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"You need to eat," she says to me, plain and simple. It's weird, there's no concern in her phase. There's nothing. It doesn't come off particularly maternal nor warm. It's not in the way a well meaning aunt or grandmother would say it either. It's matter of fact.
"Okay," I say awkwardly. I don't know where this is coming from. I eat fine. Sure, maybe not a doctor approved getting-all-my-calories three meals a day diet, but I eat alright. I don't have the time nor money anyway. Three balanced meals a day on a teacher's salary? Forget it. "I will, just let me go over these notes."
"Now, Dr. Grace, would be most efficient," she says.
"Have you eaten?" I ask her. I'm confused about this certain insistence about food.
"As a matter of fact, I am about to, and I was wondering if you would join me."
Inviting me to dinner? Weird. I think about the others who have already been whispering about us sleeping together. This will almost definitely exacerbate the rumors. But then again, I am hungry.
"Oh. Um. Sure." I put my notebook away, getting out of my seat to follow her. There's eyes on us as we walk down the hallway, and I nervously put my hands in my pockets. We walk to her office, where I see… a meal. A full meal. Almost as if she prepared it.
What's her goal here? As if reading my mind, she looks at me sharply. "No, this is not a date. The chef got my order wrong and made extra food. I hate to waste."
"Okay, that's fair," I say, sitting down. I do wonder how wrong the chef could have gotten her order, given the fact she seems to only take the salad for herself, leaving me with two big steaks and mashed potatoes. I take it all in, and she gives me a look like I'm the biggest idiot in the world.
"Eat," she commands, and for some reason, I find myself obeying. I start with the mashed potatoes, and holy crap, they are good. I eat them with vigor before moving on to the steak. The steak is prepared excellently, thoroughly juicy and sauced.
"The chef is….really good," I say in between bites, taking extra care to not talk with my mouth full. At least not in front of her. It feels disrespectful.
"Yes, he's satisfactory." Her compliment is still cold, and she looks at me expectedly, almost like she wants me to keep going. I go back to digging into the steak, but I'm only able to take a few more bites before I can feel my stomach hurt.
"That's all I can do," I say, leaning back, taking a deep breath. "That was super good, though. Thanks."
She looks down at the remaining food. "You have a small appetite, Dr. Grace."
"Uh. Yeah, yeah, I guess so." She looks disappointed in me, but I swear I'm imagining it. Why would she be disappointed in me?
"You can stop work early today."
"O-oh. Okay. Are you sure?"
"Yes. Get some rest, Dr. Grace," she says, and I get up, giving her a nod before I walk out of the room, confused.
When I get back to my quarters, I'm eager to take off my jeans. Maybe I am more malnourished than I thought, half a steak with some mashed potatoes is an average meal, and yet I feel bloated. My stomach digs into my jeans. I shower and get into my pajamas, climbing into bed and trying to not wonder about any of what just happened.
That night I dream of lobster.
"Heard you had dinner with Stratt," Amanda says, one of the lab assistants. She's grinning from ear to ear.
"From who?" I ask.
"We get bored," she admits. "Or I do, at least."
I just shrug. "I would say it's not what you think, but I don't think that does anything at this point."
She chuckles. "It's fun to pretend."
I just laugh awkwardly, looking over my notes again. She sighs. "I miss my girlfriend."
"…I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say. "I'm sure you'll see her again soon."
I don't know if that's true. I don't know what's going on, really.
The rest of the day goes on as usual, but try as I might, I cannot stop wondering about the night before. Stratt doesn't talk to me when she walks in, nothing past pleasantries, but her version of "pleasantries" are very curt, anyway.
She doesn't initiate any out-of-workplace conduct until three days later. It's evening, nine o'clock I think, and I'm eating a granola bar, bent over my notebook. She takes a seat across from me. "A granola bar?"
"They're nutrithisth," I reply, not bothering to keep my mouth shut. For some weird reason, I want to see how she reacts.
She's not amused. "Dr. Grace, you have not been eating well and it's apparent to everyone on the team. Proper brainpower and productivity are powered by a balanced diet as well as adequate sleep and it's clear to me you are not doing either. If I am entrusting you with the fate of the Earth, is it not unfair to give it a weaker version of yourself?"
"…I guess so," I reply. I don't know how to react. No one has ever called me out on my eating habits before.
Well, that's not entirely true. One of my students, Manny, used to always eat inside my classroom. He was rather…flamboyant, but also had a lot of social anxiety, so I let him eat lunch inside my room. "You rarely eat anything, Mr. Grace," he'd said. "Are you okay?"
My brain went into overdrive that day. No, no, no, I'm the teacher, you're the student, do not worry about me! And why wouldn't I be okay? It's just food. I don't remember what I said, but I think I cracked some kind of joke. In general, though, most never said anything. My parents just seemed relieved they didn't have to cook for me as much.
It's hard to understand what Stratt's intentions are with this.
"I have more food prepared for you," she says. "And I expect you to be less wasteful than last time."
"Okay," I reply meekly, and for some reason, there I am, following her back to her office. There's a lobster meal there, with lots of butter for dipping, breadsticks, and potatoes once again.
"Fancy," I remark. I could never afford lobster on a teacher's salary.
"Well, Dr. Grace, you are an asset to our team. Now eat up." She doesn't even have a salad this time as she sits down, brushing her hands off before opening her laptop.
"O-okay. Yeah. Sure. Thanks." I sit down, spreading the cloth napkin across my lap, before I dig in, and what the heck? This is one of the best meals I've ever had in my life.
The lobster is well-seasoned, and the combination of lobster and butter? I start to get excited…weirdly. I finish the lobster quickly before moving on to the mashed potatoes which are predictably delicious. I'm full, that's for sure, but there's three breadsticks that look so buttery that I find myself grabbing one.
I'm lost in this feast frenzy before I realize her eyes are keenly on me, taking everything in. "Would you like dessert, Dr. Grace?"
I lean back in my chair with a sigh. "I couldn't possibly."
She frowns but doesn't say anything.
I masturbate that night and I don't know why.
Stratt is now sending breakfast up to my room. It starts small at first, portions I'm far more accustomed to. After a few days, though, it increases in size.
She doesn't speak to me directly on the days she sends me breakfast. I'm told she's busy with meetings. She's right, though. Eating in the morning helps me think.
One day, no breakfast arrives, and sure enough, she invites me for dinner. That night it's a filet mignon with crab cakes and soup as an appetizer.
I eat all of it this time, and I see a smile form on her face.
After yet another dinner happens, I go on my computer. I'm sitting at my desk with my boxers on. My sleep shirt has grown a little tight.
Why does my boss keep feeding me?
Most of the results are normal. To boost morale, to show appreciation, to make sure I'm taking care of myself.
There is a Reddit comment that sticks out, though.
I got too close to my boss and he was often bringing in donuts for me. It used to be only on special occasions, but soon it started to be every day. It became other things too, cake, pie, etc.
Eventually, I could barely fit into my office clothes anymore. I bought new ones, and he'd frowned at me, telling me he liked me in the previous purple skirt better. I wore it because there was a promotion up for grabs… and… well…
My breath hitches.
It ripped. And he couldn't stop staring.
I close my computer quickly. Nope. I don't have time to deal with this right now, especially with the way I can feel a certain…something, rising up like an early bird for a worm. I go to bed.
Soon, the breakfast and dinner sessions become commonplace. I think about that Reddit comment over the next few days, and eventually, I can't help myself.
I look at it again. Someone in the comments says "dude… ur boss was def a feeder. wtf."
Feeder?
I look it up, and boom. There it is. A fetish. A fetish that involves…feeding someone until they get fatter.
My search takes me to some kind of website called DeviantArt, and there it is, some man from an anime, fat as a whale, opening his mouth as another man feeds him a sandwich.
Weird. Weird weird weird weird weird weird weird, but I can't shake the interest. I look it up the next day. More anime men. O-kay. Weird.
Even weirder the amount of times I visit that webpage.
My clothes are not fitting me recently. As a kid, this was awesome. It meant a trip to the mall, which I hated (trying on jeans was especially always certifiably Not Fun), but as a consolation, I'd get to go to the library. However, as an adult, I no longer get to go to the library after clothes shopping. I mean, I can, I have free will and all that, and I often do exercise my free will to check out a new book and eat some delectable gas station food in the car with, but there's one major problem.
I am on a ship, and there are no gas stations on ships. There is a study on this ship, of some manner, but it's not a library. Nor is there a mall. So I'm kinda Screwed with a Capital S.
It doesn't take a detective to figure out why.
I know I can refuse her food anytime, and I should. It's not good, it's not productive. It's also messed up of me to assume it's some sort of fetish thing. Maybe she's just genuinely concerned for me and has a weird way of showing it.
She's sending breakfast and lunch up to my room, with snacks in between, and I eat dinner in her office every night.
I go to the medic, and they have me step on the scale.
Twenty pounds.
I've gained twenty pounds.
I go back to my quarters and masturbate again.
The next day there's a cake. A large chocolate cake. I eat my food, and Stratt offers me the cake. A small smile forms on her face when I say yes.
She stares at me as I eat it, and I can't stop myself from moaning as I feel my stomach grow tighter.
"You seem uncomfortable," she says at the end. "Do you require assistance?"
"Assistance?"
She lays a hand on my stomach. Dang, her hand is freezing cold. It's not comforting in any way, not at first, but then she starts to rub my stomach. Almost like a dog, I feel my tongue fall out of my mouth.
She ignores it, and I'm thankful, but when she's done rubbing my stomach, I swear I hear her mutter a "good boy" under her breath.
Maybe it's just wishful thinking.
We are in a hotel room, and I'm sitting there on the bed. My stomach hangs past my waist, spilling out onto my legs. My face is round, my thighs thick, and there she is, holding a fork, putting more and more food into my mouth.
She then pushes me back onto the bed, and I lay there lazily as she undresses. She climbs on top of me, tracing my fat stomach with her fingers. We make love, and she tells me how warm I am.
I wake up in a panic.
I've never had a wet dream before.
"Grace…are you okay?" Amanda asks me. It's been nine months since the first dinner, and I know people notice.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I feign ignorance.
"I…I don't believe in body shaming, but… you've…put on some weight. You look fine, don't get me wrong, it's just been fast, and I know some people eat to cope with things… we get stressed, too, but it's important to ask for help."
"I'm fine," I say, with a smile. She's right, though. I've put on a lot of weight.
Sixty pounds to be exact.
Stratt walks by, watching our conversation. She eyes me, making eye contact. She smiles tightly, her normal barely-a-smile-smile.
I smile back.
And she walks away.