The Harem on the Hill (Part XLIX) (Patreon)

"Turn off the gas.  I'm going to be here a while."

"Are you sure?  Morgan will be pissed once it wears off."

You scan the young policewoman’s beached whale body.  "So what?"

"God, I love you."

You don't respond.  Your feelings for Tina are as muddled as your mind, which is still addled from the doped-up purgatory she put you in.  That matter can wait, however.  You have a mountain of flesh before you on which to exercise your frustrations.

The whoosh of the air conditioner fades and the fog in your head slowly lifts.  As you begin to feel normal, you wonder how much longer until Morgan realizes just how far from normal she is.

"Are you ready to frisk me yet?  Tina told me you were frisky."  Morgan's doughy face lolls from side to side.  "Frisky, frisk me, frisky, frisk me."

"In a bit.  How are you feeling, Morgan?"

"FAT!"  Morgan shouts in a voice far too loud for the quiet room.

"Nonsense," you say, patting the crest of her stomach.  "You've just put on a little winter weight."

Your six-month siesta puts you smack-dab in the Christmas season, but it's not just the calendar that's apropos.  Morgan's fat is as soft and pillowy as freshly fallen snow.  It's deep, too.  Layer upon layer of virgin flesh buried in a relentless blizzard of calories before it could be hardened by life.

"Still," you continue, untying the straps that bind Morgan's wrists to the bedposts.  "What would the boys at your department say?"

"Tina says they won't recognize me.  That she could drive me to the station and plop me beside my missing person poster and no one would ever know it was me."

A fun idea, though you'd probably give it a few more pounds to be safe.  You look into Morgan's chocolate brown eyes--one of her few features unsullied by six months forced indulgence--for a trace of the eager recruit.  You don't find it.  Her body may be full of donuts, pizza, and cookies, but her eyes are filled with something else:

Regret.

"She may be right," you say, tickling the velvety wattle haloing her once chiseled chin. "They certainly wouldn't expect this."

Morgan's head rolls away from you like a capsizing beanbag chair.  "Stop."

Undeterred, you jiggle the underside of her bicep.  "Or these bat wings."

"Please stop."  Morgan slaps her arms to her side, sending ripples across the surface of her flesh like a pebble thrown into a millpond.

"At least these haven't changed much," you continue, diddling a nipple with your index finger.  Morgan's tits were never large, but they stood out within the well-starched confines of her uniform.  Rather than adding to her cup size; however, Morgan's massive gain missed her mounds and filled the valley between them creating an unbroken band of fat above her mammoth belly.  If anything, her tits look smaller now, with only a modest speed bump near each areola diverting the spare tire of flesh.

"I said, STOP!"

Morgan thrusts her fist towards your face, but you catch it easily and pin her arm to the mattress.  "What happened to your strength?  I don't think you'll be hopping my fence again anytime soon...at least not without a ladder or a forklift."

The out-of-shape officer squirms beneath your grip until her face is beet-red with fury and exertion.  Eventually, she gives up in a flurry of tears.

"There, there," you say, releasing her.  Then you untie the bindings around her ankles.  "See?  I'm not such a bad guy.  I can even admit when I'm wrong..."

You walk to the bedroom door and, as you close it behind you, take a final glance at the bedbound blob of blubbering blubber.

"You're definitely fat."

What's next?