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Monty picked listlessly at the crumbs cascading down his chest, trying to hold in the tears. It worked for twelve seconds and then they flowed, accompanied by the sobs that racked his frame head to hoof and jiggled the flabby prison that was his body. All three-hundred and ten pounds of buck naked bull flesh jiggled and swayed as he sobbed in long low notes like a ship's horn. Half the store-bought chocolate cake lay on his bed next to him in a swamp of crumbs and spilled icing from where he'd scooped messy handfuls into his mouth. Tears ran down his billowy cheeks behind his glasses and both his chins jiggled with the unrestrained release of his sorrow.

He was alone on his birthday, eating himself to death alone without even the usual video or musical accompaniment. He'd always reassured his mother that he was happy being a loner. He told her of the divorces and broken homes of the people who'd been his friends when they'd all been forced to cohabitate in school, but those relationships had been years ago. He'd thought it would be better to be home for his birthday instead of on the road this year, but he missed the truck. At least behind the wheel of his rig he could listen to the radio and feel like he was fulfilling his purpose as he ate up the miles on his routes. But he had no one to impress or confide in, and he didn't have the self-control to avoid eating up stacks of flapjacks and burgers and gravy fries and all the other shit that put him into a food coma at the truck stop so he could sleep. And he'd awake with the acid crawling up his esophagus and lay there in his bunk crying, fearing the damage he'd do to his knees if he tried to go for a walk to clear his head.

On his most recent route when he'd finally broken down and tried to hire that egret lot lizard. She'd laughed when he'd opened the door, him sitting there crammed behind the wheel in his brown pocket polo. He'd slammed the door on her and laid his head on the wheel to cry. In the morning, he noticed the mark on his window from the spit glob she'd fired. He'd eaten ten pancakes that morning and a double cheeseburger with chili fries for lunch. After he'd dropped off the truck and trailer he'd eaten at a hellish chain sports pub by himself, drinking beer after beer as deliberately as he could to avoid the looks of disgust from the fit young men hollering at the ballgame from the bar. He'd eaten a whole plate of nachos and fifteen soy-wings. He'd almost driven straight home, but he'd somehow convinced himself that if he bought a cake and consoled himself one last time in bed maybe it would be okay. People had stared at him and shaken their heads while he roamed the long, dingy aisles of the big box store carrying a whole cake; that was nothing new. It was the Maltese skater kid yelling at him in the parking lot that had gotten him. Back in the day he'd been a champ, a wrestler and an icon to his coach and teammates. Back in the day he could've twisted the little shit's head off. But the kid kept yelling, eyes red as rubies with his skateboard under his arm, and Monty knew that before he'd waddled within ten feet of the kid at anything resembling speed his heart would explode.

And now, alone in his studio apartment, he sobbed like he had when he was five and his mother had loomed over him, screaming and twisting his stubby little horn so hard he thought his skull would crack. He was so full he felt like he would barf.

He leaned back against his headboard, the last of the sobs jiggling his male cleavage as he ran sticky fingers through his greasy hair. He wanted to finish the cake, though he had no more room inside, and then follow it up with a few gallons of ice cream and some waffles and a few buckets of fried anything and to just keep eating and eating until he'd swelled up like Alice in her little room, trapped inside but at least big. Big and fleshy and so incredibly immense that the world could not penetrate his gravity. He wanted to swell up and up forever, becoming a planet of one while all the hate remained behind on shitty old earth. They could fucking have it. They'd sure as shit had him.

He plucked out one more massive handful of crumbly mediocre cake, letting it sit in his hand until the icing warmed and ran a little, staining his comforter black. He wanted to raise it to his mouth but could not feel the empty pocket inside necessary to fit it in. If he exploded and splattered the walls with his adipose at least he wouldn't have to go back on the road.

"At least try to eat it," a feminine voice said flatly. "You're strong enough to try."

His head snapped up as quickly as the fat encumbering it allowed, and at the foot of the bed stood a tall midnight-blue mouse. She had long claws painted deep gold and eyebrow rings in both brows he'd have thought lame if she wasn't so imposing. She wore a red leather skirt and a flannel shirt tied in a knot over her small breasts. Her body was firm and toned, athletic and dangerous.

She crawled forward onto the bed, his fat jiggling as her hands and knees swayed the already strained mattress. She slid her hand under his and roughly forced the cake to his mouth. "You have to push for something," she said. He chewed and swallowed, feeling nauseous and almost choking with the speed he was consuming, but when the slice was gone she lifted the remainder of the cake on its crappy plastic platter to his face. "Put your face into it!" she barked, and pulled him by the hair forward into the damp, crumbly mass of the desert. He chewed and swallowed as quickly as he could, feeling his gut churn and gurgle with the strain. He ate and ate, trying to at least enjoy the sticky chocolate sweetness of the food while gasping for air.

But sooner than he'd expected it was gone, and she seized his jaw roughly in her hand. "You want it, don't you? To eat like this? To be big? To not let them define you? Aren't you willing to at least work for that?"

His gut churned and gurgled, pulsing with the strain of carrying its load. He belched and she grinned deviously. "It hurts," he groaned. His eyes were tearing, causing the chocolate smeared around his face to run.

"That's why I'll help you," she said and lifted a long sub sandwich to his lips. She forced his lower jaw open with one hand and began sliding the hoagie into his maw. He was chewing and swallowing as fast as he could, but he could barely keep pace with her. Soon the sandwich was gone and she had a pail of tomato soup, at least three gallons, that she brought to his lips and poured in. His belly squealed in protest, but he could feel the food flowing into him. It smelled acidic and somehow animal, like it was mixed with cream. Or goat's milk. And even with the ache in his gut, he liked it. It was almost as though he were charging, gaining energy and will from all the mass he was digesting. When the soup was gone he belched loudly, his stomach trying to clear room. But everything stayed down.

She had a platter piled with chocolate chip cookies in her hands and a stone butch expression. She slid her legs around his wobbling belly and roughly pulled back on his hair. She began cramming the cookies, each at least the size of a saucer, into his mouth. They were moist, buttery and heavy, and bent and folded as she crammed them in. He was swallowing chunks large enough to tickle his gag reflex, but he didn't have time to chew more thoroughly. She held his hair back tightly, winding it deep between her fingers. All he could see with his head held back was the white popcorn ceiling and her face from the top of her muzzle up. Her brows were furrowed and her eyes gleamed, but other than moaning from the ache of his hair being pulled he did not protest.

Eventually the bull swallowed the last of the cookies and she released his hair. His head snapped forward and he let out another moan, reaching to massage his belly. It had bloated substantially from its already rotund shape. He ached from overfullness but his mind was spinning with the thrill of inhabiting this impossible moment. She slapped him roughly several times across the span of his distended gut, sneering and giggling. "You're hanging in there, right? Not going to give up on me now?"

"Gods no," he gasped. "I wanna do more... Please. Help me."

She was scooting around him, gripping the back of his neck tightly in her hand and pinching under his ear. He saw a steaming plate of tortellini resting where she had sat, and while he was still trying to collect his thoughts he felt her grab both his wrists.

She twisted his hands up in a wresting hold he knew well, and her knee pressed into his back and pushed. Monty bent forward, the tendons in his legs burning from the awkward stretch and his bellyache sharpened with his distended stomach pushed hard into the bed. She pressed his face directly into the pasta and he consumed greedily, partly in an attempt not to be suffocated by his food. He gorged, tasting the tang of the sauces and the burn of the hot cheese smearing around the inside of his mouth. His face was stained and sloppy with sauce and he could feel his innards churning. He'd swallowed the last of the little pastas when she removed her leg from his back and released his arms. He shook them out for the briefest of moments before her arm slid around his neck and she pulled him upright in a headlock. She was not squeezing tightly enough to restrict his breathing or swallowing, but he felt her clamp his head into immobility. She forced a full gallon of milk to his lips with her free hand and jammed the opening roughly into his mouth. It tasted odd, not sour but perhaps... earthier than normal? He drank and drank, feeling his belly slosh and burble.

Monty could feel not just his belly inflating but his whole body sagging and growing fatter. His legs settling and jiggling, his arms growing softer and flabbier. His neck was bulging against her grip, but when the gallon was empty she chucked it roughly against the wall and another was quickly at his lips. He could feel himself fleshing out to the sides, settling and widening as the bed creaked and squealed. As soon as he'd finish each gallon another would be in its place after she'd chucked it. His belly ached and gurgled but he forced himself to consume. After he finished the tenth or fifteenth gallon of milk it was bottles of chocolate syrup. He gulped them down, pushing with his esophagus muscles to force the liquids in. He could not look down with his head ensnared but he felt he must have been pushing five hundred pounds by now.

After several gallons of the chocolate sauce she did not raise another bottle to his lips. She tightened her grip, constricting his windpipe not enough to suffocate but enough to silence his speech. She bit his ear roughly and growled. Monty moaned, low and plaintive, pain mixing with ecstasy and his body burned and churned. Back in his wrestling days he'd been famous for his ability to withstand the cheap shots most of his opponents employed. Getting your balls twisted or a thumb into your kidney was par for the course, and he'd always powered through and won with clean, strong moves. He could feel that old power returning, the strength in the face of a challenge. Hell, he could feel himself becoming more physically powerful. He cocked his arms in a low flex, elbows out, and felt new muscle bulging under his flab. What the fuck?

All of this was, objectively, too much. He didn't care. It burned clean and pure and powerful, and he wanted more.

He had just enough flexibility in his arms to reach back and lock his hands behind her head. He rolled forward on the bulge of his gut and flipped her over his shoulders, laying her out with her legs flopping over the end of the bed. Her heels slammed against the footboard and she let out a sharp grunt. "Who are you?" he wheezed, out of breath despite the new strength in his growing muscles. She reached up, clenching his hair in her fingers again, and headbutted him roughly on the brow. The bull rolled back, his belly weighing him to the bed, and she pounced atop him. She pressed her supple ass firmly into his overstuffed belly, sharp pains shooting out from where she applied pressure. She was scooping pilaf into his mouth one messy handful at a time and he gorged it down to keep from choking. She shoveled and shoveled, each bite causing more shooting pains to emanate from under her ass. It felt so good and so bad and he was losing his sense of orientation. He could still feel himself bulking under his growing flab. If this didn't kill him he was going to be able to get all the bear sex he could want.

"Be assertive! Fight for it!" she screamed, gritting her teeth and growling. She continued to shovel food into his jaws.

Monty clasped his hands around her ankles and rolled to the side, propelling her sideways completely off the bed. She crashed into his dresser and knocked his zippo collection and stacks of books all over the floor. Monty heaved himself up to a sitting position and swung his legs over the foot of the bed, but she'd seized his thick paperback history of rave music from the floor and swung it repeatedly into his belly. It landed each time with a loud dull whump and he let out a cough and, flushing with embarrassment, a long belch. He'd closed his eyes in pain and he felt her grab his ears, then force his head between her small tits. It was... welcoming, despite the fact he couldn't breathe and his gut was still roiling painfully. Keeping his head between her tits, she rocked backward and pulled him to a standing position (gods, she was strong) and spun him around into the wall. The impact of his 600-plus pound frame shook the whole room and the framed family picture from his childhood fell to the floor, the glass shattering. It was the only wall decoration in the room.

The deep blue amazon released him from her cleavage but thrust a forearm into his throat and began shoveling huge, sloppy handfuls of peanut butter into him. It tasted musky and gritty; it was the fancy grind-you-own stuff you could get at the organic supermarket. The one where the dreadlocked poodle kid had scoffed when Monty had had three types of 'earth-friendly' chocolate bars in his basket. She forced handful after handful into his mouth, not giving him time to chew and smearing his snout, neck and her forearm with fancy vegan protein. His belly ached and sloshed and he felt his ass fattening into the wall.

He brought his arms forward and wrapped them around her torso as he would for a suplex, pushing off against the wall with one leg. His massive bulk shifted forward and they both collided with the ground in a thunderous crash. The cops would probably be arriving soon, and he had no idea what he'd say.

She bit hungrily into his ear again and he rolled off her. She didn't unclench his jaw and he pulled her with him head-first as he struggled to a sitting position. She placed her foot against the footboard of his bed and launched forward, knocking him flat on his back to the floor. She laid out atop his belly, her massive ass jutting toward the ceiling from the crest of his belly and her tits settling into his man-cleavage. Then she was mashing doughnuts into his face as fast as she was able. Monty's belly gurgled and groaned like the ballast of an ocean liner, and he watched her ass rise and rise toward the cheesy patterned ceiling as he gorged.

He ate in a state of delirious, aching mania. His belly was boiling with flab, sloshing to the sides of his frame and making love handles the size of car tires fold over along his sides. His neck fat expanded and swelled up around the base of his skull, swaddling his throat like an impossibly thick adipose scarf. He moved his arms to intercept hers, but when they were within his view he could only marvel as much as his feasting allowed. They were massive. Fatty yes, but bulked with a bodybuilder's musculature and with veins snaking visibly under the fur of his hands.

She snarled, grinning that wicked grin, and paused her feeding to clasp his hands in hers. They struggled, muscles bulging and straining as each sought to pin the other. He was winning, but she headbutted him in the snout and shooting stars blinded him. She roughly seized one of his horns and forced his head to the side, cramming in eclairs faster than he could swallow them. They piled up and burst in his mouth, spilling cream over his face and the hardwood floor.

Monty's belly rumbled with enough force to make her body quiver. He felt her breasts jiggle against his own chest flab, and she grunted in time to his belly's noises of protest. His stabbing pains shot through his belly intermittently on top of the pervasive dull ache from his ludicrous overfullness, but he gave in to his desire to gorge and ravaged the deserts she forced into him. He banged his massive arms against the floor, fighting through the ache, and flopped his hooves helplessly at the end of legs that seemed little more than overstuffed pillars of doughy fat despite his muscles bulging underneath.

She fed and fed him, letting him gasp for breath only as often as necessary to keep him from passing out. Eclairs, brownies, slices of pizza and so much more was shoveled into his swelling, groaning belly. He fought the pain as he'd fought every opponent in his glory days, wincing and willing himself to be strong. And when he finally, truly felt he would burst, she stopped.

Tears streamed from eyes he forced shut, his stomach aching as though he'd been hit with a truck. He felt her roll off him and land heavily on the floor before slapping his massive, jiggling belly one last time. He belched and felt vomit rising in his throat, but he held it down. She gripped his shoulders and heaved, but could not lift him. He struggled slightly, but with his new massive musculature and her help he sat up, sloshing audibly.

"Look, open your eyes and look," she said flatly. Not coldly, but directly. Goosebumps crawled along his flesh.

He opened his eyes and peered into the mirror above his dresser, somehow not shattered in the long strange feeding fight they'd had. He was disgusting and beautiful, every centimeter of his brown hairy frame dimpled and striated and drooping with rolls of fat and cords of muscle. He must have weighed over a thousand pounds by now. His face was a swollen mask, his glasses askew on the rolls of fat encasing his cheeks and snout. His gurgling belly was a sloping brown mountain with enough volume to contain the contents of a small backyard pool. Fat legs like long, overstuffed flour sacks stuck out from either side of his belly, hooves dangling up off the floor and barely protruding from the fatty ends of his ankles. His arms looked muscular but there was no hiding the jiggling waddles of fat that flapped from them with every tiny movement. His belly hurt like a fire was lit inside it and it wobbled with the violence of attempting to digest all she'd crammed within.

"You fought for it. You used to and you can again." She tweaked his nipples and hissed in his ear, then nibbled a little too sharply for his tastes on the folds of his neck.

He swung his left hand to her right shoulder as quickly as he could and roughly pulled her around to lay before him, sprawled atop the quivering slope that was his belly. He gripped her wrists tightly in his hands and fixed her with the most vicious gaze his pudginess would allow.

"Feed me," he commanded.

She barred her teeth in a grin, already forcing a burger into his mouth.