Short Stacks 9b - WG Edition (Patreon)

This is a collection of flash fiction, based on reader prompts.

Contains: Star Trek, Feedism, Weight Gain, Stuffing, Maids, BBW, Noir

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Short Stacks

Volume IXb

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Flash fiction based on this prompt:
A poor barista watches in shock and horror as the whipped cream in the popular new drink causes everyone in the store to fatten up!

Contains: Weight Gain

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Whipped Cream

Lee looked around the coffee shop with annoyance. She wasn’t annoyed because of her job. She took great pleasure in being the very best coffee artist she could be. She’d even spent six months perfecting her technique for latte foam art. Though, it’d been along time since she’d been able to make one of those, with everyone asking for whipped cream. No, Lee was annoyed because every last customer in the coffee shop was so… plump. Well, maybe one was only plump, the rest were downright fat. That one in the back corner could only be classified as ‘obese!’

Lee stewed over her annoyance as another chubby customer stepped up to the counter. She was a tiny little redhead with freckles dusting her nose. Well, in height she was little. Her thighs oozed out around her shorts, and her belly and love handles spilled out of her tank top. She might have been cute, Lee thought, if she lost a few hundred pounds. She made the girl’s cafe mocha, mounding it high with whipped cream before handing it to her.

What was wrong with the women in this town? Didn’t they care about their appearance at all? Lee glanced at a couple of college students, comparing notes for an exam while they sipped their iced caramel macchiatos (with extra whip). They were wearing skirts, which were maybe supposed to hide the size of their hips, but to Lee, they looked more like tents, or maybe something to cover up a nice sports car with.

Another customer, this one worked in an office, based on her suit. A suit whose blazer hadn’t been able to button at least twenty pounds ago. Lee fumed as she ground fresh beans for the woman’s vanilla latte. How did she squeeze that ass into an office chair? Maybe it had no armrests. Did she go into meetings like that? With her belly making a huge mound in the front of her skirt? With her fat gross tits stretching the buttons on her shirt? Lee dispensed whipped cream onto the office lady’s drink, handing it to her with a retail smile.

Self-consciously Lee smoothed down the bottom of her green polo with the Bean Machine logo on the breast. Her khakis were starting to feel a little snug, and the thought made her ill. She’d gone to the gym that morning but decided to have another workout after her shift. Looking over the coffee shop crowd again, Lee reaffirmed her decision to hit up the gym twice a day.

There was something in the water in this town. A mother and her adult daughter laughed at some inside joke, belly rolls filling their laps as they sipped cold brew with whipped cream. A whole book club in the alcove spilled over the edges of their chairs as they argued over character motivations and sipped tea with whipped cream.

Suddenly it hit her. Lee glanced from table to table to confirm her suspicion. Every last customer had asked for whipped cream. Lee had been the one to suggest to their boss that they make fresh whipped cream last year. It was immensely popular. Emphasis on ‘immense’ Lee thought, putting her head in her hands.

“Hello… can I get an Americano with extra whip, please?”

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Flash fiction based on this prompt:
Maids gossip about that one really fat maid who barely does any work but seems to get preferential treatment “for some reason”

Contains: Weight Gain, Maids

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Preferential Treatment

Margaret, Anna, and Daisy chattered as they dusted and prepared the Master of the house’s bedchambers one afternoon. All three wore black dresses with white aprons, and ruffled headbands.

“Isn’t Mina supposed to be doing this?” Margaret asked as she emptied the chamber pot into a bucket.

“You’d think that,” Anna replied, brushing out the Master’s dressing robe, “her being the Master’s personal chamber maid…”

“Where is she now?” Margaret asked.

“Who knows?” Daisy shot back, pulling the dirty sheets off the bed. “Probably down in the kitchens stuffing her face as usual.”

“You girls know I’m against gossip…” Margaret began, “but I honestly don’t understand how she still has a position in this House.”

Margaret was the senior maid, second only to the Housekeeper.

“I mean, do you ever see her actually doing any work?” Daisy asked.

“She works at cleaning up the Master’s leftovers.” Anna quipped, helping Daisy bundle the dirty sheets into a bin.

“And helping the Cook with lots of ‘taste testing’” Daisy added.

The three women cackled as they worked.

“I mean and look.” Margaret began. “We’re not supposed to talk about this…”

“Oh just say it Maggie, we all know what you’re gonna say.” Anna pressed.

“Well the Master is yet unmarried…”

“Lord knows why,” Daisy mused, “he’s handsome enough, for a noble.”

“Like you wouldn’t take a noble to husband if’n he asked.” Anna shot back.

“I’m just saying…” Daisy muttered.

“Anyway,” Margaret resumed, “we all know the Master sometimes invites a maid to his chambers late at night.”

The other two nodded sagely as they tossed a clean sheet over the bed, pulling it tight.

“There used to be a sort of rotation, back in my early years.” Margaret mused, straightening the chair and various accouterments on the side table. “But ever since that whopping Wilhelmina started here, she’s been the only one.”

“Are you sure?” Daisy asked.

“Quite sure. It’s not every night mind you, but definitely more nights than not.” Margaret explained as the trio left the spotless room and made their way to the Downstairs rooms.

As expected they found the maid Mina in the kitchens, popping ‘ugly’ cookies from a plate into her mouth one after another. The long black skirt of her maid uniform covered her legs, but her thick stomach rolled onto her lap, and her sloping breasts strained at the white apron she wore. Mina smiled at the other maids as she popped another slightly lopsided cookie between her pink lips, crumbs dusting her apron.

“Just look at her,” Anna whispered, “she’s got to be at least fifteen stone!”

“You girls probably don’t remember, but she was half that size when she started.” Margaret added as the maids retired to the servant’s dining room.

“I can’t understand why his Lordship would keep such a worthless maid.” Daisy moaned, shaking her head.

“She’s nothing but a drain on the House’s resources.” Anna added.

“Now now girls,” Margaret chided, “it’s not our place to question the Master’s… decisions.”

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Flash fiction based on this prompt:
A duo are training for an eating contest, but the thin coach pushes their friend too hard and they’re stuck in a food coma for the event, so they have to compete in their place

Contains: Weight Gain, Stuffing

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Eating Contest

Annie leaned back in the dining chair. The painted, flea-market furniture creaked from the effort of supporting nearly three hundred pounds of girl and an extra thirty pounds of pie. Her roommate, Kyra, came from the kitchen bearing two more pies.

“Just two more, and you’ll hit fifty!” Kyra said, “The record is forty-five, so if you can do this, that prize money is all ours.”

“Kyra,” Annie huffed, “I’m so full…”

“Of course you are,” Kyra said, grinning, “You’re the champion eater of this friendship, and you’ve got me here to push you to your limit.”

“I might –haa haa– pop!”

“Pfft, don’t be silly. You’d have to eat at least twice this many pies to pop. I’ve seen you put away a whole chicken for a snack!”

Annie only groaned. Kyra picked up one of the pies, and a fork, scooping a big bite.

“We’ll cheat a little for these last two. You just relax and chew.”

Annie grimaced but opened her mouth. Kyra stuffed the pie into her mouth, then rested the fork in the tin while Annie chewed. She caressed the tight mound of Annie’s belly, giving her roommate a couple of encouraging smacks. Annie’s cheeks bloated in surprise, but she kept chewing.

Kyra fed Annie another bite, “That’s a good girl… you’re gonna be all nice and stretched out for that contest tomorrow…” She rubbed Annie’s firm bloated belly lovingly. “Those other losers won’t stand a chance…”

***

Kyra’s alarm went off, and she dressed quickly, bouncing with excitement that the big day had finally come. She didn’t find Annie in the living room or kitchen, so she knocked on her door.

“Annie! Are you still sleeping? We have to be there in twenty minutes!”

No reply came.

Kyra checked the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. She pushed it open.

Annie lay supine on the bed. The single bedsheet covering her underwear-clad body bunched up over her hips, having slid off the mountain of her massive belly as it rose into the air like a smug mountain.

“Annie?”

Kyra crossed the room, laying a tentative hand on Annie’s enormous belly. She gave it a few wobbles. “Wake up big girl, it’s showtime!”

Annie didn’t wake up.

Kyra leaned in closer to take her obese roommate by the shoulder, shaking her.

“Wake! Up! Annie!”

Annie let out a whining moan, then rolled onto her side. The frame and mattress springs creaked so loud Kyra was afraid the damn bed might break. She shook her friend several more times, and even tried yelling in her ear. Nothing worked.

Kyra put on her shoes and grabbed her keys.

***

“Contestant number three is falling behind, folks! We might see an early ‘tap out’ this year!”

Kyra struggled to keep the pie down. Her normally flat middle was distended and hard. And she’d only eaten five pies!

“Give it up, beanpole,” A massive woman to her left taunted.

“Yeah, come back when you’re at least a size ten!” Another to her right added.

Kyra closed her eyes. She thought of all the nights over the past month she’d coached Annie. She quoted those same ‘encouraging’ words to herself.

”Come on girl, dig deep. Open your throat so the fruit can slide down faster.”

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Flash fiction based on this prompt:
Femme fatales entrance to a noir story is hindered by the too small doorway

Contains: BBW, Noir

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The Bloated Puffin

I stood staring out the window of my dark office into the city. It was raining again. It always seemed to be raining in this city. The drops of water down the cheap uneven panes of glass cast distorted my view of the city lights and gave the place a surreal quality. Like a dream one never woke from. Or was it a nightmare?

I lit another cigarette and poured a few more drops of whiskey into my glass. I needed to get another case, and fast. Catching Mrs Evans’ husband with another woman had been simple enough, but my fees barely covered Miss Cunningham’s salary for the week. My battle-axe of a landlady would be hounding me for the rent check any day now.

As if simply thinking of my young doe–eyed assistant had summoned her, Sally buzzed my intercom just as I’d finished rolling my cigarette and was getting it lit.

“There’s a… woman here to see you, Stan.”

“Send her in, Sally.”

“Umm… you’d better come out here.”

I couldn’t help but sigh. Sally knew I preferred to speak to potential clients in private. Comes with the territory. People scared and desperate were more likely to be straight with me if we were alone. Still, work was work, so I turned the old brass knob and stepped out into the waiting room.

It took me less than two seconds to understand Sally’s hesitation. This woman was huge. Massive even. She looked like she’d had a fork in her hand since she was old enough to eat solid food. She had on a coat that had to be custom made. The tailor must have needed at least two or three cows’ worth of suede to construct the thing. Still, her face was pretty enough. Chubby cheeks of course, but pretty eyes and a well–shaped nose. Shining blonde curls fell down to her hefty shoulders, and her expression seemed more annoyed than angry or afraid. So that was something, anyway.

“Can I help you miss…?”

“York, Devon York.”

“What can I do for you, Miss York?”

Devon York hesitated, her blue eyes darting to the small desk where Sally sat, pretending not to listen in. I knew the book she was staring at was nothing but a phone directory. Of course, Sally Cunningham listened in on all my client meetings, but Miss York didn’t know that.

“Would you like to speak in my office, Miss York?”

“It’s Missus, and yes, I believe I would.”

I turned and stepped back into my dark office, holding the door. Mrs York didn’t seem like the kind of woman who needed me to walk her through a door, and anyway I doubted we would fit through the opening together.

I’d never been more keenly aware of how much smaller my office door was than the outer entrance to my office. Devon York walked cautiously up to the opening, more of a lumber than a stride, then stopped just short of halfway through. I turned to see the poor woman struggling with the old wood frame. Her hips hadn’t passed through at all, and her bulging waist was squeezed tightly in the opening.

“I –hrng– don’t think this will –huff– work, Mister Slade…”

“Why don’t you tell me what your trouble is, Missus York?”

Devon’s face went red as the tomatoes sold down on Market street.

“I… I think my husband is intentionally making me fat…”

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Flash fiction based on this prompt:
Dancer/courtesan/entertainer finally makes it back to her apartment to take a load off after work, including her magic corset that conceals… well, quite a bit

Contains: BBW

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The Corset

‘Madame Mavis’ perfectly–turned leg slid up the pole until she was performing flawless splits. She let the feather boa drift down along her alabaster neck, drawing more attention to the head–sized breasts that seemed to be trying to swell their way free of her cerulean corset at any moment. Her raven locks swung toward the stage as she blew her fans a kiss.

The applause was thundering.

Mavis bowed to the crowd, giving them all a good view down her top. Granted, said top was packed much too tightly for that view to be any more than two massive mounds of chest flesh. She slipped back behind the curtain and her shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

“I’ll be in my dressing room.” Mary declared. “If my dinner isn’t there in three minutes, heads will roll.”

In another room of the cabaret, several serving boys were loading multiple wheeled carts with food.

Mary plodded sharply back to her dressing room, undoing the pins holding her headdress in place as she pushed the door open. She unfastened her skirt and tossed it on a chair, one heeled foot kicking the door closed behind her.

Mary reached behind her back to undo the looped knot at the top of her corset laces. With that simple change, the garment slid open by several inches, and dimples of flesh bulged out between the criss–cross pattern of laces down Mary’s back.

One by one she slid the lacing out of the metal eyelets running up the back of her corset, her generous chest growing more generous with each new freeing of the constrictive garment. At the same time, her toned shoulders grew fleshy and plump. Her back fat spilled over the open sides of the corset. And her waist expanded to fill every new inch of available space made by the removal of Mary’s laces.

As she moved past the halfway point, Mary’s breasts spilled out of her corset to rest on her rounding belly. They sat fat and sloping to each side like feed bags of fat. Though completely uncovered by the corset, Mary’s ass plumped bigger and bigger with each length of ribbon she loosed from her back. Her legs swelled from lithe and toned, to thunder thighs, to tree trunks.

Finally there was only a single length of ribbon running through the bottom two eyelets. Mary heaved a great sigh of relief as she grabbed the straight bit of ribbon in the middle and pulled it free. The corset sailed across her dressing room, hit the wall, and dropped to the floor. Mary’s stomach swelled out, and out, and out. Her hips grew as wide as a cart, and each of her ass cheeks was the size of a Percheron’s hindquarters. Where the busty hourglass of ‘Madame Mavis’ had once stood was a dark–haired woman of at least thirty–five stone. Mary massaged her aching flanks with a groan.

A timid knock came at the dressing room door. Mary covered herself with a tent–sized dressing gown. She opened the door to see a crew of serving boys with a line of carts loaded with enough food for a banquet. She grabbed a turkey leg from a pile and took a large bite as she lumbered back into the small room.

“Roll the lot in here, boys.”

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Flash fiction based on this prompt:
So I know you’re just the door dash worker, but I could use an extra set of hands.

Contains: Weight Gain

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Door Dash

Sam drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for the light to change. She was anxious to see her favorite customer again. Kate had been ordering DoorDash every weekend for the past six months, and Sam always tried to take her Dashes when she could. She’d started passing on Dashes around the same time every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night, just to make sure she was free whenever Kate’s Dashes popped up.

On the passenger seat beside Sam were two plastic bags, stacked high with foam clamshells full of sugar chicken. Kate usually made some excuse about movie night or book club, but Sam was almost certain there was no one in that apartment but Kate. A suspicion that was validated by the fact that Kate’s love handles got closer to the doorframe every week Sam saw her.

How she wanted to grab onto those love handles and dive into that wobbling, quivering mass of delicious woman.

The light turned green, and Sam punched the accelerator.

***

Kate drummed her hands across the curve of her belly. Her weight had been stable at just under two hundred for five years, but now she was flirting with three! She’d always been a woman who enjoyed a good meal, but ever since that first night, that moment of weakness…

Kate had just gotten home from a particularly annoying workday. It was a Friday, and she didn’t have the energy to make her usual salad. Opening the app she wished she’d deleted, Kate had ordered a salad from the closest sports bar. The only one they had came with fried chicken, but she could always pick that out and save it for lunches for a few days. Then she saw her. The cutest, most adorable little blonde in a polo and baseball cap. Kate didn’t pick the chicken out of her salad.

Sam was Kate’s dream girl, but Kate was too shy to ever do anything about it. So she did the only thing she could think of, she ordered delivery food just for the chance to see Sam again. Maybe this time, she told herself, she’d have the guts to ask her out.

But she’d told herself that every time. And every time, she chickened out. Then, ashamed of herself, she’d eat all the food she’d ordered. She fell off her diet overnight. She blew past the two-hundred mark, then the two-fifty, blowing out of her pants along the way.

Months went by, and Kate’s appetite increased along with her weight. Every weekend, so nervous at the chance of seeing and speaking with Sam, she ordered more and more food. She’d lie and tell her crush she was having a party, or hosting game night. Then when she inevitably failed to say more than, “Thanks so much!” She’d plop down on the couch and stuff her face.

***

–Bing Bong–

Sam stood outside Kate’s door, heart racing.

The door creaked open, and Kate stood leaning on the frame, chest heaving. Sam couldn’t take it anymore, she had to take her chance with this goddess.

“Hey, Kate! Nice to see you again.”

“Uh –huff– thanks?”

“I’m really glad I caught your order…”

Kate eyed the heavy bags in Sam’s hands. She screwed up her courage, blurting out, “So, I know you’re just the DoorDash worker, but I could use an extra set of hands.”

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Flash fiction based on this prompt:
A pervert is cursed to gain a pound for every naughty thought they have. They try to stop the flow of perverted thoughts but can’t help themselves

Contains: Weight Gain

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Clean Thoughts

Naomi sat in the middle seat in the back of the UberXL. She tried not to think about the warmth on her hips from the women who sat on either side of her. They were her friend’s sisters. “Friend” was a generous word. Sierra was her college roommate. They’d barely spoken in the past ten years. And yet, the invitation to be a bridesmaid was something one simply didn’t refuse. So here she was, sitting hip-to-hip with Sierra’s little sisters. Both in their twenties, one with Sierra’s genes, the youngest, Blake, seemed to have gotten a double visit from the boob fairy.

No, stop it! None of that!

Naomi felt her pants get a little more tight as she resisted the urge to look down Blake’s skin-tight tank top. She saw the redhead’s freckled cleavage in her mind anyway. She couldn’t help it.

Fuckin curse…

She’d spent the last two years living the mental life of a monk. Not those secretly-gay monks, either. A real enlightened, stoic monk. The kind who never thinks about how warm and squishy Blake’s gazongas would feel in her hands…

Naomi’s pants cut into her belly as she gained another pound.

God damnit!

Baseball players, the ugly ones. Politicians, screwing the voters while shopping for second yachts.

At least this bachelorette party wasn’t likely to cause her too many problems. Naomi had no interest in guys. Especially not the muscley, gym bro kinda guys that became male strippers. Sure, being around Sierra was bad enough. Finding one of her roommate’s bras in college and reading 30D on the tag was a memory Naomi had returned to many times over the years before she’d gotten cursed.

Now, she was guaranteed to feel the consequences of her dirty thoughts. She’d been a bitch to some hack fortune teller on a boardwalk, and the old hag cursed her.

“Whenever wicked thoughts fill thy mind, an extra pound thy body shall find.”

It wasn’t until months later Naomi understood the witch’s words. After a round of jilling off to pictures of pre-weight-loss Adele, she couldn’t get her pants to button back up.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Robert Pattinson, Ryan Gosling. The stupid, simpering straights who lust after those fucks.

The party filed into the bar with plenty of “woos” and insistence on “shots!”

Naomi could not drink tonight. If she let her inhibitions drop, she’d wake up a size thirty-eight and need a different bridesmaid dress. She held up a hand to decline the tiny glass of tequila offered to her.

“Naomi, what the fuck?” Sierra called.

Naomi glanced at her “friend.” Sierra’s crop top hung from her tits, making them seem even bigger. Even Blake was looking at her.

This is a whole family of big-titted enablers.

“Just one,” Naomi said, downing the shot.

“I heard someone ordered a… Oh. This is a bachelorette party?”

The stripper was a woman. A slutty nurse. A slutty nurse with a huge rack.

Doctors. Insurance. The medical industry getting rich off people suffering…

The dancer did her best. Sierra and the other cisgirls in the group declined her offers, and she inevitably stepped in front of Naomi.

“What about you, big girl? Can I make your night a little better?”

Her pink bra was showing through her white lab coat. The button popped off Naomi’s pants.

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Flash fiction based on this prompt:
Uh oh, it’s a new member of Q and she has a fat fetish!

Contains: Star Trek, Feedism

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Barbie Q

The USS Enterprise sped along at Warp 6, en route to deliver medical supplies to a mining colony on Nigel IV. In a flash of white light, a tall man in a command uniform stood on the bridge.

“Q!” Captain Picard said, “What are you doing here?”

Q clicked his tongue. “Such poor manners, Jean-Luc. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Old friend,” Picard scoffed. “I’ve no need of friends who only appear to cause trouble to me and my ship.”

Q seemed about to launch into another playful diatribe when his expression soured. “Alright, fine. I need your help.”

“Help with what?”

“Well,” Q paced the ramp that ran along the side of the bridge. “We’ve lost one of our own.”

“Lost?” Commander Riker asked.

“Yes,” Q sighed, “one of the Continuum has been missing for quite some time.”

“I thought you people existed outside of time,” Riker noted.

“Yes, yes… Well, I won’t bother trying to explain it to a bunch of mortals.” Q tapped his lips with a finger. “Though that does sound fun. Especially in your case, Riker…”

“Enough of your nonsense, Q,” Picard said. “Why have you come to us? Can’t you find this other Q yourself?”

“You’re going to make me say it, mon capitan? Fine. We can’t find her. She’s hiding from us.”

“I still fail to see what that has to do with the Enterprise,” Picard said.

“Well, I think she’s… ‘borrowed…’ one of your crew.”

“What!?” Lt Commander Worf barked.

“Computer,” Picard said, “confirm location of all Enterprise crew.”

“There are one thousand, three hundred and forty-eight crew members in active service. One crew member is not on board.”

“Which crew member is absent?” Picard asked.

“Ensign Nallaa.”

“The Orion?” Riker asked.

***

Nallaa lounged in a hammock between two palm trees. A thin woman who appeared middle-aged stood over her, dressed like a Victorian nanny.

“That’s it, Ensign, have some more pineapple cake.”

The Orion woman stayed in the hammock because she was too big to climb out of it herself. Dressed in a hula skirt and a bikini longer than Nallaa was tall, her green belly rose out of the hammock, pulsing and throbbing as she digested.

“I don’t understand, Qsie,” Nallaa said. “If this is all you wanted, couldn’t you have just made me fat?”

Qsie ran a hand appreciatively over Nallaa’s rolls, gently tickling the undersides of her head-sized breasts. “Don’t be silly, my pet. Making you fat with my power would be no fun at all. You have to do it to yourself. With my help, of course.

The Q stuffed cake into Nallaa’s mouth to stifle any more questions. The Orion girl ate, her taut belly seeming to rise higher and rounder with each bite.

“I must say,” Qsie murmured as she fed the Ensign, “I made an excellent choice with you. You’re just so…” She stuck her index finger into Nallaa’s cavernous belly button, “green.”