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Clancy knew from previous attempts the worst part would be how long it would take.

He'd tried this too many times before. He scratched the woolly brown of his shoulder. He was a yak with stubby horns; a little on the short side, broad shouldered but gangly because he didn't work out. Somehow not fully into "flabby" territory despite his recent binges.

He felt the heat of shame bubble down in his gut. He planned whole weeks around these things. Fasting for the whole day and a half prior and then a full day afterward to make sure he wouldn't show from all his consumption. Buying up the groceries in bits at different places so as not to feel ashamed in the checkout line. Clearing his (let's be honest, not too crowded) social calendar just to have a day to blow all those hours after work cooking and gorging. The budgeting to stop at two or three places on the way home from work to make sure he had

Too.

Much.

Food.

That was the point. To allow himself to get ravenously hungry and then cook it all up or bring it in the door if he was tired. To lay it out on the family-size dinner table he always ate at alone. To gaze at it all, the sheer volume of it that he desperately, deeply, physically needed to have inside himself. To fill the hole.

And he'd eat. And it would take a long, long time. It was a lot of matter to transition from his exterior to his interior, and a mouth was a small thing to move it all one lil' unit at a time. And he'd eat and eat, a sense of satisfaction so odd and wispy and deviant mingling with the shame of the knowledge of how wasteful and gluttonous and sad he was. And sometimes he was on the verge of tears and sometimes he just ate numbly, biting, chewing and swallowing mechanically and still somehow feeling an unshakable certainty in the perception that this was somehow good.

And he'd never eat more than at most one and a half pizzas out of the almost a hundred dollars of stuff on the table that went straight into the fridge. Except certain types of fast food hamburgers he no longer purchased because they would never be worth shit cold, even with sriracha.

And tonight, again. He'd put on a shitty old grey pocket tee (Christ, how'd he even have one of those?) and jeans that needed a washing. He'd gone big tonight and kicked himself the whole time because he'd had to put it all on the card and the bill would be coming due. On top of the dull yellow tablecloth was a stack of three pizzas, all the 'herbivore option' from Frank's. Three bags from SubBurger (all curry melts because the meat alternative, when it wasn't the curry, tasted like shit) with an extra order of large fries. And $50 worth of heavy, somehow-glutinous crap from TacoTia.

Three large sodas. He didn't know why he even had them on the table. Not drinking that stuff with all this food was probably the only reason he didn't already have diabetes. He'd bought groceries last week for a huge home cooking feast and not felt up to it. The cupboards and fridge practically groaned with surplus nutrition that Clancy couldn't help but imagine fitting inside himself.

His stomach did a slow kind of somersault and a small, happy buzz seemed to glow dull there for a moment before fading like a lighting bug. His skin crawled under his fleece a little as he sat down ahead of the table full of needless, beautiful food.

He reached out to the pizzas. God, he was short enough he had to scoot forward in his seat and push his arms as far forward as he could just to pull the box off the stack and to his place at the table. When he opened the pizza box and the warm, scented steam hit him the worry floated away. Frank's used a weird, so-close-to-cornbread-it-was-scary crust. It was heavy, sugary and the pie as a whole practically sloshed when you jiggled the box. He usually didn't patronize Franks for his gorges (leftovers were honestly kind of a nightmare with pizza this substantial). But it had been a really shitty week at work and he needed this. He popped one of the enormous slices from the family-sized pie and bit into it. Chorizo, mushrooms, black olives and okra. Fucking okra. It never ceased to make Clancy smile. He had to start going to Frank's more often.

He bit down and the hot grease, largely contained in the sponge of the crust, flooded his mouth. He took the biggest bite he could. He giggled while chewing, remembering how his feline friends back in school had been mad his mouth was so much bigger than theirs. He wished it was the size of a steam shovel, his teeth great rows of indestructible tines, but alas. He loved this feeling and savored it, the sweet and salty mass turning to batter on his tongue as he chewed. He swallowed and almost felt happy his ravenous hunger from the fast didn't feel abated in the least.

He bit and chewed, slowly consuming his way. He'd smoked a little pot beforehand but was now thinking that might have been a mistake. He craved that impossible sensation, the one in all the porn stories and RPs online. That feeling of being a living balloon, inflating from the breath of prosperity to become so big and full that the world faded away.

But here he was, as if from out of a trance, and the first pizza gone! He felt it all in there, but it was odd. He didn't feel full. Not sated or uncomfortable or still hungry. It was almost as if his gut was just... numb.

There was a weird stirring in his nethers at that thought. He scratched his shoulder again.

He pulled the next pizza down and got to work. It was almost funny that he thought of it that way, as work. He enjoyed these feasts, the idea of them burning bright and pure sometimes in the middle of the day. There at work in front of god and everybody so vivid he worried they could see. The vision of himself marching into the building cafeteria and just gorging on everything. Sprawling out with his clothes in burst tatters around him, sloshing like a skin aquarium. And he'd get just a little hard under his chinos and turn to face the water cooler.

And here he kept swallowing, feeling it blend into a dough of pure sodium bliss and slither down inside of him where he almost wished it could replace his organs. Somewhere around now, pizza two or halfway into the gallon casserole dish filled with baked spaghetti, he'd feel that he couldn't do any more if shame hadn't stopped him already. He had a modest, somewhat perceptible bloat to his belly like he always did at this point. And he held that little hope, wishing just once for his belly to do him the small favor of ignoring the laws of physics and grant a simple boy's wish. To just grow enormous and round and, if it wasn't too much trouble, pull him up along with it, size restrictions on the spine be dammed. To just fill up and up and up and become like a great fat replacement for those enormous Buddha statues in the tropics.

But he kept eating, happily not numb to the sloppy wet beauty of the pizzas. And what was this? All gone? He was almost a little worried. He looked down at his stomach, and it was beautiful. It was actually so full and distended that it struggled visibly against his old t-shirt. He pulled the third pizza in, and impossibly it was just as steamy and fresh as the first one he'd begun eating an hour ago. The clock confirmed the time that had elapsed, but it seemed to have flown by. All that tedium of biting and pushing it into the blissful receptacle of his gut must have passed by quickly with all this recollecting and consideration. This was mindful, he though with a dollop of hippy guilt. This was intentional, cleansing gluttony.

Clancy feasted and savored and then... he was done. Still that numbness in his gut, but with a beautiful ambient warmth of heaviness. He knew by all common sense he should stop. He'd eaten three of that New Jersey maniac's pizzas. His stomach bulged now, full of cornmeal and vegan cheese and contentment. He knew there was a possibility that something was wrong, that a nerve cluster had died somewhere and he'd plug his colon and have to shit in a bag after this if he believed he could keep eating. But he rubbed his massive, distended not-too-tight belly. It was a dream, something that had obsessed him in a way he'd sought since feeling it when he was too young to know it as arousal.

His belly was so beautifully big, sloping forward like the easiest ski slope one could care to traverse. His stringy brown fleece protruded from under his shirt and the whole bulging roll of it sucking in to the black hole of his belly button, now a cave into a mountain of wonders and dreams. Below his gut and between his legs he felt the stirring again.

Clancy pulled the first burger bag forward.

He sucked down half of one of the needlessly huge sodas (fuck it, why not?) and then grabbed the giant squeeze jug of chipotle mayo he'd had on the table. Catsup was for poor deluded souls lacking imagination. This was what sealed the deal. He unwrapped the burger, two patties of delicious scented meat alternative running with hot greases that had their own wonder apart from beef. Each patty topped with slices of some pepper jack alternative that stretched and slopped about in his mouth like the real deal. Topped with a mass of deep fried jalapenos and cumin powder and puffs of other magnificent spices that made his eyes water just a little. But first he squirted a small flood of the sickly pink mayo onto the unfolded wrapper and seized a third of the carton of fries in a single handful. He dipped them into the glop and, rotating the bundle to lose not a single sacred calorie to drippage thrust them into his mouth.

He chewed and felt hot greasy starch meld with spices and protein and all the blessed components of sustenance. He swallowed and they almost felt like they warmed his whole chest as they slid down to join the other ingredients of his fulfillment. Two more handfuls ingested with the same ritual, and he seized the burger in both hands. He tore a massive bite away more savagely than intended, but after swallowing the delectable spicy mass he attacked the remainder of the burger with the same gusto. He picked up and quickly drained the three sodas in succession.

It was done, and he was reaching for the next bag, the one with the extra order of fries. The AC was running faintly in the background, but he was vaguely aware of the sound of his gut gurgling and bubbling over the soft hiss of the vents. He shoveled the meal in, and this was not his usual shameful slog. As he felt in real time(!) his gut pushing outward as he bit and tore and chewed and propelled inside him the warm soft matter of his passion, he felt the warmth radiating from his tummy and spreading up into his chest. This was not lonely, mechanical chewing and swallowing out of a compulsive sense of fetishistic duty. This was love, this was beauty. The third bag was in his hands and then it was empty. Clancy didn't bother to look at the clock. He didn't care. His gut was not numb now but reassuringly warm. He leaned back in the creaking chair and rubbed the fuzzy brown sack of his belly about half again as big as a basketball. He did not feel full. He felt warm and just a hair short of fulfilled that sent his pulse racing. He could fit in more food! He felt the edges of his eyes grow wet and something stiff and tuberous push against his jeans and the underside of his belly. He grabbed the first of two TacoTia bags.

Clamshell Styrofoam containers stacked three high to a bag, two bags total. He popped one opened and used the dinky plastic fork supplied to shovel the warm starchy sides of beans and rice into his gullet. Then he attacked the sloppy smothered burrito and savored the thick, almost syrupy melted pseudo-cheese before it all went down. Open, ingest and discard. He knew the time must have been ticking by but he did not care. Two empty plastic bags and a stack of empty Styrofoam on the pile of refuse by his chair.

His seat creaked, like in a fetish comic, and he lolled his head back in ecstasy. He could feel it all inside, warm and friendly and a part of him now as much as his memories and ambitions. He had earned it and brought it into his body, the sacred temple of his dreams of size and fulfillment and being achingly, biologically in need to consume. With a pang of hesitation Clancy craned his neck forward and finally observed himself.

His belly, great and warm and practically roiling with the churning of his conquest, was indeed the fabled size of a beach ball. Heavy and pulling him forward like some kind of summons to destiny. He could hear it at a soft whisper now, glops and mwhelps and bwwhmmees and all the little noises of acid and muscles and valves making all that glorious sustenance a part of him. This great distended sack of curly brown hair, jiggling softly and resting out just a hair shy of his knees. He slapped its width and closed his eyes, savoring the ecstasy of its mass rolling to and fro like an ocean.

He turned his head to the side, taking in the cupboards and the refrigerator, and a devious and beautiful realization occurred to him. He did not feel sated. He was certainly not still hungry, but he had not yet inflated up to a small planet and escaped the gravity of this cruel place. He was not yet satisfied.

Even as he rose with great difficulty from the chair and gamboled over to the refrigerator he knew this was madness. Some fiber of his decency was yelling at him that surely it must be two in the morning, with tasks on the agenda tomorrow even if it was his day off. But as he did an awkward little dance to swing the fridge door open without striking his beautiful, distended belly he didn't care. If you dream of wandering a chocolate factory each night and wake before you can put the first morsel in your mouth you don't exit the one time you manage to stay sleeping. The warmth was growing and spreading now, as his frame had grown and his member, somewhere down there, had as well. He felt buoyed by his walking dream, his swing at perfection, and as the stacks and stacks of leftovers and sealed dished greeted him in the cheery yellow glow of the fridge interior he felt proud.

I'm finally a huge fat sack of shit mom, except now I'm happy.

He flopped to the floor, ass to linoleum and his belly smooshing against the crisper as a perfect rounded table. He grabbed containers by the handful and consumed, full tilt, feeling like a typhoon of soft flavorful fulfillment was rushing into him one bite at a time. Fried asparagus and chocolate sauce by the bottle and a giant tub of garlic mashed potatoes. A pie he must've gotten from mom or Kyle at work. Hands smeared, fleece stained, his t-shirt riding up over the clevage that had started to form on his chest. He noticed he was filling out, getting pudgy all over. It felt like a series of soft warm blankets were wrapping themselves around him as if from the ether. His pants were getting tight and he had the odd impression that he was having to hunch down in the aperture of the refrigerator as though it had grown smaller. He gorged and gorged and gorged, and when he'd sucked the last bottle of that delicious chipotle mayo dry he fell back onto the floor and rode the wave of his undulating flesh.

There was a pop and a scratch of tearing fabric as his belt snapped open, his top button gave way and the zipper tore right out of his pants. He let out a sigh and it gurgled slightly, heavy and bubbly. He rolled his eyed toward his forehead and noticed his horns were nearly abutting the cabinets on the other side of the room from the fridge. Looking back down in time to see his jeans tear along the seams and fall away he took it all in. He'd blown up, flowed outward in all directions, and despite the sheer impossibility he'd pushed upward too to make room for all he'd consumed. This was too much, too wild, too perfect. He was some Brobdingnagian monstrosity of calories and overcompensation, a great swollen brown puff of misplaced resources and soft wet noises, and he felt so warm and loved (by who he could not articulate) that he was surprised the massive erection he could feel down there hadn't just gone off into the crisper drawer.

With a creak here and a squeak there the cupboard doors were opening, and thick running currents of hot, succulent food poured forth. Rolling and slopping down onto the counter and then across the floor (damn I should have mopped, he thought) and running together toward his helpless and eager maw. Crawling up his great distended belly and between his new cleavage without need for his teeth but with plenty of delight for his tongue. A great warm river of nutrition was engulfing every sensory aspect of his culinary yearnings and sliding into him, joining him, validating the great warm unarticulatable desire to be huge and whole and sated. His belly gurgled and grew, sloshing and spreading out to the sides and pressing down on his dick and warming the full length of both thighs with its girth now. He closed his eyes and took it all in and wanted to shout and cry with joy but savored the endless deluge of food instead.

He heard his windows and doors squeak and they opened to admit a gliding river of delights, cakes and pastas and burritos and so much heavy, fragrant, delicious validation of a wish he'd never voiced to a soul. Plumping and surging and feeling himself stretch and slosh as he grew and bloated and softened and felt himself press against the superfluous structure of his home. He heard the crackling of some wall or other give way and felt cool summer grass replace hard floor beneath him, but still he bulged and gurgled.

He felt a great fire inside him now, merry and blindingly hot. Energy, the energy of power and comfort and peace, pumping into him as the food surged in and in. He opened his eyes just once more, in time to see his belly swell to eclipse the moon from where he lay. And then he closed them and softly kneaded his ever-growing gut with the biggest open-mouth grin he could manage as the meal kept pouring in. He gurgled and jiggled and cried in happiness from eyelids tightly pressed, waiting for gravity to leave him.

And he continued to fatten.