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“The discovery of penicillin was a revolutionary step toward the elimination of serious diseases, though it and its successors were also responsible for the proliferation of the treatment-resistant 'superbugs' that drove us to a more adaptive solution. Its effects on the world, particularly the population boom afforded by lower maternal and infant mortality, cannot be underestimated...”

The instructor's words washed over Marisa Newton, fourth row, second column, as she toyed idly with her notes. The class was easy credit, they told her, all high-school level and barely any work. They didn't mention how boring it would be. The professor, a slightly dumpy and utterly forgettable-looking middle-aged woman, had the sort of voice that could put an audience of sugared-up children to sleep, let alone bleary-eyed students. Her stomach growled softly.

If the woman weren't such a stickler for attendance, Marisa was sure she'd be lecturing to an empty room day in and day out. No one else on campus, to her knowledge, based so much of the final grade on showing up punctually every day. Her stomach rumbled again, more loudly this time, and she blushed as the man next to her – Jacob, she thought his name was – lifted his head from his arms and looked her way.

“Would anyone care to tell us about the Ruben compound?”

Marisa perked up at the sound of a familiar name. Somehow the professor had rambled her way into something interesting. “The Ruben compound,” she responded, “was discovered by a Swiss chemist called Gustav Trost in 1902, though we were unable to synthesize it until thirty years ago. It's still uncertain by what mechanism it works, but its effects are well-known. It reduces or eliminates many unhealthy consequences of excess body fat and has extended the average lifespan of the morbidly obese by 20 years; in addition, it accelerates fat accumulation and increases... appetite... Uh, Trost himself was quite -”

“Thank you, miss Newton, that is enough,” the professor interrupted, turning back to her blackboard. “She was correct in saying that we do not have a perfect understanding of how the compound does its work, but we do have understanding enough for several reverse-engineered derivatives to appear; most of them are untested and unsanctioned, most notably the K-delta formula responsible for last year's so-called 'breast plague'. The original compound has proven a public health boon already, despite its rampant misuse, and is a perfect example of the double-edged nature of many pharmaceutical innovations. On that note, we move on to the 'pharma wars' that...”

Marisa's mind was already wandering. Everyone knew about the wars. It seemed sometimes that the professor was unwilling to go any deeper than common knowledge on a given topic, which would explain how schizophrenically her lectures skittered from field to field. It was honestly a wonder that she still held her position. There was much more to say, Marisa knew, about the compound. That some users reported a feeling of ironclad physical confidence; that it caused a subtle strengthening of muscle, even as it was overtaken by soft padding; that it smoothed the skin and blunted the advance of cellulite and stretch marks; that it felt so very good.

Her stomach rumbled again, and she swore her belly jiggled a little under her shirt. The hunger was starting to gnaw sorely at her. The bottle's warning labels hadn't exaggerated the effect the pills would have on her appetite; perhaps she shouldn't have taken a double dosage that morning. She wished she'd packed some food for the lecture. The professor wouldn't like it, but at this rate she was going to have to excuse herself anyway. She massaged her recalcitrant belly, pushing past her soft new rolls to knead at the offended organ.

She knew one thing about the compound with absolute certainty: It worked. It worked like a miracle. Not one full month ago, she had been rail-thin. She'd been toned enough to avoid looking like a twig, but she lacked any ounce of padding. Clothes hung loosely from her frame, and even the seats in the hall made her feel a little small. These days, the chairs felt a little small under her.

She knew things about Mr. Gustav Trost, miracle-worker, as well. He was a chemist of little fame, a workaday sort, contributing to one or two minor advances but never taking the spotlight or displaying particular brilliance between what his work required. His notes contained nothing suggesting he was working on anything like the Ruben compound, merely pages on pages of transactions and mundane lab proceedings, until on the 7th of September, 1902, he scrawled 'Ruben' and the complete chemical formula of the compound in a hurried hand on a half-written page of his notes. It was staggeringly complex, impossible at the time to produce, and not known then or now to occur naturally under any circumstances. He never made any such breakthrough again, and was only recognized long posthumously when some bright young lab assistant found his notes and fed the formula into his laboratory's molecular constructor.

Of course people talked, after the compound's remarkable properties were discovered, about how unfortunate he was to have been so far ahead of his time. Others doubted he could have uncovered the compound in the first place, suggesting that he cribbed it from some student, or turning to more outlandish explanations – aliens, Atlanteans, lizards, astral projection, demonic consultation. Marisa's favorite theory was that Trost had been visited by a time traveler who wished to do the fat people of the unenlightened past some kindness. It raised infinitely more questions than it answered, of course, but it was undeniably a fun thought.

The hypothetical time traveler wasn't the only one with an interest in heft. Gustav Trost was known by his hometown as an incorrigible chubby-chaser, even by the standards of his time. There was one other who occupied her thoughts beyond the others, however.

She hadn't joined this insufferably dull course for credit alone, no; Mitchell Brewer was at that moment sitting only a knight's leap ahead of her, even the back of his head enough to set her heart aflutter. He was a beacon she could not tear her eyes from, well-spoken, diligent, and very easy on the eyes. She could hardly keep from blushing whenever by chance their eyes met.

He would be hers.

She was no agent provocateur, but it took little digging to find out that he had an eye for the larger ladies. If that was his price, so be it – she acquired a bottle of the darling pills and began eating larger meals the day she found out, not wanting to waste any time. She'd bulk up a bit, approach him, and see where things went from there.

She'd expected to feel gross, stuffing herself past full every evening, waking up to a larger number on the scale and a larger girl in the mirror every morning, but to her surprise she quite enjoyed it. She could eat whatever she wanted, knowing that every pound gained was a victory instead of a loss; as she got heavier, she felt more solid, more real, more undeniably present and alive. Simply touching herself was a constant revelation, for every day there was more of her to explore, and she'd never felt as soft and sensitive in her life.

Besides, she finally had tits and ass. The puberty fairy had left her with washboards and an apology, leaving her looking lanky despite her average height, but they had responded to her feasting with startling abundance – they grew faster than her belly did, at least at first, and for once in her life she was getting stares from boys and feeling great about it. Even her belly, as it slowly crept into her lap, was strangely pleasant to touch, soothing and exciting in equal measure. Thighs, arms, top, bottom, everything was starting to jiggle and she loved it.

She was getting rather worked up, and she unconsciously grabbed her roll of chub, ran a hand over her thigh. She would score Mitch, and then he could feed her, feel her, maybe even tie her up and shove a tube in her mouth, dose her with Ruben and watch her swell out of her clothes. Before long, she'd be rippling and wobbling like jello, they'd have to push her around in a cart...

Maybe they could feed each other. She'd never considered that he could be made more perfect, but now, as she imagined him with a nice, jiggly potbelly, full of the same warm joy as she was -

He stood up. She blinked, her trance broken. People were leaving the room. Class was over. She felt red as a tomato, and had to take a few deep breaths before she pulled her fat ass out of her seat. Right on cue, her stomach all but roared at her, earning glances from a few students and deepening her blush to a truly alarming shade, but she was possessed with a single purpose by her hunger: Get to the campus café and gorge herself silly.

Maybe tomorrow she'd be brave enough to tell the man how she felt. Maybe tomorrow.

Description
“The discovery of penicillin was a revolutionary step toward the elimination of serious diseases, though it and its successors were also responsible for the proliferation of the treatment-resistant 'superbugs' that drove us to a more adaptive solution. Its effects on the world, particularly the population boom afforded by lower maternal and infant mortality, cannot be underestimated...”

The instructor's words washed over Marisa Newton, fourth row, second column, as she toyed idly with her notes. The class was easy credit, they told her, all high-school level and barely any work. They didn't mention how boring it would be. The professor, a slightly dumpy and utterly forgettable-looking middle-aged woman, had the sort of voice that could put an audience of sugared-up children to sleep, let alone bleary-eyed students. Her stomach growled softly.

If the woman weren't such a stickler for attendance, Marisa was sure she'd be lecturing to an empty room day in and day out. No one else on campus, to her knowledge, based so much of the final grade on showing up punctually every day. Her stomach rumbled again, more loudly this time, and she blushed as the man next to her – Jacob, she thought his name was – lifted his head from his arms and looked her way.

“Would anyone care to tell us about the Ruben compound?”

Marisa perked up at the sound of a familiar name. Somehow the professor had rambled her way into something interesting. “The Ruben compound,” she responded, “was discovered by a Swiss chemist called Gustav Trost in 1902, though we were unable to synthesize it until thirty years ago. It's still uncertain by what mechanism it works, but its effects are well-known. It reduces or eliminates many unhealthy consequences of excess body fat and has extended the average lifespan of the morbidly obese by 20 years; in addition, it accelerates fat accumulation and increases... appetite... Uh, Trost himself was quite -”

“Thank you, miss Newton, that is enough,” the professor interrupted, turning back to her blackboard. “She was correct in saying that we do not have a perfect understanding of how the compound does its work, but we do have understanding enough for several reverse-engineered derivatives to appear; most of them are untested and unsanctioned, most notably the K-delta formula responsible for last year's so-called 'breast plague'. The original compound has proven a public health boon already, despite its rampant misuse, and is a perfect example of the double-edged nature of many pharmaceutical innovations. On that note, we move on to the 'pharma wars' that...”

Marisa's mind was already wandering. Everyone knew about the wars. It seemed sometimes that the professor was unwilling to go any deeper than common knowledge on a given topic, which would explain how schizophrenically her lectures skittered from field to field. It was honestly a wonder that she still held her position. There was much more to say, Marisa knew, about the compound. That some users reported a feeling of ironclad physical confidence; that it caused a subtle strengthening of muscle, even as it was overtaken by soft padding; that it smoothed the skin and blunted the advance of cellulite and stretch marks; that it felt so very good.

Her stomach rumbled again, and she swore her belly jiggled a little under her shirt. The hunger was starting to gnaw sorely at her. The bottle's warning labels hadn't exaggerated the effect the pills would have on her appetite; perhaps she shouldn't have taken a double dosage that morning. She wished she'd packed some food for the lecture. The professor wouldn't like it, but at this rate she was going to have to excuse herself anyway. She massaged her recalcitrant belly, pushing past her soft new rolls to knead at the offended organ.

She knew one thing about the compound with absolute certainty: It worked. It worked like a miracle. Not one full month ago, she had been rail-thin. She'd been toned enough to avoid looking like a twig, but she lacked any ounce of padding. Clothes hung loosely from her frame, and even the seats in the hall made her feel a little small. These days, the chairs felt a little small under her.

She knew things about Mr. Gustav Trost, miracle-worker, as well. He was a chemist of little fame, a workaday sort, contributing to one or two minor advances but never taking the spotlight or displaying particular brilliance between what his work required. His notes contained nothing suggesting he was working on anything like the Ruben compound, merely pages on pages of transactions and mundane lab proceedings, until on the 7th of September, 1902, he scrawled 'Ruben' and the complete chemical formula of the compound in a hurried hand on a half-written page of his notes. It was staggeringly complex, impossible at the time to produce, and not known then or now to occur naturally under any circumstances. He never made any such breakthrough again, and was only recognized long posthumously when some bright young lab assistant found his notes and fed the formula into his laboratory's molecular constructor.

Of course people talked, after the compound's remarkable properties were discovered, about how unfortunate he was to have been so far ahead of his time. Others doubted he could have uncovered the compound in the first place, suggesting that he cribbed it from some student, or turning to more outlandish explanations – aliens, Atlanteans, lizards, astral projection, demonic consultation. Marisa's favorite theory was that Trost had been visited by a time traveler who wished to do the fat people of the unenlightened past some kindness. It raised infinitely more questions than it answered, of course, but it was undeniably a fun thought.

The hypothetical time traveler wasn't the only one with an interest in heft. Gustav Trost was known by his hometown as an incorrigible chubby-chaser, even by the standards of his time. There was one other who occupied her thoughts beyond the others, however.

She hadn't joined this insufferably dull course for credit alone, no; Mitchell Brewer was at that moment sitting only a knight's leap ahead of her, even the back of his head enough to set her heart aflutter. He was a beacon she could not tear her eyes from, well-spoken, diligent, and very easy on the eyes. She could hardly keep from blushing whenever by chance their eyes met.

He would be hers.

She was no agent provocateur, but it took little digging to find out that he had an eye for the larger ladies. If that was his price, so be it – she acquired a bottle of the darling pills and began eating larger meals the day she found out, not wanting to waste any time. She'd bulk up a bit, approach him, and see where things went from there.

She'd expected to feel gross, stuffing herself past full every evening, waking up to a larger number on the scale and a larger girl in the mirror every morning, but to her surprise she quite enjoyed it. She could eat whatever she wanted, knowing that every pound gained was a victory instead of a loss; as she got heavier, she felt more solid, more real, more undeniably present and alive. Simply touching herself was a constant revelation, for every day there was more of her to explore, and she'd never felt as soft and sensitive in her life.

Besides, she finally had tits and ass. The puberty fairy had left her with washboards and an apology, leaving her looking lanky despite her average height, but they had responded to her feasting with startling abundance – they grew faster than her belly did, at least at first, and for once in her life she was getting stares from boys and feeling great about it. Even her belly, as it slowly crept into her lap, was strangely pleasant to touch, soothing and exciting in equal measure. Thighs, arms, top, bottom, everything was starting to jiggle and she loved it.

She was getting rather worked up, and she unconsciously grabbed her roll of chub, ran a hand over her thigh. She would score Mitch, and then he could feed her, feel her, maybe even tie her up and shove a tube in her mouth, dose her with Ruben and watch her swell out of her clothes. Before long, she'd be rippling and wobbling like jello, they'd have to push her around in a cart...

Maybe they could feed each other. She'd never considered that he could be made more perfect, but now, as she imagined him with a nice, jiggly potbelly, full of the same warm joy as she was -

He stood up. She blinked, her trance broken. People were leaving the room. Class was over. She felt red as a tomato, and had to take a few deep breaths before she pulled her fat ass out of her seat. Right on cue, her stomach all but roared at her, earning glances from a few students and deepening her blush to a truly alarming shade, but she was possessed with a single purpose by her hunger: Get to the campus café and gorge herself silly.

Maybe tomorrow she'd be brave enough to tell the man how she felt. Maybe tomorrow.