Chapter Text
The staff buffet was abandoned at the scene the moment word of the CEO being in the lobby a little wine drunk and open to bonus grants reached the conference room. Since all the VIPs were down there greasing palms and eating boot polish, you were left to then clean up the huge lunch you’d not even an hour ago retrieved from the nearby diner. That diner knew you by card now, the tall chick who always bought a few hundred dollars’ worth of finger food, a black coffee, and paid with a black, titanium credit card.
Lunch breaks were a luxury in this office full of Harvard grads who were a pay band shy of millionairedom. Taking bags of untouched sandwich bites and quiche out to the elevator started to feel like a bad capitalist metaphor. Someone ought to eat it. You could give it to the homeless. But who wants picked over, sat out on the table for an hour, room temperature, messily bagged up cold cuts? Or for that matter, lukewarm quiche bites and a veggie tray that was made this morning, a rough six hours ago? The food belonged in the faces of those bankers who’d abandoned it. There or the trash. The only middle ground between banker bellies and the black bags under the common room sink was in the closet with you shoving your face.
Taking another big bite of a croissant, you glanced at your watch. It’d been thirty minutes, and you’d made good headway on the catering display of fruits and chocolates. Your waistband was starting to complain about your belly, but with the sandwiches untouched, you couldn’t heed that.
Your gut bulged as you burped on the last bite of chocolate covered strawberry and reached for a tuna salad sandwich bite. Placing one hand against your skirt waist and the other on the tray balanced across your knees, you could feel the gradual expansion of your stomach against the efforts of your clothing. Seams bulged and begged to split as more and more of you started to poke outward. Your gut began to tighten and swell atop the cotton band of the pink pencil skirt in protest. You didn’t stop. Something about this was freeing, and scarfing down quiche bites of egg and cheddar in the hot, dark closet was an adrenaline rush you craved longer than you knew you did. Even when the tummy pain started to smack of salmonella, deviled eggs and chicken dippers went into your maw, and into your fattening stomach. Your belly bulged with the weight of your indulgence and relentless feeding of it.
Unable to stop or to continue, you reached down to the jug of tea and started to gulp, the liquid softening up your overstuffed gut for a massaged-out burp to rise. With renewed vigor, you took on the pastries and rolls, plumping up your tummy for the second act.
The blouse was beginning to default on its promise to cover you up. Your fat stomach stretched between gaps of the buttons, aching, and moaning with painful gas and overfull protests. You refrained from touching the monster you could feel plumping between your legs for fear of its size, but your weighed thighs could not hide the ball of a gut laying on them. With a sickened belch, you finally heard the office doors creak open.
Sitting in tense silence, you leaned against the closet door to try and catch a bite of the conversation flowing past your hideout. It was largely self-congratulatory, an ironic banter about who kissed the most ass and got the best payout from doing so. They were so high on the smell of the CEO’s checkbook they weren’t thinking about the word-shy intern with big glasses and a slight unplaceable accent. Once the bustle went quiet, you returned to your conquest of madeleines and raspberry truffles. Stomach pain underscored every shift of position, and the band of the pink pencil skirt began to bend and fold down to your crotch as your belly poured over it, rolling onto your lap with dense sickness. It was too much food.
You started to cave to the stabbing pains in your gut once you could feel it lifting up your bust. Your stomach gurgled and groaned as you shuffled on the cardboard box you’d begun to cave a pretty serious dent into, unlike the finger food. You were about halfway through it, and completely through your extra belly room. A small belch into your hand threatened a heaving encore so you leaned back and put a hand over your sloppy lips, feeling the ominous gurgle move through your waist. Once the urge to upchuck had subsided, you heard a chorus of chairs scraping back in the common room and your heart skipped a beat, tucking into the corner of the closet and sliding the empty trays back toward the wall, you braced in silence for wherever the herd of Wall Street wannabes was headed. It paused outside your door making conversation within itself and adorning hats and coats. You picked up on the word “Margeilla’s” and inferred that the lackeys were off to an expensive, late lunch with their recent bonuses. Sitting still as a rock while they filed out, you finally let yourself exhale the breath you’d been holding for five minutes, your belly poking forward even more as it had been given time to settle.
The time to settle also made it possible to stand up now, which had been previously out of the question. Hiking up your skirt band with one hand and fumbling in the dark for the doorknob, you belched and hiccupped your way to freedom, blinking as the bright lights of the office shone in your eyes for the first time in a while. Emptiness was charming, unlike the usual grit and hustle in here, and you took a moment to palm your belly and sigh. Waddling now, you reached back in to collect the uneaten trays, bending at the waist carefully, not wanting to rupture the tenuous grip your stomach muscles had on their contents.
Teetering in each hand was about six people’s portions of hors d’ouvres which made their way back to your tiny office along with a cigarette from the communal box to calm your nerves. Plopping everything down on top of the manilla folders and sorted stacks of bank statements and stock scores, you finally took the lighter from the shelf and lit the Marlboro.
Standing at the cracked window and staring out at the city twelve floors below while gently rubbing the side of your bloated belly, you smoked the cigarette and didn’t miss your bosses, sighing repeatedly as the stomachache raged on and the window refused to open enough for a body to fit out, especially not yours--now.
Beeping and engine revving with distant sirens lulled you into a bit of a stupor, enough of one that the gentle raps of a knuckle on your previously closed door were enough to scare you into dropping the cigarette twelve stories. Hiccupping off the rapid juggling of your guts and palming the bloat, you turned to the door.
“Sorry to startle you. I didn’t mean to interrupt what looked like a good muse.” Casio murmured, leaning halfway in and keeping his feet off of your office carpet.
Sheepishly tugging your waistband up and placing both hands in front of your belly, you straightened your posture and smiled.
“No problem, sir, is there something I can help you with?” The six trays of food sat between you in betrayal. “I thought everyone had gone out to lunch, that’s why I was in here alone… like this.” Your tummy forced you to hiccup again, and you tried to hide it, but it was obvious as the ripple that went through your waist, clutched by your now sweaty hands.
“There’s no urgency, don’t worry. I was just wondering if you wanted a smoke partner, though,” Casio’s eyes travelled longingly down the twelve windows across the way from your building. “I guess that’s gone out the window.” He winked and leaned on your shelf, stepping firmly into your office now, crossing his arms and striking an awfully flattering pose. You wished you could show him what you could do, how you could really dress, how snatched you could really look. Instead, you stood before him with six portions of snack food pushing through your clothes.
Nothing obvious presented itself for you to say, so you awkwardly spaced out the words, “would you like a snack?” with a pitiful half-assed hand gesture toward the trays. Casio chuckled a little and finally glanced down at the array of offerings on the desk.
“I would say yes, but I was also once an intern, so I know how rarely treats like this come by and how we like to squander them away to some dark corner and indulge our… primal side.” Traveling back up to yours, his eyes lingered on your body, finally sliding up your chest to your heating face. “Go ahead.” He said so softly it was almost mouthed. His face compelled strongly, so you sat down at your desk and picked up a slice of honeydew before you thought better of everything and quickly put it down.
“It’s alright, sir. I was actually planning to throw these out. It was just such a shame that they were going to waste, so I thought I’d pick out a few things just so someone had a piece. But it’s done now, I’m done, so I’ll just throw it out.” You stood up and picked up one of the trays, awkwardly hobbling around your desk, stomach brushing folders, preparing to squeeze by the boss, but he placed a hand on your arm.
“Let’s see if we can do it better justice than that, hm?” He said so soft, again, almost as if mouthed. Casio’s wedding ring pinched your bicep, and his lips were in such detail you found your face moving toward them as if for closer inspection. The slick grin they broke into snapped you out of it, blush racing toward your cheeks.
“Do you like Margiella’s?” He asked, keeping hold of you and walking back to the desk. You could only nod as the surrealness kept you staring at his face. He subtly placed the tray in your lap as he let you go and perched on the edge of the desk, pushing another tray closer, into the vacancy that one left. “I don’t. That’s why I didn’t go. It’ll make me feel better about missing the riveting verbal dick measuring contest at the table if someone gets to eat well.” He placed a hand on his knee and relaxed back on one arm, watching you intently. “Eat, y/n.” He mouthed again, the sound only really reaching your ears as the honeydew reached your lips, and again you dove into indulgence.
Your stomach had calmed, and the steady intake of melon and madeleines didn’t upset the still ocean too greatly. It swelled and groaned, pushing outwards against the constrains of your clothing with steady insistence until as you put an oatmeal raisin cookie into your mouth for a change of pace, you felt a mortifying pop as the lowest button of your shirt burst open and your fat stomach bloated out through the gap. Casio swallowed and took his gaze out the window, offering the stunning view of his side profile.
You continued to eat with your head slightly bowed and kitten heels pressed together, watching Casio not watch you, until with sudden force, your belly contracted, and you lurched forward and moaned. His eyes snapped over and he reached out to help you to steadiness.
“Ohhh,” You murmured, tucking your hair behind your ear, and closing your eyes to calm the nausea. The ocean was getting sort of turbulent. Tumbling waves of gurling and groaning panged through your belly, yearning for freedom from the constricting clothes. A sickly burp pushed through your lips, and Casio smoothed your cheek.
“All well?” He asked. It seemed to say go on though his face showed interest in your condition. You wiped your mouth and then your chest of crumbs and nodded, turning back to the tray, feeling faint. “Here,” He murmured, reaching into the side drawer. He took out one of your mini probiotic Yakults and opened the tinfoil lid before handing it to you. “Wash your palette.”
You sipped the drink down and found the refreshing taste settling into your full stomach pleasant and soothing. With renewed vigor, you began to devour the wraps on the second-to-last tray, letting the empty one on your lap sit conquered. Casio gently removed it, gingerly rubbing your belly as his hand was in the vicinity. The bloat was large and beginning to stress buttons higher up on your waist, the skin poking through stretched and sensitive to Casio’s delicate touch. He set the tray on your shelf and resettled into the reclined position on the other arm now, letting the tired one take out a cigarette from his breast pocket and light it. In need of your own smoke, you started to wolf down the wraps, soaking in the feeling of your stomach expanding, hitting its limits of capacity with a tray and a half left to go, swollen to the size of a pregnant bump in its third trimester.
Wincing, you tucked a hand beneath your tummy and felt it pin your knuckles to your thighs with weight, indifferent to the futile wiggle of your fingers under its fat girth. Groaning, your belly gave once last cry as you began to shove wraps in your mouth in rapid-fire succession, succumbing to the need to get done with the tray. Casio took and replaced it seamlessly, and your hand reached for a slice of cake. Startled, you retracted it, reflexively licking the icing off your fingertips. Casio took your hand from your mouth and put it back on the tray with an encouraging nod. Wide eyed, you closed your hands around the slice and lifted it to your face, munching on cake straight from your hand with your gaze locked on your boss’s attractive visage.
Small moans and cries of desperation originating at your aching belly began to make their way through your lips between entering bites of cake, and Casio’s eyes began to glaze with pleasure. Crumbs landed on your chest and he flicked them away, cupping your girth and rubbing back and forth gently, coaxing it into admitting the seemingly endless slices of cake. Just as you knew you were reaching your limit, your hand touched the empty tray, and you collapsed against the back of your chair, legs splayed and hips out, the fat stomach you’d fed twelve trays of finger food burbling slow and upset in front of you, bursting past your buttons and belt loops. Casio took your hand and sucked the icing off your fingers, admiring your condition, then left the office in a rush.
You sat there in awe at yourself and disbelief in the events of the afternoon until the main doors opened and admitted a gaggle of day drunk accountants. You sat up quickly and pulled into your desk, but Casio met them all at the door.
“I’ve got the intern plugged in on a huge project that’ll probably take her all night. Let me have the help today and I promise I’ll return her tomorrow for any of your tasks.”
“Take her out to dinner for all I care, Roman. Just don’t let her get burnt out before her tenure’s over.” Casio agreed and posted something on your door, then went on down the hall to his own office.
The time until close was spent sipping Yakult and massaging your belly, trying to keep it all down. You could barely believe how large you were, but once it came time to go and you had to get up, you were forced to accept it for reality. Just as you were able to lumber your fat middle up from the chair, the door opened slightly and Roman Casio stuck his head in.
“Quitting time. Would you be willing to accompany to dinner at Margiella’s tonight?” He had his blazer of his arm and his sleeves rolled up signifying the end of a formal workday. The office had emptied out quickly, and it seemed you were the only two left. You could hardly think of dinner now though, and looked from your obvious overindulgence to Roman, who nodded acknowledgement. “Join me for wine would be more accurate. You seem full at the moment.” Hiccupping, you waddled toward him and took the blazer from his arm, buttoning it with tenuous security around the fattest part of your waist and hoping it didn’t pop open as you made your way toward the door. Roman Casio followed, briefcase in hand.
“Careful darling,” he said, taking the door from you as you struggled with the strong hinges. “Don’t want you doing too much heavy lifting.” He placed a hand on your side and the rouse he was suggesting clicked. It seemed you were about to go on a dinner date with your married boss while pretending to be carrying his child, and you seemed to be completely down for that.