Idolmaster: Iori Masters Her Slob (Patreon)

--- Behind The Stage ---

“Oh. . .wow. . .what a great. . .show.” Makoto breathed heavily as she waddled off stage. The lights had gone down and the curtain had dropped, leaving the three idols (Miki, Makoto, and Iori) to their own devices once more. The shows had been amazing lately, truly brimming with creativity and passion that hadn’t existed before. Most of it could be chalked up to the circumstances that the world found itself in. Coast to coast, continent to continent, the world had changed. More accurately, it had fattened. Food production had soared while costs and judgement has dropped precipitously. People were bigger, fatter, and more free with themselves. It was a paradise for the slobby and obese. While all enjoyed and reveled in it, few more so than the idols Miki and Makoto. “I don’t. . .huff. . .know if. . .uuff. . .I’ve ever. . .sweat so much.” The black haired beauty said, trying her best to waddle off stage under her own power. “Blob”, “Nearly immobile”, “pig” were all descriptors often used for Makoto (though without the negative connotation of our own world). Sweat poured off of her, flowing unbidden from deep within the rolls and valleys of her massive body. “I should. . .whew. . .shower. . .haha” She laughed at her little joke, knowing exactly how little she planned on doing that. She, and her fans, loved the smell that built up around her. The oppressive, sickly sweet body odor that coud only come from a woman who evaded showers like the plague. It was the same smell that built up when Makoto was still able to play sports, only magnified by a hundred.

“Oh. . .BBBUUURRRAPPPP. . .for sure.” Miki responded. As the trio waddled along she put her sausage fingers to her stomach, patting it and preparing for another series of guttural belches. “I get. . .BLLLUUURRRRPPP. . . so. . .UUURRRPP. . .gassy.” She giggled, loving the way that her loud explosions of gas shook her fat and all that was around her. Miki was every bit as huge as Makoto, though they were proportioned in vastly different ways. Makoto had an almost perfect fat distribution. No part of her outweighed the others. Her fans often speculated upon her measurements, saying that she had the “golden ratio” for fat distribtuion. Makoto stoked this, often teasing one of her new measurements after a particularly noticeable growth spurt, leaving her online hordes of fans to guess the others.

Miki was a classical beauty, though with a greatly exaggerated canvas. Her breasts and ass had exploded in size, though equally. She lugged her breasts around, wearing plenty of low cut shirts that were further stretched by her breasts. Once her shirts and clothes were dampened with enough putrid sweat, they were easy prey for the weight of her watermelon sized breasts and tanker ass. Beneath her breasts slopped a slab of belly fat. It did not protrude very far, keeping attention on her more pleasurable attributes, but it had a weight and softness all its own. Miki had adjusted well to her size, quickly reveling in how little she had to care about her appearance. She often teased her fans on social media, making numerous references to her “stink canyon”. No one knew exactly what she was referencing and her fanbase was divided between ass crack and cleavage valley. All they knew was that they wanted to be buried in it. “And. . .BBLLLLEERRRRPP. . .the. . .whoo. . .smell.” Miki said, lifting one arm to spread the horrific stink coming off of her body. Miki, more than any other idol, was in love with the smells, sounds, and sights that her body produced. Makoto was neutral to the experience, enjoying the attention mostly, and Iori was. . .Iori.

“Yeah. . .that was. . .fun.” Iori panted, though her face said otherwise. Her nose curled up at the smell of her companions, as well as her own. She hated that she could smell herself distinctly, knowing exactly what defined her reek versus the other idols. She hated how grease collected in her hair and rolls, and that sweat poured out of her like a mountainside waterfall. She had only gained weight because it was expected of her. Each pound brought extra misery and worry. Sure, the world loved hedonism now but how long would that last? What if she was stuck as a fat pig forever, with no one to love her or say that she was cute? She trailed down the hall, her asscheeks swinging into the walls on either side of the hallway. Iori was impressively ass heavy. The cute, tiny woman had filled and fattened into a bottom heavy behemoth. No skirt could cover her, no pair of jeans could remain unripped, and every dress she owned would eventually get sucked between her sweaty, greasy cheeks. It was terrible. For someone who had valued the beauty of clothes and accessories, Iori hated what her body did to them. Miki called it “leaving your calling card” but Iori called it “grease and sweat stains”. She waddled behind her friends, trying to ignore their gassy explosions, sweat, and smell. Not that she could for long, it was all about to get worse with their post-show binge.

--- Dressing Room / Fattening Room ---

“Come. . .LLLUUURRRRPPP. . .on, Iori, you need. . .MMMRRRUUUUPP. . .keep your strength up.” Miki said, pulling a funnel towards her. Food poured out, most entering her mouth but some spilling out over her immense breasts. The food would inevitably be trapped and held by her breasts. Miki bathed so rarely, in comparison to the silly daily showers that Iori took, that it might be weeks or even months before her skin was free of the stains. “Oh! Oooo! This is. . .BEERRRAPP. . .amazing!” Miki pushed her heavy, hardly-holstered breasts together as she shook with gluttonous pleasure. Food and sweat, tainted with her smell, shot everywhere. Iori couldn’t help but recoil in open disgust, her own food pile untouched.

“Pfff. . . if dainty, Deko-chan doesn’t want her food. . .uurrrrp. . .I’ll take it.” Makoto smiled wryly before shoving herself face first into her food pile. The post show gorge-fest was Miki and Makoto’s favorite part of touring and concerts. It was their special time to be as fat and slobby as possible, without any consideration for the fans or their producers. The girls got to be their true selves, without thought put into how the media would perceive them. It was truly a spectacle. Mountains of food was put before each woman. Heaps and heaps of greasy, oily, fattening delights all piled together without any thought to presentation. Three towers of congealing food, all pooling together. Each girl sat behind it, hefted onto four chairs. Except Iori, who had convinced herself she only needed three. It was a weighty delusion on a grand scale. Iori, given her quaking ass, needed at least four chairs for comfort and stability. Makoto ate face first in the food pile, indiscriminately sampling whatever she could get her mouth around. Coming up for air finally, she turned to Iori. “I could. . .bbbllluuurrrpp. . .use some extra poundage.” Makoto grinned at Iori, slapping her sloppy belly.

“Any more fat would just. . .urp. . go to your head!” Iori was so angered by the comment that she lost control and let loose a small, for the group, belch. She stamped her foot, shaking her chairs perilously. The chairs, though reinforced, were having trouble holding up the immense weight of Iori. The bottom heavy slob-in-denial grimaced as she felt extra sweat fly off of her. The post show binge was the worst. It was when she felt her most slobby and her most uncute. On stage she could forget that she weighed almost 1000 pounds, lost in the adoration of the crowd. But here, backstage in the dressing room with her monstrously fat friends, she couldn’t lie to herself as well.

“Come. . .BURRRRPPP. . .on Iori.” Miki tried to lean over and grab her friend’s sausage fingers. However, Iori pulled away and Miki was only able to stretch so far. “What’s got you. . .MMMMLLLUUURRRPP. . .so down? You look and smell amazing, I’m sure your fans loved seeing you sweat.” Miki smiled, wanting to genuinely compliment her friend. This was a world of sounds and smells one where each woman was unique thanks to what her bloated body could produce. No two idol-slobs were the same. Despite her reticence, Iori had a large and devoted following. Her mystique being that she revealed so little about her habits and grew so infrequently. She was constantly billed as “Brimming with Stink and Promise”, something which Iori herself despised.

“I just feel so uncute.” Iori hung her head, her neck rolls squelching as they were forced into contact with one another. “I used to be so prim, trim, and adorable. Now I’m just a. . .fat ugly mess.” She sniffed, flapping her arms against her sides miserably. The chairs underneath her creaked and shook with her motions, begging for release or another soldier to help them.

“Heeyy, heeey.” Makoto said, embarrassed for her earlier teasing. She pushed back her food pile, far more interested in helping a friendly rival than her own gluttony. “You are not ugly. You should see what people write about you. You always make the top polls and lists of favorite idols.” Makoto tried to catch Iori’s eyes, but the smaller woman looked away. “And that’s without you even really trying. Miki and me love this and we try hard to be the slobbiest we can everyday. But you run from it and people still love you! Shouldn’t that say something?” Makoto said, not taking her eyes off of her friend.

“Well. . .” Iori started, thinking things over in her mind. It was true. She did her best to not be slobby or fat or gross. Yet, she had as many fans as anyone else. The meet and greets were always filled with people waddling up to her, hoping to feel her tummy or know what she smelled like. People always clamored around her when she waddled into conventions or onto the stage. Her songs performed well and her products flew off of the shelves. Iori mused on it. What would life be like if she tried being a slobby idol? How far could she go? If nothing else, she would at least earn the admiration of her friends and colleagues. They wanted to see her succeed as much as anyone else. Iori sighed, a mental cloud coming undone and floating away. “You’re right. I should try to enjoy myself a little more.” She smiled weakly, reaching for her previously untouched food pile. Just as she was about to grab a wayward pizza slice, the overtaxed chairs below her gave out. “Ohhh. . . noooooOOORRRRUUUUUPPPPP!” Iori let loose a massive belch as she fell, unable to prevent herself. She landed on her ass, shaking the room. Her friends struggled out of their seats, slowly, and waddled over to try and help her.

“Iori!”

“Oh my gosh! Are you ok?”

Iori just laughed, even as two pairs of hammy, sweaty arms grabbed her own. She was slowly hauled to her feet, grinning the entire time. When finally she was standing on her own, all three women breathing heavily, she addressed her friends. “Thank you. I’m glad I have you two to help me.” She leaned forward to hug her friends, accidentally pushing them backwards. Their combined weight pulled them down, forcing them to land on the piles of food. The tables broke and food went everywhere. The girls laughed. . .before their instincts took over and they began to eat the food spread around them. Iori especially, the smaller girl stuffing herself in order to make up for lost time. The three idols threw themselves into the gorging, their massive, sweaty, stink riddled bodies bumping and shoving at each other. It was a grand, slobby time.