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A Terrible Idea (Random Writing for SXFPantera)
🕑 Added 2020-08-17 14:38:58 +0000 UTCHe would ask whose idea was it to set that machine up as a publicity stunt, but he had no one to blame there but himself, and the last thing on his mind was coming up with an adequate admonishment for such a monumental lapse in judgement; he’d have to think about it and probably waste a good day or so before finding anything adequate enough, and even then he’d most likely be too busy dealing with the aftermath to really worry about it too much.
The restraints locked into place, the feeding tube latched its mask onto his face and the information panel sprung into action right beside him, officially signalling what was, in theory, supposed to be a fundraiser for the local gym. It was anyone’s guess why they thought it was going to work, but after Pan accidentally stopped the bakery next door from burning down, and in the process inadvertently led to fifteen lives being saved in a series of extremely unlikely events, they had to do something with the several hundred pounds of cake they had lying around; couldn’t just leave it in the storage room, it’d get all mouldy!
Now, how exactly they went from “move cakes from Spot A to Spot B” all the way to “hook a feeding tube to the hunkiest panther they had and let people pay to watch him fatten up” was one hell of a logic trip that even Pan himself was scratching his head over, almost as if he’d completely forgotten why everyone had collectively decided to leave their sanity at home and bring all the horny instead. Unfortunately for him, he wouldn’t have a lot of time on his hands to ponder on an answer, because there was already a line of eager donators ready to dump some cash into the jar if it meant they could throw a whole bleedin’ cake straight down Pan’s gullet.
He absolutely did not expect those many people to show up. The gym was a popular hotspot, and they didn’t really have any shortage of eager customers, but he barely recognized anyone there, lending credence to his suspicion that most of the staff had gone behind his back to advertise the charity drive to people of a lewder persuasion than most; the hungry looks on their eyes certainly seemed to sell this idea perfectly, as well as the eagerness with which some of them parted with their hard-earned money. Hell, even before the first one stepped up, Pan swore he heard someone mention how they were going to go back into the line just for another go at him.
And the rules seemed so simple as well: one dollar for a slice of cake down the hatch, fifteen for the whole thing. Maybe, they thought, they’d get rid of a few of those things before they had to go into the trash, maybe Pan would just have to work out extra hard for a couple of weeks in order to take care of all the fat and sugar. Or maybe, as the case was, they had a sudden rush of feeders who all clamoured to grab a cake of their own, leaving the Panther to silently plead with the people behind the desk to please try and stop the madness before it was too late, to no avail.
The first person moved closer, a young leopard who Pan recognized as an occasional gym-goer. Not the most dedicated by any stretch of the imagination, but not a scrawny beanpole either; it was clear in his eyes that he half-regretted and half-relished what he was about to do, to the point where he even mouthed a silent “Sorry!” before dropping a whole cake into the machine. The assembly began to whirr loudly enough for the big cat to jump backwards as it shredded the family-sized pastry into small enough chunks that they could be vacuumed up and tubed straight into Pan’s mouth. Knowing there was no turning back, he opened wide and welcomed the incoming sugar rush, even then almost choking on it from how quickly the cake-debris was moving.
Mouthful after mouthful were devoured, the panther allowing his inner sweettooth to take over for the first time in literally years, enjoying the mindless pleasures of a good cake without worrying about calorie counts or how much he’d have to work to sweat off the extra pound he just consumed. This seemed to smooth out his previously-worried expression enough that the following people in line were quicker on the draw, not hesitating nearly as much before unceremoniously dumping a dangerous amount of flavored dough into the feeding machine; before long, the poor thing didn’t even have the time to go through one item before another was thrown into it, leaving the input port so stuffed that the gym staff had to request a small break to let it do its business uninterrupted.
This had the predictable effect of turning what were supposed to be a series of chunks being shoved into Pan’s mouth into a continuous stream of cake, pure cake, complete with practically-molten frosting and so much condensed sugar that his tongue recoiled at the mere touch of it. It should be terrible, by all means, and yet the more it went on, the more the panther’s inner glutton began to shine through, leaving his sanity behind as its eyes were allowed to inspect what was happening to Pan’s body.
It shouldn’t be possible for him to be turning that round that quickly, and yet his abs had already all-but vanished, replaced with a near-perfectly smooth, rotund belly that growled loudly enough to overpower the feeding machine whenever its owner swallowed down another mouthful. It was beginning to spread to the rest of him as well, affecting his toned physique with much of the same unnatural celerity as it had the area around his stomach. Though they didn’t completely vanish, it was hard to call those things he had on his chest pecs as much as they had made the full transition into moobs, while his rock-solid thighs were beginning to soften at a dangerously quick pace, his ass as well widening to the point where the chair was beginning to feel tight all over. A soft groan could be heard coming from his body, his very frame complaining about having to swell that much, but Pan wasn’t listening; in fact, Pan wasn’t even there at all, replaced by some sort of panther-like ravenous beast with a thirst for sugar and sugary products.
Thus, when the machine dealt with the backlog and pinged loudly enough for the line to start moving again, the person they saw strapped on the chair was markedly different from the obviously-nervous hunk that had been there just moments prior. He’d been (quite adequately) replaced by a pudgier, rounder knock-off version of himself, one whose swollen gut begged for more food to stuff it and whose general look was more akin to a series of spheres than the polished edifice of musculature it had been before. Oddly enough, even the regulars at the gym who showed up seemed to be enjoying this version of their panther a lot more than the old one, at least if their eyes and lip-licking tongues were any indication; the staff manning the main desk had their hands full just dealing with the sudden influx of donations, with one expressing doubts as to whether or not they’d even have enough cakes to go around after they tallied everything up.
In the meantime, Pan was having the time of his life completely ruining the physique he spent years developing and honing to perfection. It was just too good for him not to lose himself in, too overwhelming for even a mind such as his. Being able to watch as his body bloated and stuffed itself to ever greater sizes, even when such a thing should be, by all means, completely impossible, was something akin to a dream come true, even if it was a dream he didn’t even know he had at all. Before long, he wouldn’t just be a panther stuck to a chair, but an active participant in the process, loudly whining and begging for people to hurry up, to dump more and more and always more into the machine, until he grew too big and fat and round to move… and therefore needed even more cake to help him feel better about it. It was a vicious cycle he foresaw and did nothing to stop; quite the contrary, in fact.
Wouldn’t take more than thirty minutes for the chair to start creaking underneath Pan’s mounting weight. It was nothing more than a confirmation of what he already knew, and yet the sound of it was like honey to his needy ears; he’d grown so big that even chairs couldn’t hold him now, and the one thought left in his mind was that he wanted more of that, even if he had to force people to give it to him. Not that he could, of course, he was still firmly strapped to the chair.
A reality, it seemed, that wouldn’t last much longer, as the cakes just kept on coming regardless of how much they were clearly ruining his figure. Maybe he would’ve thought that people would be a lot more reticent to turn their resident hunk into a blob of fat so easily, back when he didn’t want to become one myself; if that was the case, everyone was dead set on proving him as wrong as he could be, with many of those who promised to return to the line doing so just so they could donate even more cash to see the panther strain the chair he was on.
They got their wish as well, because that flimsy thing wasn’t going to last much longer. His belly was barely even starting to spill over the edge when the legs holding it up snapped in half, sending him careening towards the ground… and then landing softly on what had to be the most pillowy ass he had ever felt in his life. At no point did Pan imagine he’d be feeling something as soft and pudgy as those cheeks being attached to him, but there they were, ready to cushion his fall and send both waves rippling through his rotund body and cheers rolling through the crowd. Random passers-by were drawing their wallets, eager to join the queue and see how far they could take it, while the feeding machine whirred and spun itself to near overheat trying to keep up with enough cake to nearly plug it again. As for the panther, he was just happy people were enjoying the show; he lived for that kind of impact on others.
At least now that he was safely on solid ground he could afford to start growing even more comfortably. He spread his legs, wanting to give his belly more room to spill over, and quickly finding it to not be the only thing he had to worry about. Used to having thighs that were powerful rather than simply large, it came as quite a surprise that the skin he scraped against the cement wasn’t harder than it was, but about as soft as the cakes being poured down his gullet; a look to the side confirmed what he suspected, with all definition in his lower musculature having been perfectly replaced by a set of thighs so wonderfully fat that they just begged to have someone sink their hands into them. It was only then that Pan remembered the only thing keeping himself from doing it was the chair to which his arms had been tied; now that the damned thing was gone, the only thing in between him and his hands being swallowed up by his own pudge was a simple thought… and a few inches.
It felt even better than he thought it would, like every neuron flared up in response to the slightest of touches. His old body, his inferior body, had always been responsive, so it wasn’t anything new; but he assumed that, well… losing his muscle tone meant turning his whole form into a flabby pillow to be kneaded and massaged, not a gigantic mass of arousal that needed to be avoided to stop him from going stuffing-crazy. All he could see were his fingers, trembling a mere inch or so away from his flesh, desperate to move closer and give him what he wanted… right before something else took his attention and ran off with it: his stomach.
He was so busy admiring his new puffy legs that he almost completely forgot about the main star of the show! Truth be told, it was easy to forgive him, seeing as that mass of cake-infused fat was now practically oozing onto the ground, the many rolls of flab pressing one one another as he gained pound after pound. He could practically see himself swell now with each bite, each mouthful he almost inhaled, pushing him further and further towards the edge of his endurance. Pan’s stamina was still untouched, but even he had his limits, especially when they were being as strained as they were; if he didn’t get some rest or respite soon, there wouldn’t be a lot of the panther left to go around.
Not that anyone seemed to care about that; the only thing keeping the crowd from walking up to him and digging in themselves was the rest of the gym staff making a small cordon around him. Pan was to be “appreciated”, not “felt up”, as they said, even as their eyes darted to his swelling, bloating frame and their hands occasionally slipped further behind them than they should. If the panther could talk, he might just tell everyone he was fine with having them use him as a body pillow; as it stood, with the feeding tube still lodged in his mouth and nothing for him to write on, all he could do was wave his arms towards himself, trying to signal his intention.
Unfortunately, the line of feeders took this to mean he wanted to have even more stuffed into him. This wasn’t inaccurate per se, but not exactly what he intended; he would love nothing more than for that mob to descend upon him and turn his body into their object of worship, even after passing the thousand pound mark and turning into more pudge than panther. All he could see was his own tubby self, expanding, bloating, swelling, growing in every direction, his thighs thickening, his ass widening, his belly gorging itself on the endless bounty of confectionary that was being forced into it. His body gurgled and rumbled, demanded more and more only to never be satisfied, leaving him feeling ever so empty and craving increasing quantities of food. The more he consumed, the emptier he felt, like his stomach had turned into a gnawing void that could never truly be filled.
And the food kept coming, the money kept pouring, until the stack of cakes that they had once thought would be too much to ever get rid of began to vanish into the aether, the empty boxes piling up elsewhere while a group of volunteers empties out whole stacks into the machine. Pan was openly moaning at this point, begging as loudly as he could for everyone to just forget about the money and dump the rest in… and for once, it seemed like people got it, because the whole line rushed towards him and completely overwhelmed the few staff members who were trying to protect him. Not a one lay a hand on him, though; no, this entire display of worship was purely focused on getting the rest of the cakes into him as quickly as possible, squeezing and mushing them up before forcing them down the machine.
As for Pan, he was… enjoying himself. Couldn’t get to his naughty bits anymore, not with over a ton of belly in the way, nor could he even move from his spot. In fact, there wasn’t a lot he could do that wasn’t just sit there and slowly feel himself overflow from his own fingers. It took someone accidentally tripping on the feeding machine after dumping in the last cake for anything new to happen; the whole thing shook and shuddered to a halt just as the last few crumbs were forced into his mouth, with a loud ping signalling the end of the work cycle. With a loud hiss, the clamps holding the tube over Pan’s mouth loosened, allowing him to remove the mask and throw it off to his side, finally giving the poor boy some room to breathe.
It was hard to, even without something clogging up his nose. Every breath made him painfully aware of how much weight was pressing down on his lungs, every exhale feeling like he was flattening them altogether. But it was a reminder of what he’d done, of what he’d accomplished… and a reminder of what everyone else did to him. Truth be told, in any other circumstance, he might’ve been mad at the crowd for what happened to his body, but now? Now he just wanted more. He wanted to gorge himself to his heart’s content and only worry about a diet when he could eat no more, and to that end, he needed people willing to go along with it.
Not difficult to find them, to be fair; all he had to do was open his arms wide and loudly invite everyone to come give him a big hug. Immediately a dozen or so folks threw themselves at him, sinking into his fat and making room for half a dozen more to stack on top of them. It felt positively heavenly for the panther, who couldn’t wait to see what the future held. Probably a lot of desperate work-outs, all things considered…
… but that was something for another day.
