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

You carry Tracy into the house from the car and lay her on the living room couch.  She's light as a feather...at least relative to the girls you're used to.

Now you have to decide what to do with her.  There's a room in the basement available; however, it isn't catered to her since she wasn't your original target.  (That was Jada, the frumpy social worker who at this moment was probably in the valley somewhere, eating away her youth and beauty, blissfully unaware of how close her life was to changing forever.)  You knew the knocked-out knockout was a jogger, but you certainly weren't going to put a treadmill in her room, and without your usual stringent observation period, you didn't know to stock it with video games, as you did with Tabitha, or period literature, as you did with Bernadette.

It's the fleeting thought of Bernadette that keeps you from attempting something else you had considered--hooking Tracy straight to your feeding machine.  Though you find the idea of the fitness-minded runner waking up a robust 300 pounds delicious, the misuse and malfunctions that led to the librarian's death remain fresh in your mind.  You can't risk another accident.

Ultimately, you decide to prepare Tracy a meal.  You want to learn more about her, and since the lingering effects of the Flunitrazepam should be conducive to loose lips and an open mouth, a hearty welcoming feast may provide a good opportunity.  She won't remember the occasion, but that's OK.  You'll just have to pack on a few pounds as a momento.

Though you know your way around a kitchen, rather than waste a gourmet meal on someone likely to suffer short-term amnesia you cook up something appropriate for a hungover coed: three cheeseburgers and an entire bag of frozen french fries. After preparing everything you rouse Tracy, who smiles at your unexpected appearance, and escort her to the dining table.  You place her at its head, where the cheeseburgers are arranged in a triad on a silver platter and the fries are piled high in a wooden salad bowl.

"This smells delicious,"  Tracy says, swaying in her seat as if affected by a breeze.

"It's all for you."

The slender brunette's weary eyes go wide.  "I can't eat all this."

"Try."

"But I'm vegan!"

"Not tonight."

"Okayyyy."

Tracy picks up a burger and, after choosing an angle of attack, takes a giant bite.   She chews deliberately, like a toddler eating solid food for the first time while her blissful expression similarly evokes that virgin pleasure.  A hard swallow is followed by another bite.  Then another.  Then another.  Each one comes quicker than the last as Tracy's motor skills return and her desire for the next succulent rush grows.  As she begins her second burger, you pull up a chair.

"Try some fries," you say, sliding the bowl forward.

Tracy grabs a handful and plops them on the platter, but never releases her death grip on the fatty patty pinched between the fingers of her other hand.  Her feasting becomes a two-fisted affair, with fries perpetually loaded in her left hand ready to shoot between the burger bites from her right.

Halfway through her third burger, she drops it on the platter and slumps in her chair.   As she chews through her last bite, she closes her eyes and rests her greasy hand on her stomach.

"Have a few more fries" you say, lifting the salad bowl and giving its incongruous contents a rattle.

Tracy's eyes flit open and dart in your direction.  "Are you trying to make me fat?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's sexy."

There's something to be said for the power of suggestion, especially to someone pharmaceutically predisposed.  Tracy lifts her hand, leaving a shiny imprint on her bare and bulbous belly, and accepts your offer, taking several fries and shoving them in her mouth.  Her face is as full of wonder as it is food, as if she just learned a valuable life lesson that had somehow escaped her.

The bemused look lasts longer than the fries and burger.  It isn't until both are gone that her expression transitions to one of discomfort.

"Well done," you say, standing up from the table.  "I think it's time you slept this off."

Or on, you think, glimpsing her grossly distended belly.

You pull back Tracy's chair and gather the otherwise gangly girl in your arms.  Her potbelly protrudes beneath her breasts, pushing her shorts low against her hips to form the perfect swollen circle.  You give a gentle kiss to its crest as you carry the newest member of your harem to the basement chamber that will be her home.

Tracy goes willingly, her sleepy gaze affixed to you.  It isn't until you place her on what had been Bernadette's bed that she glances elsewhere.

"Who's room is this?"

"It's yours."

Satisfied, Tracy's weary eyes turn wanton.  "Will you stay with me?"