February Prompt: Mountains of Manon (Patreon)

Tags: Slob, gas, immobility, blob, corruption

did it! Final prompt for the month. Hope this is slobby enough for people's liking. 

Marisa busied herself about the kitchen. Well over six feet tall and heavily muscled, the gladiator looked more apt for carrying the large sacks of potatoes and flour rather than cooking with them. Close observation, however, would reveal the skilled craftswoman below. Borrowing from her Italian heritage, Marisa could craft as well as she could crush. Lately, she had been using her talents for crafting far more than anything else. As an Italian, the nature of fine food came to her even more than fighting. In a state of semi-retirement, she had spent her time pursuing culinary dreams. Pastas, veal, and an unending army of pastries had been birthed in Marisa’s own kitchen. Those same armies, however, had also perished not very far away. Marisa's ability to eat was nearly as good as her ability to cook. The battles against her armies of hand crafted food had been legendary. Though the food was long wiped away, the scars were still upon Marisa’s body. The gladiator’s rock hard form had softened greatly.

Marisa’s body now seemed somewhere between E.Honda and Zangeif when considering the muscle to fat ratio. Though not near as heavy as the practiced sumo, Marisa’s stomach bulged far over her lap and onto pudding thighs. Her forceful guffaws and shouts of joy at the meals made her stomach bounce heavily. The singular slab of iron that had been abs had been reformed into a large pot, one fit for burning food into energy. Marisa supped and slurped through her cooking, liberally tasting the gigantic meal she was preparing. With her iconic helmet hair slicked back, she was more free than ever to indulge. Fistfuls of raw dough, melted cheese, and tenderized meats were stuffed into her mouth. Yet, it was but a small portion of the brewing feast. Marisa’s strength made it such that she could never make less than a meal fit for multiple people. Thankfully, she had a mouth waiting to share in the feast.

“BBBBLBUUUEEERRGGH. . .Marisa. . .where issccch. . .my foooOOOORRRRUUUP?” A feminine voice thick with a french accent and impatience bellowed from the other room. Manon, pink haired Judoka and supermodel, awaited her latest meal. “You. . .BBBBLOORRRUUP. . .are to. . .UURRRUUP. . .slow.” Manon barked between belches and wheezes.

“Hush, my little gelato.” Marisa called, sweat trickling down her brow as she chopped onions. Her arms, having lost much of their definition with the weight she had packed on, jiggled with each stroke of the knife. “Perfection is not rushed. I graft culinary jewels in here.”

“To be. . .thrown before. . .your. . .BBBUUURRRUUP. . .hog?” Manon retorted, sensing what Marisa might have been hinting at. The laugh which came after revealed the frenchwoman’s thought on the comparison. “Rude. But, at leasssccht. . .BBBBOOORRUUP. . .you try to. . .pleeazzcch me.” Manon’s voice was thick and indulgent. The gassy judoka grew too tired to respond, her speech devolving into splutters and pants. Marisa smiled as she cut the onion in her hand. She would fashion a meal worthy of her bride's appetite.

“You have but only a minute to wait, Porco!” Marisa slid the chopped pieces of onions into the sauce she was working on. It bubbled, thick with shredded cheese and hunks of meat. Marisa had deviated from the recipe, knowing that Manon had particular tastes. Just as Marisa had evolved from cooking to fighting, Manon’s tastes had grown. Rather, it might be more apt to say that the frenchwoman’s tastes had mutated or metastasized. She enjoyed things sloppily, overdone with all of the least elegant elements of cooking. This meal would be but another in a long line of devolving politeness and increasing portion sizes. Marisa could not be any happier. She began to heft and arrange the kettles, pans, and cauldrons on an oversized serving tray. Her ever-so-lapsed muscles strained under the weight. Marisa did not mind, relishing the mounting challenge. She would cook and serve Manon until her body gave out. Her steps towards the living room were marked with grunts and the sound of her stomach slapping her thighs. Though loud, it dwindled in comparison to the noises that the pink haired woman’s body let out.

BBRRRRRRMMMMMPPPTTT! Marisa’s entrance to Manon’s parlor was heralded by a toxic blast from the frenchwoman’s rear. Manon’s wall of booty blubber bled out from the parlor and onto the deck. Her body had grown from blocking the original exit to creating one of it’s own. As feedings stacked up, her butt had eventually caved in the wall. Now she was free to fart her pleasure out into the Italian countryside. FRRRRRMMMMPPTTT! Manon quickly followed the royal release up with another, so forceful that it made her entire body jiggle. Attached to Manon’s sedan-sized ass was a body that was just as blobby and putrid. She was a cascading series of rolls and blubber. A heaping pile of sweaty, oil rubbish piled into human form. Discarded scraps of food mingled melting cosmetics, all of which drained into the valley between two breasts big enough to crush furniture. Between them sunk Manon’s greedy, corpulent face. She grinned, ready to receive another hoard of food. “Ah. . .tre magnifique! The beast. . .of. . .BBBBLLUUUUURRRP. . .burden arrives.” She burbled the words from two thick and pouty lips. “Feed me!” She barked, before feelings of warmth could settle in. “I wish to. . .BBBLOORRUP. . .’ave zis slop. . .within me!”

“The only slop I see is coming from you.” Marisa tenderly kicked a sagging gut roll, her foot coming back covered in glistening, viscous ooze. She looked up at the behemoth she had created, her own horrid Colossus of Rhodes. Manon spread in all directions, her fat reaching towards the high ceilings as well as the walls of the parlor. Pink hair was only reliable guide marker for where her face lay. The rest of Manon was a series of bloated mirages, complete with misty clouds of sweat rising from bubbling piles of muck between roles. It was through this dense labyrinth of fat that Marisa had to climb. She balanced the platter of food, walking her bulk up with caution. Whilst Manon might have enjoyed food being slathered over her sloping folds, that would only be well after she was fed. Marisa walked, eyes bleary and watering from the body odor which pervaded Manon. “A cesspool with a French accent is still a cesspool, Mi Amor.”

BBBBBLLLLRRRRRTTTT! Manon answered first with her boisterous rear. Gas, turned visible by its sheer toxicity, blew in a great plume. “A cezzpool. . .how. . .underwhelming!” FLLLLRRRRRUUUMMPPT! Manon farted again, her greasy cheeks clashing together in multiple thunderclaps. Sweat and grease sprayed from them, shaken loose from the deep patches of cellulite and dimples. “I aaaammm. . .BBBOOORRUUP. . .a ‘uman cataclysm.” She stated proudly, letting her sagging face and folds sink into the rest of her mass. Her cheeks floated upon rivers of sweat from her shoulders, stretched thanks to the beaming smile. No one could wallow and revel in their own pungent rottenness like the French woman. She wanted for nothing, becoming only a drain on the world around her. It was only Marisa and her strength that could hope to keep up with the former ballet master’s growing corruption. “A. . .global extiction event. . .BBBBOOORRRUUP. . .in ‘igh ‘eels.” Manon had to whisper the final part, already too tired to speak.

“Heels?” Marisa asked, incredulous. “Since when can any clothing match the ferocity of your bulk? What instrument made by man’s hand could hope to clothe you?” Marisa’s affirmations swelled as she came closer to the summit of her lover. She walked between two breasts, far bigger than Maria’s muscular bulk. One of the large pots of food sloshed alfredo sauce out, dousing Manon with pale goop. Marisa’s travels were marked with spilled food. As safe and secure as she tried to make the offerings, there was always spillage. The food ran, sinking into the depths of rolls, never to be seen again.

Manon’s appetites were inflamed and stoked by the braggadocious claims of Marisa. The only thing Manon loved more than her own filth, was commentary upon it. BBBBBBBRRRRRRMMMPPPTT! Her flatulence grew deeper, bursting from deep within a tortured stomach. She readied herself for the meal by opening her mouth. Marisa replied by taking a pot and pouring its contents out slowly. Manon was doused in noodles and sauce. She slurped what she was able, allowing the rest to ooze down between her breasts. Unholy amounts of cheese had been dumped into the dish, making it thick and heavy. The next meal, a meaty lasagna, was even more corrupted. Marisa had to shovel it out with a garden trowel. Clouds of ricotta cheese lodged around the French woman’s face, making her mouth look like the opening of a rising volcano. Manon was awash in rivers of cheese and meat sauce, a debauched heaven. She licked her lips, trying to slurp every last morsel in. The rich and acidic food started to wreak havoc upon her insides, similar to what the careless feeding was doing to her outside.

BBBBBBLLLLLRRRRRT! Manon’s butt blasted salvos of gas, bellowing it out into the otherwise scenic countryside. Trees shook and flowers wilted under the horrid stink of the blob. Her accumulated grime trickled from her back rolls, shaken loose by her gaseous expulsions. It drained first onto the deck and then into the pool. The crystal waters of the pool had long been tainted by Manon, making it a wretched cesspool. Once, Manon’s beauty had been a grace upon the world. Now, she brought only selfish corruption. “If only there was a trough big enough for you!” Marisa continued to goad her girlfriend. “One to sink those jowls into.” She laughed, kneeling down to furiously kiss the pink blob. It was the intermission, a slight pause in the action.

“I. . .BBBBLOOORRUP. . .ssschllumm-mmgghp. . .would. . .drain it.” Manon spoke, slurped, belched, and kissed with abandon. She cared little what her mouth was doing, so long as it was busy bringing her greater carnal pleasure. “And. . .BBBLOORRUUP. . .break it. . .with. . .my. . mmmgghpgh. . .beauty.” Manon rumbled, her appetite truly awakening. Marisa had to steady herself, feeling the earthquake like movements below her. The moans of Manon’s stomach shook the house. Pots and pans in the kitchen fell and splattered. Manon’s weeping mass shook uncontrollably. BBBBBRRRRRRRMMMMPPPTT! A truly monstrous fart barreled out from between her ass. Fingers long buried under sheets of fat wiggled. “Merely. . .BBUUURRUUUP. . .freeing. . .space.” Manon looked up at, an evil grin spreading across her face. “Continue now! Thissscch. . .slop. . .pleases me.”

“As my little gelato commands.” Marisa patted Manon’s head, rubbing the thick cheeks. She wiped her hand under a neck roll and allowed Manon to lick it clean. A teaser for the rest of the food. “This next dish is spicy.” Marisa pulled a bubbling, evil looking dish from her platter. Fried shrimp rested in pools of orange sauce and melted cheese. Marisa took a shrimp and tossed it into Manon’s waiting maw. The bratty, corrupt woman turned red as the heat hit her. “They rest in the Devil’s lake.” Marisa tossed another shrimp. “This might upset your stomach.”

“Zhat. . .BBBBLOORRRUP. . .is a. . .problem. . .for the. . .BBBBOORRRUP. . .neighbors.” Manon’s voice was thick with greedy pleasure, enjoying the thought of the forthcoming storm of flatulence.