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Jon Arbuckle lumbered into his tile-floored kitchen, rubbing his head. His fingers tousled his curly, brown hair, and his heavy eyes looked to the off-white fridge.

He had just gotten chewed out by his editor. Doubts and worries swirled in his head. He needed something to take the edge off. Cheesy, tomato-y pasta would do the trick.

Jon opened the top half of the fridge, its freezer. His hands pushed aside frigid bags of frozen vegetables and stiff packs of raw meat. Not a single box of lasagna remained, even though he had just stocked up on four of them.

A deep, damp belch rumbled behind him.

He shut the freezer and turned around.

The lazy, fatass tabby, Gothfield, lounged in a tan recliner in the living room. Her fuzzy, orange hindpaws had long, sharp claws, painted black. Her chubby calves, slashed with stripes of black fur, bulged through her fishnet stockings. She slacked in the chair, pushing her knees out from the seat's edge. Thick, pillowy thighs melted over the edge of the chair, oozing out below her loose, leather skirt. She sank into a wide crater mashed down by her flabby ass. Her increasing weight had squashed a deep divot over her months of lounging on her behind.

Her broad, bloated gut gurgled across her blubbery lap. The lower roll of her stomach splayed wide, swallowing most of her skirt under orange lard. Her upper stomach pushed a firm dome into her black, distressed halter top. That upper tummy jutted sharply upward from her meaty lower roll, and it billowed wider than her curvy waist folds. Two hefty tits slumped on top of it. The twin orbs of fat plumped up over her arcing gut and rolled over to either side. Their sloppy girth pulled her neckline low, showing a peek of her puffy areolas. And, to the sides, they hung mere centimeters above her lower stomach. A stack of emptied cardboard trays occupied her rack.

Her plump arms laid over the arms of the chair. A ballooned chin padded her mandible, while several whiskers poked out from her chubby muzzle. Black eyeshadow drenched her drooping eyelids. She was always drowsy, whether from her bored temperament or from her predilection for binges. Long, orange bangs draped between her triangular ears and over her right eye. Over the back of her head, her hair fell short of her shoulders.

She cracked a burp into her fist, rippling her cheeks and wobbling her tits. "Ah, fuck... I overdid it on the lasagna again."

Jon's blood boiled. "Did you binge all of my TV dinners in a single night?!

She thumbed to the end table by the chair, where one, solitary lasagna remained untouched. "There's still one left."

"That's beside the point! For Chrissakes, the amount of my food that you eat is more than your share of the rent!"

Gothfield blinked, disinterested. "It's not my fault the record store pays like shit. Anyway, I need a belly rub."

Jon hesitated. "What was that?"

She set the lasagna trays aside on the table. "Don't make it weird. It's just my stomach." She patted her stiff tummy, jiggling it.

Jon shook his head. "You rub it yourself. I need dinner."

Gothfield chortled. "Alright, Jon. Do the same thing you do every night. Eat dinner in front of the TV. Sit there while it buries you in images and sounds. Then drag yourself to your bed and sob yourself to sleep."

"Better than you! You just sit and eat and get fat!"

"Whatever. You just don't get it." Gothfield scritched her lower stomach, kneading its doughy girth. Her fingers toyed enticingly at its thick, plush heft.

Jon gulped. He knelt by Gothfield and put his hands on her hard, upper gut.

It held tight under his fingertips. Its bulbous exterior burbled busily.

His fingers trembled nervously at the tender feeling of her taut stomach. Carefully, he stroked it. "You sound like you're actually happy with this!" He felt the urge to grope it, but he restrained himself.

Gothfield mewed, and she raised her forepaws with limp wrists. "I don't do 'happy.' But it's not half bad."

Jon lowered to her spare tire. His hands opened wide to catch its full thickness.

Her obesity filled his palms, soft and warm. No wonder she slept so much; her body was a calm, comforting pillow.

He gently raised that lower roll, testing its heft. He could feel the gluttonous pounds that Gothfield had stacked on. Jon bit his lip. "I can see where all my hard work went. Your stomach's so bulky."

Gothfield raised a brow. "Your hard work? Putting vapid little images down on paper?"

Jon's hands wandered down to her thighs. He pet them firmly, and his palms gorged on her flowing obesity. "I... I make people's days a bit brighter. That's worthwhile."

Gothfield took Jon's hands and placed them on her stomach. She pressed his hands hard against her bloated midsection. Her plump forepaws held him in their soft grip, while her swollen gut pushed out against his hands. Then, she let go. "Hnngh... That's okay, but it could be better. Would you try from behind?" She gripped the arms of the chair, then pumped her chunky thighs to haul herself upright. Once she stood, her sloshing gut and tubby tits wobbled above Jon.

Jon shook his head. "From behind?! Like--like sitting behind you on the chair?!"

Gothfield glared down at Jon, through the valley of her overflowing tits and down the hill of her bulbous gut. "Yes, Jon. That's what 'behind' means."

Jon climbed up into the recliner and spread his legs. "Well, alright..."

Gothfield pitched her hips back and put her rotund ass in his face. Her poofy tail slinked side to side. Two round cheeks pushed her skirt up, flashing the dimples at the bottom of her butt. Her ass faced him with two gelatinous globes of orange lard. Below, her meaty thighs sealed together with a tall, vertical bulge.

She sat, squishing her fat backside against his groin. Her hips and thighs overwhelmed his legs, draping over them with plush curves. She leaned back against Jon, and her plump love handles hugged his stomach. Her cushy fur swaddled him against the chair. Her blubber overwhelmed him with velvety weight.

Jon's pants felt uncomfortably tight. He shifted his hips to ease the tension at their crotch. His white-knuckled hands clutched the arms of the chair.

Gothfield's ass cheeks hugged his sudden length. "Are you going to rub or what?"

As Jon's erection popped firmer, Gothfield's fat, yielding butt molded around it all too happily.

Jon's voice cracked. "OF CO--ahem--of course." He ripped his fingers off the chair and applied them to Gothfield's sides. His biceps hugged her flabby arms, his forearms supported her copious sideboobs, and his clammy, nervous hands met her warm, welcoming tummy.

Gothfield purred. "Murrrr. Get under my shirt. I need you to rub one out."

Jon choked. "Excuse me?!"

"Burp, dickweed. I need you to rub a burp out so I can make room for the last lasagna."

"Oh." Jon worked his trembling hands up and down Gothfield's tense midsection. He rubbed down, pushing his hands against her swollen, squishy lower roll. He rubbed up, nudging his hands under her dense, braless tits. His grip clutched tight to her round belly, and his fingers fluffed through the fur on her stretched skin.

Gothfield shifted her blubbery butt backwards, squishing its fat over his cock. She pulled her hips forward, dragging her plump rump down his manhood and against his balls. She purred lusciously as she gyrated.

Jon's fingers held tighter to her as his arousal mounted. His fingers squeezed pressure into her stomach.

Her gut gurgled in response, and a squelch wormed up her esophagus. She belched, "BRAWP!" She fell limp against Jon. "Ahh, thank fuck. Now I have room for the last lasagna."

Jon rubbed her stomach. His fingers pressed easier into her midsection now. His heart thumped against her pudgy upper back.

Gothfield looked back, flicking her hair against Jon's face. "Well?"

"Oh! I mean, to get you a fork, I need you to get up."

Gothfield raised an arm, dangling her rotund arm flab. She put an index claw on the remaining lasagna tray and pulled it closer to the chair. "I'm not getting up. Just use your hand."

Jon kept one hand on her gut. He lifted his other hand to the lasagna tray and scooped out a handful. By now, the pasta was lukewarm. Grabbing it unleashed a salty, tangy aroma. "You are ridiculous, you know that?" He pulled his hand up to Gothfield's face.

Gothfield lunged her mouth into Jon's hand and scraped her teeth against his palm, scratching it. "Whadeffer," she said through a mouthful of food. She gulped that down and licked the rest off of his hand with warm, moist tongue strokes. She slurped happily out of his palm.

Jon dug out another handful and lifted it to Gothfield. His other hand pawed at her belly, rubbing large circles over its bloated bulk.

She scarfed that piece down. As she chewed, her hips wiggled happily, grinding her thick thighs against his legs. Her excited tail curled left and right and stroked Jon's chin.

He scraped out the rest of the lasagna. "Are you ready for the last piece?" His belly arm extended as far as it could, and his middle finger barely reached the lip of her pursing navel. He toyed at the plump seal of fat over her belly button.

Gothfield lapped wordlessly at Jon's hand. She caressed her wet tongue along the length of it, massaging it. She moaned while she sucked down the last of the microwaved pasta dish. "Mmmm. Now, lift my tits."

Jon scoffed. "Let me guess. It's not sexual. You just want the weight taken off of your stuffed belly." He planted both hands on her glutted gut.

Gothfield's stomach crooned. "Huh? No, it's sexual."

Jon's hands floated upwards. "But we're roommates." He cupped under her large boobs.

Her breasts puffed between his fingers. They sat as heavy, round mounds, cascading past his grip. "Shut up."

Jon squeezed her underboobs. He felt their weight in his biceps.

Their doughy expanses swelled far beyond his hand, and they squished like putty in his fingertips.

Jon reached forward. The base of his hands supported her knockers, while his middle fingers ventured to her plump areolas. He tickled at them, brushing the tender skin that emerged bare from her fur. Then, he poked her nipples. He found them stiff, and he flicked them like light switches.

Gothfield purred, long and low, with trilling Rs. "Mrrrrrr, mrrrrr, mrrrr." Her hips wagged back, grinding her fat ass into Jon's throbbing cock. Her obese cheeks swelled around his hips, and her deep crack hugged his protruding manhood with blubber.

Jon's balls tensed. His cock burst. Hot cum shot through him. "Ungh--!" The thick seed pumped into his pants and flooded back against him. He clenched his eyes in pleasure, and his hands clenched into her big, round boobs.

Gothfield kept grinding. Her immense rump squished over his lap and up his abs, while her pudgy thighs draped over his legs. "Damn, Odie's home already. I fucking hate Mondays." But she didn't stop.

Jon opened his eyes. "Crap!" His hands froze, still groping Gothfield's tits.

Odie stood right before them. Her legs, thick as tree trunks, stuffed her pink yoga pants. Her golden, tubby gut hung bare over her waistband and slapped against her thighs. Two huge breasts, each twice the size of her head, stretched her sports bra. Her tongue slacked out of her clueless snout, and two brown ears flopped over the sides of her head. "Hey, buds! That looks like fun!"