, and banged the glass down on the bar. "How 'bout another one o' those?" he asked. She obliged. He drained half of it, and set it down. "Damn! Sure glad to be finished with work today! Had to wrangle a whole bunch o' cable onto a roof for a hookup. Mighty dry job. Bet you're glad it pays good." She smiled, as he finished his second round. The madam started to reach for the Jack Daniels bottle again, but he waved her off. "Don't want to have too much. Unless you've started givin' refunds?" He laughed loudly. "Nope. Same policy as ever. Pay in advance; it's up to you to enjoy the goods or not." He laughed again. "Well, shucks, then I better be sure to get what I want, huh? What've you got for me, Leeanne? Anything new since last week? How 'bout a nice blonde, huh?" "Well," she said, "as a matter of fact..." "Come on. Don't hold out on me!" "OK. She's really new, like _today_. So she doesn't know the ropes. But I guarantee, if you tell her what to do, she'll do it." "Good 'nuff. Which one's she?" She raised her voice. "Liz! Down here! Now!" I had the strangest sensation. Almost without volition, I was pushing through the crowd, squeezing my hippo-sized hips past others similarly sized, until I was standing in front of everyone else. Then I stopped. The feeling passed; it had been like being a marionette, with someone pulling my strings. I wasn't sure what to do now, so I just stood there, while the customer looked me up and down. "Harv, this is Liz." I kind of nodded. He set down his empty glass on the bar, walked over to me, and picked up my breasts, one in each hand. "You got nice tits, little lady," he said, after a moment. Little lady! I outweighed him by a hundred pounds. But he _was_ about a foot taller than me -- I suddenly realized that not only was I fat, I was short, maybe 5-2, which made me look even fatter. Not just look; three hundred pounds was a lot more lard on a 5-2 girl than on one 5-6 (or 5-9, which is what I'd been). He stopped playing with my breasts, which had felt pretty good to me, actually, not that I wanted to admit it to myself. "OK, turn around..." That puppet sensation was back with me, as I did what he said. "Hoo-ee! That's some ass you got there, Liz." I think I should have blushed, but I don't know if I did. I felt something like the subject of a cattle auction. Or maybe a slave auction, the thought occurred to me, which was probably even more correct. "Good enough, Leeanne. She'll do for today." "Cash or credit card?" she asked. He pulled out his wallet and peeled off a number of bills. I'll admit I was curious to find out what sex with me was worth. I think he paid about thirty-five cents a pound, but I couldn't be sure; I wasn't facing the right direction after he'd ordered me to turn around. Might have been three fifties, could have been four twenties. Of course, that didn't count the value of the free drinks -- if they _were_ free. "OK," Leeanne said, "have a good time." She turned back to doing something behind the bar. "Le's go, little lady," he said, hanging up his hat on a rack by the bar. I thought he was going to try to put his arm around my waist (I wasn't sure it would have reached), but he grabbed a handful lower down. Still feeling like someone was pulling my strings, I waddled toward the stairs with him. "After you," he said. "I wanna watch your ass wiggle." The puppet master or whatever started me up the stairs. I felt myself walking differently, trying to exaggerate the movement of my butt for him. I still had to stop every few steps to catch my breath; I should have backed off when the travel agent said something about weight lifting, but how could I know it would be my own weight? I wanted to stop at the top and rest, but he slapped me on the butt and said, "Come on, I only got an hour before my skinny-ass wife gets home from work." "You're married?" I said, as I did the best I could to get my fat thighs past each other fast enough for him. As long as I was doing what he wanted, I was able to make conversation. "Yeah. She's sweet, and she's purty, and I wouldn't leave her for nothin', but sometimes a guy wants a girl with some meat on her, y'know. I tried to get her to fatten up some, but she won't. Or can't." "Don't blame her. Not much fun being fat." I was running out of breath again. "Oh, yeah, it is! You and I are gonna have a lotta fun. For sure. You got big tits we're both gonna enjoy." He ran his hands over them again, just as we got to the room marked "Liz." And yeah, it felt good. Tingly all over. Some part of my mind was revolted by the idea that I was about to have sex with a man, but my body had other ideas. I wedged my bulk through the door first, not really needing his hands on my butt to get me through, but liking the feeling nevertheless. He followed me in and immediately began removing his shirt. "OK, little lady" -- he seemed determined to call me that, even though it didn't make me feel little in the slightest -- "rub those big boobies on my chest." I found myself walking over to him and holding out my breasts, one in each hand. That wasn't so easy; my hands were smaller than they used to be, and my breasts were huge. I could lift them, but they threatened to spill all over when I did. I tried to do what he told me, really, I did try. But my vast belly was in the way. "Guess you need a little help, huh?" He put his arms around me and squeezed me up against him. I think he really wanted to grab my butt, but that was physically impossible for him to reach. When I was close enough, I started rubbing his chest with my breasts. My nipples had felt hard when he started rubbing them earlier, but now they were prodigious. Hard as rocks, and nearly as big as my thumbs. I felt gross, not just from my size, but from being naked and obviously sexually aroused in front of a man who was at least still partly dressed. That didn't keep me from wanting to thrust my hips against him, though. Not that I could, of course; just too much fat in the way, but I made the attempt. "You're really hot for a newbie," he said. "Just like all the others here. Guess it's hard for a fat chick who's as horny as you to find enough on the outside." "I guess." I wasn't going to tell him the truth. I really wanted to get his pants off, but he hadn't told me to stop running my breasts over his chest, so that's what the puppet master had me doing. I tried to feel if he was hard and how big he was, but my belly was in the way for that. It also kept the strange wet sensation between my legs from getting near his clothes to leave any stains he might have to explain to his wife, too. Maybe there were some additional reasons he liked fat whores. Finally, he said, "let's do it." I was breathing hard by then, so he didn't have to tell me twice. Besides, the puppet strings were yanking me towards the bed after him, as fast as I could move my huge legs. He'd finished stripping, so I could see his dick. It wasn't huge, like the guys in the magazine, but it wasn't a photo either, it was right here, and I wanted it bad. I reached for it, but he stopped me. "We're doin' it my way, just like Sinatra said. You get on top. Some of you girls are just too heavy, but you look about right." He lay down on the bed on his back. It took a lot of effort to climb on top of him and get my enormous legs on either side of his body. My buttocks covered his legs almost down to his knees, while my belly was resting on his chest. He reached up and grabbed my breasts, running his thumbs over my nipples. I felt hot and tense all over, like I was going to explode, and I was panting like a horse at the end of a race. I needed to do _something_ but could only sit there until he gave me another order. I think I would have liked to have him suck my breasts, but large as they were, there was no way I could lean forward that far with my belly in the way. As my breathing became even more ragged from his attention to my nipples, he finally said, "What are you waitin' for? Get it on, girl!" Then I could move. I heaved up my belly with both hands and groped around until I got hand on his dick. "Yeah!" he said. Then I had to lift myself up enough to get it in -- another huge struggle. Finally, I felt it go in between my legs. Sex as a woman was like nothing I could ever have imagined. It felt so good just to have him inside me. My body knew what to do then, although it was an enormous amount of work to ride him up and down; I was lifting three hundred pounds, almost, each time, after all. After the first few, I began feeling huge shuddering waves of tingling go through me each stroke, and I realized I must be having orgasms. I kept on, since I could tell he was still hard, until eventually _something_ happened. He let out a huge, incoherent sigh, and relaxed his grip on my breasts. I wanted to ride some more, but there was nothing there. "Hoo-eee, girl. If you're new today, you're gonna be hot stuff when you learn a few more tricks. That was damn good." "Uh, thanks, I guess." I didn't know what to say. "Well," he said, looking at his watch, "that was most of my hour. I gotta take a shower 'fore I go home to the wife; you can scrub my back." One of the doors off the bedroom led to a largish bathroom, with a shower much bigger than the one I'd used downstairs. The two of us actually fit in together, although somewhat snugly, while the one downstairs had been a tight squeeze for a fattie like me. As ordered, I scrubbed his back. I had felt sweaty myself, so I was glad of the opportunity to get clean again. The bathroom also had a large Jacuzzi tub, which I suspected I would be using soon enough -- also with company. We toweled off and he got dressed. "Come on, little lady, they're going to want to see you downstairs soon enough. My day's over, but I think you got more work to do. Le's go." I followed obediently, the puppeteer pulling at my strings again. The sex itself had been OK, but being forced to do it, as well as being grotesquely fat -- and likely to get fatter -- made me angry. He kept his hands on me until we got downstairs, and by then, I was horny again. Betrayed by my own body. There weren't so many girls downstairs, so I assumed that other customers had showed up. My first customer picked up his hat from the rack, where several others had joined it -- confirming my surmise, shouted, "Thanks, Leeanne," and went out the door. I didn't know what else to do, so I just sat down on one of the sofas to wait for something to happen. As horny as I felt, I hoped it would be soon. As Martha had said, things picked up into the evening. Cars began pulling into the lot regularly after six o'clock, which I guessed was less than half an hour after my first trick. Some were locals, like Harv, but a lot had a more sophisticated look and better clothes. A surprising number were Asians. They'd come in, pick out one of us lard queens, pay Leeanne, and go upstairs. Eventually, it was my turn again. I knew more of what to expect, of course, but this guy -- I didn't even get his name -- didn't have much to say, and certainly no compliments like Harv. Just told me to lie down missionary position (if missionaries had huge bellies) and wham/bam/thank you ma'am. I still got off, but not like it had been with Harv. He got dressed and left without a word, so I took another shower alone and huffed and puffed my way down the stairs. The next guy was pretty much the same as the second; no chit chat, just a quickie with some basic groping and off into the night. I never came that time, he was in such a hurry. Then it was my turn with one of the Asians. I had no idea whether he was Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. He didn't speak much English, so there was no conversation, either. The one thing that was different was he wanted to do me doggy-style. I guess he really liked my big butt, but he wasn't very good at getting what he wanted from behind. I did the best I could, and eventually he managed. Maybe the no-refunds policy motivated him. What was strange for me was having my huge belly and breasts swinging back and forth while I was on my hands and knees. My nipples rubbing on the bedclothes as they did so helped me get off, and I felt better, even though it wasn't long before I was hot again. And also hungry. Four guys, an hour each, plus wait time between tricks -- that had to put it close to ten o'clock, a long time since lunch. The cafeteria or refectory or whatever it was was open when the Asian man finished with me, and I followed my nose straight in. Since some of the girls were "working," there was less of a crowd than at lunch; they would get their turn in half an hour or so. I got another tray of starch- and fat-laden food and plunged in, gorging myself as fast as I could shovel it in. I was really disgusted with myself, but I couldn't help it. Hauling around my three hundred plus pounds had to burn some calories, but eating a whole chicken and who knew how many potatoes was surely making up for it. Then it was back to the front room/bar to wait for another customer. Martha hadn't had a chance to warn me about the kind we'd get later in the evening and into the small hours. "Kinky" wasn't sufficiently descriptive. I try not to think about the disgusting things the next two johns had me doing, but I did what they wanted as the puppeteer pulled my strings. When the second one was through with me, I really wanted to vomit, but couldn't in actuality. My shower after him was a long one. One last john wanted only conventional sex, which was a relief, and then...well, even a whorehouse has a "closed" sign to hang out, probably somewhere around 4 am. One more strenuous climb of the stairs to the second floor and I collapsed into bed, falling asleep almost instantly. * * * My first thought upon waking up the next morning was that I must have had some nightmare. But the first movement that set my mammoth breasts and belly wobbling told me I hadn't dreamed the experience. I was still a fat naked woman in a cat house. And hungry again. Really hungry. I hoped it was time for lunch or breakfast or whatever. If I'd slept eight hours from 4 am, it would be about noon, and they'd be serving soon. I gathered my strength to sit up and then get out of bed. It wasn't any easier than yesterday. The idea that I was going to be a hundred or more pounds heavier soon was too disturbing to think about, but I knew I wasn't going to be able to resist gorging myself when lunch was ready. The aching desire in my belly to be fed was already dominating my thoughts. I managed to stand up and waddle out of the room toward the stairs. Martha was already downstairs, along with a crowd of the others. There were only a couple of stragglers to come in behind me, in fact. "I have to remember to show you how to do your makeup," Martha said when she saw my face. I'd managed to avoid removing the makeup she'd done for me yesterday afternoon until my last shower of the previous evening, the one where the dirt was internal and not external. "Right after lunch." "OK," I said. She introduced me to a couple of the other girls then. I wasn't sure what to say. It was pretty clear that nobody talked about what their lives had been like before becoming one of the Plump Rumps of Pahrump. What else did women talk about? Clothes? Shoes? Boyfriends? None of that applied here. We didn't have TV or newspapers or radio, so current events weren't much. And if you couldn't go outside, the weather wasn't relevant either, not that it changed very much in the high desert -- varying from dry and warm to dry and very hot, with only an occasional thunderstorm to break the monotony. Great, if you were a golfer. We weren't. So they talked about some of the johns. I gathered there were a few local regulars (like Harv, my first), but most were visitors from outside Nevada. I guess I could understand why there wouldn't be too many locals; you wouldn't want too many of your friends to know that you were paying for sex -- or more especially, that your tastes ran to the weird, like huge fat chicks. I mumbled a few things to stay in the conversation until the topic turned to the kinky things some of the johns wanted. I still didn't want to think about what I'd had to do last night, so I eased myself away from that group -- not easy to do, when you had to maneuver three hundred pounds of lard through a crowd of equally porky women. If I hadn't appreciated my job and my life before, this was certainly helping me get a new perspective on it. Two weeks here would have been enough -- even two days probably would have done it. How was I going to make it through two _years_? Finally, the doors to the lunchroom opened; the smells of food made me feel even more famished. The same slow stampede as yesterday ensued, and I eventually got my tray. I had never eaten so many hot dogs in one sitting in my life -- more than a dozen, I think, but I lost count. Along with a bucket (drum? barrel?) of french fries. Dessert was six or seven scoops of ice cream. And I still didn't really feel full when I'd cleared my tray, just not ravenous any more. The thought of getting more ice cream came to my mind, and I was almost ready to get up and do it until I came to my senses, telling myself that if I had to get even fatter, I wanted it to be later rather than sooner. Martha had finished before me -- we hadn't sat with our thighs squeezed together this time -- and was waiting for me in the front room. "Time to learn how to do your face, sweetie," she said, as I laboriously approached her. "Come on." An extra trip up and down the stairs didn't appeal to me much, but it was pretty clear I'd have to do this. She spent about an hour at the console table in my room showing me how to do eyeshadow, mascara, powder, rouge, and so on, as well as glue on a set of false eyelashes, all of which I had to practice a couple of times while she watched. My mind wandered occasionally, wondering how I would answer some of my colleagues at work when they asked what I did on my vacation. "Oh, nothing special. Learned to put on eyeshadow, practiced walking with legs a couple of feet thick, keep my huge belly out of the way while eating like a pig, rub my breasts on a guy's chest, have sex with a few hundred anonymous guys. Just the usual..." After my second effort, with a thorough face-washing in between the earlier tries, she pronounced herself satisfied. I thought the effect was somewhat garish, but when I said so, she replied, "Whores are supposed to look cheap. Even though we aren't." Just one more thing to get used to. If I could. And even if I couldn't, there was no choice. "Be sure to check your makeup and touch it up after each trick," she said. "I'm going back downstairs." "I feel like a nap; a big lunch makes me sleepy." "All right, but _don't_ be late for the first customer. Not unless you want to find out what really kinky stuff is like." I thought I'd had an introduction to "kinky stuff" last night, but maybe I'd only skimmed the surface. She left, and I hoisted myself into bed. Her warning about being late kept me from getting any real sleep, though, but it was more comfortable to lie down and quit fighting gravity. I drifted off into a sort of half-awake state. I found myself not exactly dreaming, but not entirely in touch with reality. I was aware that what I was envisioning wasn't real. I was in my room but not alone; there were a bunch of men, maybe a dozen, all with huge erections, and I wanted to have every one of them. I came fully awake with a start; how could I be thinking such things when I'd been a man myself not forty hours ago. Then I realized I also had one hand between my legs -- not easy to get there with my thighs and belly in the way -- and the other was rubbing my breasts. I think my own breathing had awakened me, in fact. It had to be close to opening time, the way I felt. And the way I felt, it would be none too soon, either. Considering the speed I could move, I figured I'd better start down. Only a few steps lay ahead when I heard the front door slam. Just in time. I joined the crowd in the main room. From there things went much as they had yesterday, except that Leeanne didn't sell me as a newbie, and none of the customers was as conversational as Harv had been. I didn't expect to see him again today, anyway; our prices made a visit to Plump Rumps of Pahrump an indulgence of every couple of weeks at the most. On the other hand, there was less "kinky stuff" than last night. The customers I had just wanted to see what it was like to do it with a fat woman, I guess. One or two even said "thanks," rather than leaving without a word. I discovered some bath lotion in the bathroom which made my skin feel better; the desert air, even cooled by the air conditioning, was pretty dry inside and I'd been starting to itch. They'd kept me pretty busy, and it was almost midnight, I think, before I got to the dining hall. I was ravenous by then; if I thought I'd eaten a lot before...well, I'd had no idea of how much I could put away. Besides everything else, I think I ate half a gallon of ice cream. What flavor, I couldn't have said, it went by so fast. And I still didn't feel stuffed; I could probably have eaten more. Were my hips wider and my belly bigger already, or was it just my imagination? If I kept eating like that, I'd be a lot bigger -- and soon. The thought bothered me, but there was no way to deny the demands of my appetite. Or appetites; once I'd filled my belly, I was eager to get back to business, as the five or six -- I'd lost count -- customers of the night so far hadn't begun to satisfy my need for sex. * * * And so it went. The days merged into weeks, and the weeks into months. I'm sure there must have been a Thanksgiving or Christmas in there somewhere, but we never took a break. Maybe the cafeteria served turkey on those days; I might have eaten a whole one and not even noticed what it was, beyond that it helped assuage the raging hunger at that moment. Soon I no longer needed to imagine that I was getting bigger. I took up a lot more of the sofa or the bench seats at lunch and dinner -- three of us really couldn't fit onto the bench on one side of the table any more. My thighs had grown, too, making walking even more of an exaggerated affair. I could feel the difference behind me, as well. A surprising amount of the additional weight went to my tits, though. (OK, you hear the word every few minutes every day and eventually it loses its impact as a vulgarism. Tits, boobs, ass, pussy; I gave up. What was the point of verbal dignity for a naked, fat whore, anyway?) As Martha had said, my strength about kept pace with my weight gain, so I could still lift my boobs with one hand each. That was, until they got so much bigger than my hands. Even the customers, with their bigger hands, couldn't really manage all of my tits. Didn't stop them from trying, though. It was a lot harder to comply when one of them wanted me to use my boobs on him, however. They didn't find it too easy to titty-fuck me, either, which they also didn't stop trying. Generally, though, it was a lot more effort and more awkward to do what the johns asked me to do. Which I think turned some of them on. Maybe they thought the panting I was doing was really an orgasm? Anyway, I was glad for the ones who just wanted me to lie on my back