Feeder Buffet Chapter 7

The Feeder Buffet: Chapter 7

By Contrast Kingdom

They weren't seen at Slim & Stuffed for a while after that, but they were busy.

The blender whined like a dying animal as Ana shoved another stick of butter into its vortex of heavy cream and melted ice cream. Max watched from the kitchen doorway, his belly pressing against the frame hard enough to leave sweat marks on the woodgrain, as Ana scraped the last of a jar of Nutella into the mixture with surgical precision. The concoction had become her latest obsession—a "protein shake" she'd adapted from some feeder forum, if protein meant four types of sugar and enough calories to sustain a small village.

Their fridge had transformed into a grotesque parody of a gourmet grocery—Ana's side barren except for a single egg white in a Dixie cup, while Max's shelves bowed under wheels of Brie swimming in honey, vats of rendered duck fat, and a towering chocolate ganache cake that leaned precariously every time the door swung shut. She'd taken to melting peanut butter into his morning oatmeal now, stirring in chunks of candied bacon until the entire pot resembled a bubbling tar pit.

Ana's phone screen burned against her cheek at 3:17 AM, the blue light carving hollows beneath her eyes as she scrolled through the secret folder labeled "Motivation." Chloe's collarbones looked sharp enough to fillet fish in the latest photo—her ribcage pressing against a mesh bodysuit like piano keys waiting to be played. Ana's fingertips traced her own sternum, counting the new ridges that hadn't been there last week. Not enough. She pinched the loose skin at her hipbones where her leggings pooled like deflated balloons, the elastic waistband now secured with a safety pin after the third round of alterations. The numbers on the scale this morning had been wrong—they had to be wrong—because 103.8 pounds still cast a shadow when Chloe's Instagram proved she weighed 98.

The bathroom mirror had become their battleground—Ana's reflection gaunt as a famine victim while Max's spilled beyond the frame, his belly casting a shadow that swallowed the entire sink. She'd taken to weighing him at midnight, naked under the humming fluorescents, when his stomach sagged heaviest after the day's feedings. The digital scale's groan became a nightly ritual, its display inching toward 350 while Ana's own weight dipped below 100 for the first time since middle school. She'd press her spine against the cold wall tiles afterward, counting each knob of vertebrae like rosary beads, while Max wheezed from the effort of toweling between his folds.

Months passed...

The wheelchair's reinforced steel frame groaned under Max's weight as Ana pushed him through Slim & Stuffed's automatic doors—a sound drowned out by the collective gasp from the dining room. Now at well over 600lbs his thighs spilled over the chair's sides like overproofed dough, the denim of his custom-cut jeans straining at the seams where they disappeared beneath the avalanche of his belly. The hostess's clipboard clattered to the floor when Max's front tire rolled over it, his sheer mass indenting the plexiglass podium as they passed.

Even the air seemed to part around Ana as she strode into Slim & Stuffed—a skeletal specter in a white bikini that clung to nothing but angles. The triangles of fabric gaped empty where her breasts had been, the strings digging into clavicles sharp enough to slice paper. Every rib cast a shadow like piano keys beneath skin stretched translucent, her stomach so concave it formed a valley deep enough to hide secrets. When she turned sideways to grab a plate, her profile disappeared entirely—just the jut of hipbones framing a void where her abdomen should have been. She was now only 78lbs.

Ana's skeletal fingers curled around the hostess stand, her knuckles pressing white against the polished acrylic. The hostess—a willowy creature with wrists like twigs—flinched when Ana leaned in, close enough for her breath to stir the girl's perfectly straightened bangs. "We'll take the VIP table," Ana rasped, her voice sandpaper-rough from days of speaking only to command Max's next bite. She slid a black credit card across the counter with a nail so sharp it left a hairline scratch in the surface. "And tell your girls"—her eyes flicked to Chloe, who was pretending not to stare at Max's wheelchair-bound mass—"to keep the plates coming. Nonstop."

The wheelchair's wheels left twin grooves in the plush carpet as Ana maneuvered Max toward the circular VIP table—a massive oak slab reinforced with steel struts, its surface already set with an array of tiny forks that looked like dental tools next to his swollen hands. His belly pressed flush against the table's edge before they'd even stopped moving, the wood creaking ominously as his bulk settled into place like a landslide. Ana didn't bother with the chair beside him; she perched on the table itself, her hipbones denting the tablecloth as she swung one stick-thin leg over the other. The waitresses descended like vultures drawn to carrion—birdlike things in skintight uniforms that clung to their protruding ribs, their trays trembling under mountainous portions of deep-fried everything.

The first platter hit the table with a clatter—an architecturally precarious tower of bacon-wrapped scallops dripping garlic butter onto Max’s thighs before Ana could catch the runoff with a napkin. His belly quivered at the scent, the shelf of fat above his waistband already glistening with sweat under the buffet’s heat lamps. Ana plucked a scallop between her skeletal fingers, grease pooling in the hollow of her palm as she pressed it to Max’s lips. "Chew," she commanded, her thumbnail digging into his chin when he hesitated. The butter smeared golden across his cheek as he choked it down, his throat working visibly beneath layers of softness.

Ana's fingers moved with the precision of a starved predator as she snatched a bacon-wrapped scallop from the platter—grease dripping between her knuckles—and shoved it between Max's lips before he'd finished swallowing the last bite. His cheeks bulged like overstuffed pillows as she pressed her palm against his mouth, forcing his jaw shut with an audible click of teeth. "Don't you dare spit it out," she hissed, her other hand sliding beneath the table to pinch the tender flesh of his inner thigh. His muffled whimper sent vibrations through her bones as Chloe appeared with a fresh tray of deep-fried cheesecake bites, her hipbones protruding like coat hooks beneath the sheer fabric of her uniform. "Eat, pig!" Ana shouted, as she shoved more greasy food in Max's mouth.

Ana's fingers lingered at her waist as she surveyed the dining room, her thumb and middle finger easily meeting around the narrowest part of her torso with room to spare. The waitress approaching with a tray of loaded nachos—some new hire with ribs like a xylophone—actually stumbled when she caught sight of Ana's hands encircling that impossible circumference. Ana smirked and gave a little twist, revealing the concave dip where her stomach should have been.

The clatter of industrial baking sheets hitting their VIP table sent a ripple through the dining room—Chloe and two other waitresses staggering under the weight of entire hotel pans still steaming from the kitchen. Ana's breath hitched at the sight: a sheet of lasagna still bubbling in its cheese-crusted corners, a pan of glazed pork belly glistening under the lights, a tray of cinnamon rolls drenched in enough icing to drown a man.

Max's whimper was lost beneath the metallic echo as Ana plunged a serving spatula into the lasagna, heaving a portion the size of a shoebox onto his waiting plate. The cheese stretched in molten strands when she lifted it, snapping against his chin as she crammed the first forkful past his lips. His cheeks ballooned instantly, tomato sauce oozing from the corners of his mouth as Ana scraped the plate clean with the edge of the fork. "Swallow," she commanded, already reloading the utensil while Max's throat worked convulsively.

The lasagna plate scraped clean, Ana didn’t pause—didn’t let Max gasp for air between the last stringy bite of cheese and the sudden, brutal intrusion of the funnel’s plastic rim between his teeth. It was a monstrous thing, wide enough to stretch his lips taut, the tube snaking down toward his swollen belly like some industrial pipeline. Chloe materialized beside them, balancing a milkshake glass the size of a fishbowl, its contents so thick the straw stood upright in the viscous swirl of chocolate and whipped cream. Ana snatched it without thanks, her forearm tendons standing in sharp relief as she tipped the entire behemoth into the funnel’s mouth.

Max's stomach had long since stopped sending signals—Ana's relentless conditioning had rewired his nervous system until satiety was just a distant rumor, a ghost of sensation he could barely recall. His belly expanded mechanically now, each bite shoveled in by Ana's skeletal fingers accepted without protest, the food disappearing into the abyss of his swollen gut as if funneled directly into some alternate dimension. He chewed when told, swallowed on command, his body reduced to a mere vessel for Ana's insatiable need to fill him beyond all reason.

The feeding went on for hours.

Ana's voice had gone ragged from hours of relentless commands, each "Eat!" sharper than the last, her vocal cords fraying like overstretched wires. Max's chewing had slowed to a sluggish, mechanical rhythm, his jaw working in slow motion as Ana pressed a forkful of honey-glazed ham against his slack lips. Grease pooled in the hollows of his cheeks before dripping down his chin, joining the constellation of stains already blooming across his stretched shirt. The table trembled beneath the weight of half-demolished platters—towers of cream puffs reduced to smears of custard, a gutted turkey carcass picked clean to the bone, empty pie tins licked shiny by Ana's unforgiving fingers.

The conveyor belt of indulgence stuttered to a stop mid-bite—Ana's forkful of chocolate-drenched churro hovering in the air as the kitchen doors swung shut behind the last retreating waitress. The sudden silence rang louder than the clatter of plates had. Max's labored breathing filled the void, his engorged belly rising and falling like a overfilled waterbed beneath his stained shirt. Ana's fingers twitched around the fork, her knuckles pressing sharp against her parchment-thin skin as she scanned the empty buffet line.

Chloe's stiletto heels clicked like a death march across the tiles, her crop top riding up to expose ribs so sharply defined they cast zebra-striped shadows down her torso. She stopped just out of arm's reach—Ana had drawn blood last time—and licked her lips before speaking. "We're out." The words hung in the grease-scented air. "Kitchen's scraped clean. Even the emergency freezer stash." Her gaze flicked to Max's swollen form, his chin glistening with a patina of sauces, his eyelids at half-mast from the sheer effort of continuous swallowing. "You've eaten us out of house and home, big boy."

Ana's spine snapped straight at Chloe's words, her vertebrae clicking like dominoes lining up for destruction. "You're out!? You have to be kidding me! How can you even run this restaurant," she shrieked, voice cracking like thin ice under pressure, "with so many FAT waitresses!?" The insult ricocheted off the buffet's mirrored walls, striking every uniformed girl within earshot. Chloe's hand flew to her concave stomach as if slapped, her colleagues freezing mid-step with empty trays clutched to their bony chests—a flock of startled herons caught in the crossfire of Ana's wrath.

The wheelchair's reinforced wheels left deep trenches in the buffet's plush carpet as Ana pushed Max toward the exit—his engorged belly jiggling with each uneven roll, his sweat-slicked fingers struggling to grip the armrests. Chloe's whisper sliced through the clatter of dishwashers in the back: "Am I not thin enough? Am...am I too fat?" The words trembled like a plucked harp string, her manicured nails digging into the concave dip of her own stomach as she watched Ana's retreating form.