* * * KINKS * * *

Weight Gain (Barely-Mobile Trans Woman), Slob (Burping, Farting, Sweating)

* * * SUMMARY * * *

Sue the ewe transitions into her biggest, best self.

* * * CHAPTER 1 - QUITTING TIME * * *

I hated the name "Ant" even before it became my deadname.

First off, it's unnecessary. There's already a nickname for people named Anthony. It's "Tony." Calling an Anthony "Ant" is like calling a David "DVD."

Also, it makes me feel small, like an ant. I mean, I -am- small, but I hate being reminded.

And it makes me feel old, like an aunt. I mean, I -am- an aunt, but I hate being reminded.

By the time my niece was old enough to talk, I told her to call me by my new name, Sue. Not "Aunt Sue" -- just "Sue."

She respected my wishes. I wish I could say the same of my manager, Mandee the manatee. Guess she isn't as civil as a 6-year-old.

"Wanna get on register, Ant?" Mandee asks me as I'm putting clothes away at the back of the store.

I hate questions that aren't really questions. I hate being on register. And I hate being called "Ant."

I almost want to get back at Mandee by calling her "Manny," but it wouldn't be the same, since she's cis.

Cis men are one thing. They treat me like I'm a guy who got confused and lost his way.

But cis women are even worse. They act like womanhood is some kind of secret society, and I'm a man trying to sneak in by wearing a disguise.

"My name is Sue," I tell Mandee. I sound irritated, but I can't help it. I'm tired of telling her my name.

"What're you going to do, sue?" the manatee asks.

I'm tempted to tell her, "Don't tempt me," but I think better of it.

Instead, I tell her, "You call everyone else by their name."

"I've always called you 'Ant,'" she replies.

In Mandee's defense -- not that she deserves one -- I started this job before I transitioned. That's an explanation, not an excuse, but still.

Maybe I should've changed jobs when I transitioned, but, I dunno. I guess I wanted one big part of my life to stay the same, even if I didn't like that part.

Unfortunately, like the name "Ant," my job made me even more miserable after I transitioned.

I take a deep breath. "I know, but --"

"There's no time to squabble," Mandee interrupts. "There's a line. Just get on register, dude."

For some reason, "dude" offends me even more than "Ant."

"Don't call me 'dude,'" I growl.

"Would you prefer 'little bastard?'" the manatee asks.

As much as I hate the B-word, I'd rather she called me that.

I take another deep breath, and remind myself she's from another generation.

I say, "I'd prefer 'Sue.'"

"And I'd prefer 'Your Majesty,' but I wasn't born a queen," Mandee replies. "And you weren't born a woman, even though you like to play one in drag.

"So, kindly drop it, and get on register."

"Get on register," my brain says.

"-You- get on register," my mouth says.

Mandee blinks. "...What did you say?"

"Apologize and get on register," my brain says.

"I said, -you- get on register," my mouth says. "Because I quit."

For a few moments, the manatee and I just stare at each other. She looks as shocked as I feel.

"Say you were joking, apologize, and get on register," my brain says.

My legs make me turn and walk past the line of customers, past the checkout counters, and out of the store.

As I rush through the hall of the mall, I realize that I'm doing my Man Walk. I'm striding quickly, with jerky movements. I'm moving my feet back and forth like pistons. My fists are clenched.

I transition to my Woman Walk. I move more slowly and gracefully. I put one foot directly in front of the other. I unclench my fists, and, instead of letting my hands hang limp, I turn them up slightly, so that my palms almost face the floor.

Before I know it, I'm in the parking garage, sitting in my car. Tears are streaming down my cheeks.

My brain is telling me to go back, apologize, and try to salvage things. Driving away feels like a point of no return.

But, just like back when I came to terms with my gender identity, I realize that staying the same, and staying miserable, just isn't an option.

So I wipe my eyes and drive away.

* * * CHAPTER 2 - DINNERTIME * * *

"...Jesus, Sue."

I'm lying in bed, talking with my older sister on the phone. Her name is Gin. Ironically, she doesn't drink or play cards.

"I know, right?" I reply. "I can't even believe it myself."

"...Well, it's probably for the best," Gin says. "You didn't seem happy there."

I sigh. "Mmm."

I hear my niece's voice on the other end of the line. Her name is Reese. Ironically, her favorite candy is Skittles.

"Who're you talking to, Mommy?" Reese asks.

"Your aunt," Gin says.

"She's not an aunt," Reese corrects. "She's a Sue."

Bless her heart. Her respect for my wishes touches me so much that my eyes well up.

"...I-I have to go," I stammer, my voice cracking with emotion. "Love you, Gin. T-tell Reese I love her too."

"Oh, uh, bye then," Gin says. "Love you too."

I end the call and have my second cry of the day.

Once I'm done, I wipe my eyes, get up, and look at myself in the full-length mirror.

I don't like reflecting on how I look, or how skinny and plain-looking mirrors make me feel. But I feel like I need to face reality right now.

A tall, thin, purple-wooled ewe looks back at me.

There are so many things I dislike about my looks. Mainly, how flat my chest and behind are. But also, the fact that my face isn't pretty. I'm glad I wear glasses, since they cover some of it up.

There is one thing about my appearance that I like -- my big, fluffy, bright-red hair, which completely covers up my horns, hangs below my knees, and sticks out to either side of my torso, twice as wide as it is.

My hair is the one part of me that looks clearly, indisputably womanly. I could easily pass for a cis woman to people who see me from behind.

I've done my best to make my front as womanly as possible too. I wear a dark-blue blouse, a black skirt, and red high heels that match my hair, purse, and lipstick. I wear falsies, false eyelashes, and artificial nails. I wear rings, hoop earrings, and a black choker that covers up my Adam's apple.

...But nothing can cover up my lanky, manly build. As Mandee once told me, "You can put lipstick on a pig, but that won't make it a sow."

That was such a mean thing to say, but she was right.

I think the main reason why she bothered me was that she could tap into my deepest insecurities. Talking to her was like talking to a personification of my own self-doubt.

It didn't help that the manatee looks as womanly as I'd love to look someday. She's not just a big girl -- she's voluptuous, with wide hips and huge boobs. Her curves are prominent enough to distract from her big belly.

With a body like that, no wonder she doesn't accept me as a woman. Every day, she looks in the mirror and sees an ideal shape for a woman -- shapely, busty, and curvy.

...Wait. Why am I always making excuses for her? She's an asshole, and doesn't deserve the benefit of the doubt.

Besides, I'm looking at myself in the mirror, not her. I'm supposed to be focusing on my own appearance, not hers.

I'm so tired of her living rent-free in my head. Always making me compare my body to hers, even when she's not around. Instead of envying her, I should be thinking about how to play the cards I was dealt.

And that's exactly what I'll do.

I grab my phone, open the app for a warehouse club, and start filling my cart with anything and everything that looks good.

Mac and cheese? Oh, yes please. Plus baked beans? By all means. And vegetable stew? Don't mind if I do.

I load up on desserts, too. Ice cream and pastries. Cupcakes and cakes. Pies and full-size candy bars.

I buy enough food to keep a diner running for at least a week. It's so much that I have to max out one of my credit cards. I'd normally never do that, but I'm tired of always thinking ahead and never enjoying the present.

There's so much food that it takes the delivery person several trips to ferry it all from their truck to my dining room. Once they're done, I tip them a couple twenties.

And then, I sit, and I eat.

I eat until I'm not hungry anymore. Then I eat until I'm full. Then I eat until it hurts.

And then, I keep eating.

My flat stomach is the first to go. It gets replaced by a potbelly that peeks out from under my blouse.

I wish the food had gone straight to my ass instead. Or my thighs or hips. Or better yet, my breasts.

Still, it isn't so bad having a food baby. I resemble a pregnant person, which is a fairly feminine way to look, I suppose.

Luckily, although my belly remains my biggest feature, the rest of my body begins growing too. Once my abdomen starts to sag, my ass has gotten fat enough to make my skirt and panties painfully tight.

My distending tits and swelling neck do the same to my bra and choker, respectively. I pull out my falsies, lessening the pressure on my chest. I'm pleased I can finally fill my bra without them.

I also remove my choker, which was starting to live up to its name. I can't have anything seriously interfering with my breathing -- or more importantly, my eating. Besides, I don't need anything around my neck anymore, now that my Adam's apple is vanishing into a double chin.

I could take off my clothes too, but I'd rather burst out of them. That'll really drive home how much I'm growing.

True, my clothing is getting so tight that it hurts... But my stomach is going to remain painfully full no matter what.

Besides, what defines us women more than high pain tolerance? If I can handle heels, I can handle clothes that're too small. So, I eat through the pain.

I keep growing all over, but my belly continues to lead the pack in size. Soon, my abdomen is covering up half my lap, like a basketball surrounded by purple wool.

I look down at my paunch and smile. A beer gut isn't exactly feminine, but at least I won't have to tuck anymore.

Ironically, despite being the biggest part of me, my tummy is also the freest. My stomach is painfully overfull, but at least it isn't constricted by clothing. My gut makes my blouse ride up, leaving it totally exposed as it covers up more and more of my thighs.

By contrast, the rest of my body keeps making my clothes tighter and tighter. My skirt's waistband sinks into my ass, making it muffin-top. My panties also dig deep into my buttcheeks, like floss into water balloons. Meanwhile, my bra and blouse squeeze me so tightly that they feel like chest binders.

I suddenly have a lot of empathy for anyone who wears one. It wasn't easy to not have big breasts and want them, but it's probably even worse to have big breasts and not want them.

I start wondering whether my blouse or my skirt will be the first thing I destroy. I'm hoping it'll be the former, since I'd really love a buxom bust. But I wouldn't mind a wide behind, either.

To my surprise, the first victim of my growth isn't a piece of clothing at all. I hear a "SNAP!", and then feel my keister careen down for a split second before landing with a "WHUMP!" I immediately jiggle all over.

I'm so startled that my heart pounds. It takes me a few seconds to realize that my ass hurts -- though probably not as much as it would have back when it was flat.

I look down and see one of the legs of the dining chair I was sitting on, sticking out from under me. The rest of the chair is on the other side of me, broken and lying on its side.

Despite the pain, I can't help but smile. Breaking a chair would embarrass the average person, but it just makes me feel proud.

I push a loveseat from my living room to my dining room. It takes a lot of effort now that I'm so much larger. Once I'm done, I've broken into a sweat.

And then, I sit, and I resume eating.

My clothes don't last much longer than my chair did. I feel my panties snap like a rubber band, becoming loose and getting lost under my belly and in my asscrack. Then, my skirt rips, letting my butt splay a few more inches to either side.

I was hoping for my bust to burst out of clothing before my butt did, but I'm still pleased.

Fortunately, my chest doesn't take long to follow suit. My breasts soon tear through my bra and blouse, then rest atop my shelf of belly blubber.

As I look down at my now-naked body and my new boobs, I smile so hard that my eyes well up. Getting big breasts wasn't the only reason for my feast, but it was a big reason.

I could stop now, but I won't. I want to run up the score. Or, more accurately, the scale.

So, I keep glutting and growing.

I've never experienced it before, but I've heard of something called a "runner's high," where someone who's been exercising a lot feels euphoric.

I think I'm feeling an "eater's high." I don't feel the pain of being overfull anymore -- or maybe I do, and it just feels good now.

Either way, I'm in a state of euphoria. Every bite of food is a joy, and every stretch of my body is a pleasure.

Everything disappears except for me, my meal, and my seat. I love the feeling of my butt sinking into the cushion and back of the loveseat, and of my belly pressing down on my thighs, and of my breasts sinking into my belly.

I want to feel even more of this ecstasy. I want to feel more of the cushion under my butt. I want bigger thighs, and a bigger belly to feel them with, and a bigger bust to feel my gut with.

My abdomen expands until it consumes my lap and sags past my knees. My thighs widen into small tree trunks, but don't grow enough to peek out from under my beach ball of a belly. My melons get as big as actual melons. My ass fattens so much that there wouldn't be enough room for someone else to sit on the loveseat with me, even if they were thin and I scooted over to one side.

I take a moment to revel in that milestone. Before my binge, three of me could've squeezed into the loveseat. Now, I'm so big that not even my skinny old self could join my fat new self.

I feel a new triple chin jiggle with every mouthful. I feel a new roll above each of my love handles, wobbling whenever I reach for more food. I feel my flabby face cheeks push up my glasses and make them jostle.

I bet my face finally looks pretty. But there's no time to consult my phone or a mirror. I have to keep my eater's high going.

My upper arms thicken so much that I always feel them against the sides of my boobs. My lower legs and forearms enlarge, no longer looking sticklike.

Even my hands and feet plump up. My rings feel uncomfortably tight on my fatter fingers. I dribble soup on my hands to lubricate them, pull my rings off, and then lick my thick digits clean.

My belly becomes even wider than my hair, and hangs even lower than it does. I don't mind. My hair was going to need to share the spotlight anyway, now that it's no longer the only thing I like about how I look.

I spread my thick thighs and feel the front of the loveseat against my underbelly. Soon, I feel the floor against it, too. Then, I feel the armrests against my buttcheeks.

Once I'm finally out of food, I look down, making my new quadruple chin squish. My breasts are bigger than my head.

I smile, grip the side of the dining table, and start struggling to my feet. It takes a ton of effort to extricate my butt from the loveseat, to say nothing of having my legs hold me up. I break into a sweat just from standing up.

Once I'm on my feet, my belly doesn't touch the floor anymore, but I can tell it's hanging just a few inches above the carpet.

I waddle out of the dining room. My movements are slow and awkward. I move one leg, pause, then move the other. It'll take a while to get used to my new body.

My hips are so wide that they brush both of the walls as I head down the hall. Then, to get into my bedroom, I turn sideways and gradually squeeeeeeeze myself through the doorway. Soon, the doorframe is digging into the middle of my belly, where it's the deepest. It takes more than a minute to dislodge myself.

Once I'm free, I lumber in front of the mirror. I'm pleased to see that it's not wide enough to reflect all of my chest, much less my belly.

I look over at my closet. All my outfits are so pathetically tiny.

I need new clothes, and I know just where to go.

* * * CHAPTER 3 - ABOUT TIME * * *

I'm so used to holding in gas that I don't even realize that I have any until I get back to the mall.

We women aren't supposed to be gassy. Or sweaty. Or anything other than looking, sounding, and smelling immaculate.

Basically, we women can't let anything leave our bodies, especially not in public -- including gas, sweat, tears, and words (especially opinions).

So, before today, whenever I had gas in public, I'd just hold it in if I could. And, if I couldn't, I'd check to make sure there wasn't someone behind me.

Now, however, I check to make sure there -is- someone behind me.

Once I've looked over my shoulder and confirmed there's a wolf man walking behind me, scowling in my direction, I smirk, stop, and get ready to magnify his disgust.

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I feel the fart come out of me in guttural waves. Each individual gust travels through my buttcrack in a bubble, then escapes.

I feel my asscheeks clap and ripple. And I feel my hair get blown out of the way.

I can only see the wolf out of the corner of my eye, but I hear his gagging loud and clear. I can't help but giggle.

"Jesus, lady," he mutters between coughs. "The hell did you eat?!"

I smile. "Oh, lots of beans and cheese and vegetaaaAAAAAAAUUUUURRRRRRPPP!!!"

The wolf huffs and ducks into the nearest store.

I chuckle and resume my Woman Waddle. It's just as slow as my Woman Walk, but a lot less graceful. For instance, my thighs are now too thick for me to put one foot directly in front of the other.

But I can at least have my palms face the floor, while my arms sink into my side rolls and the sides of my breasts.

I can feel how my wool is drenched in sweat, which my body sprays like a lawn sprinkler as it jiggles with every step.

In my defense, I'm now carrying a lot more weight than before.

Plus, I can't fit into my car's driver's seat anymore, so I had to walk all the way from my apartment building to the mall. I would've gotten a ride, but I doubt I'd even be able to squeeze into a backseat.

There needs to be a ridesharing app for people too big to fit into cars. They could call it Forklyft.

But, for now, I have to get around on foot. Slowly.

Thank goodness I still got back to the mall before closing time.

I go into the store where I used to work, then look for Mandee. She's so big that she's easy to spot from a distance.

But, I'm delighted to see, she's now less than half my size. Every part of me is bigger than hers, including my breasts.

I waddle over to the manatee. She turns and stares at the naked, obese sheep in front of her.

After a moment, she asks, "...Can I help you, miss...?"

...I know I look way different than I did this morning, but still, I'm shocked she doesn't recognize me. I guess it just goes to show how little I mattered to her, and how little attention she paid to me.

Also, even though I feel like I should be tickled by her calling me "miss," it just pisses me off. I mean, -this- is what it took for her to treat me with basic respect -- having a pair of huge boobs in her face?

I wonder whether she'll recognize my voice. I ask a question I already know the answer to. "Do you carry anything in my -- BBBHHHHUUUAAAAAARRRRRRPPPP!!!! -- size?"

Mandee looks me up and down. "Er, I'm afraid not, but if you find something you like, we can special-order it in your size!"

...I don't know why I wondered whether she'd recognize my voice.

Also, I'm getting even more pissed off that this is, by far, the politest she's ever been with me.

I point at a nearby dress. "I'd like that."

"Oh, excellent choice!" Smiling, the manatee pulls out a pad and pen. "I'll just need to take down some information. May I have your name, please?"

"Sue," I say.

She scribbles on the pad. "Got it. And your last name, Sue?"

"DeNim," I say.

She freezes.

Then she looks up at my face.

"...Ant...??" she exclaims. "Ant DeNim the ram...?!"

I scowl down at her. "My name is not Ant. And I'm not a ram. My name is Sue, and I'm a ewe."

I want Mandee to never forget this moment. So I do something unforgettable.

I turn around, so that my ass faces her, and then unleash the biggest fart of my life. It's as though all the anger I've been bottling up over the years is suddenly escaping my body in gaseous form.

"BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT-GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The manatee's gags are music to my ears.

Once she catches her breath, she sputters, "Y-you little bastard...!"

"I'm not little, and I'm not a bastard," I shoot back. "I'm a fat bitch."

Mandee points at the store entrance. "Whatever you are, you need to get the hell out of here! You're not welcome here anymore!"

"...'Anymore?'" I repeat incredulously. "I was -never- welcome here. You were an asshole to me before I came out. And you were an even bigger asshole to me after.

"...You know, it's ironic. Despite my name, I've never sued anyone. But maybe I need to sue the company for employment discrimination."

Mandee scoffs. "Go right ahead -- you'll never win!"

"I wouldn't be so sure," I retort. "But even if I lost... you'd still be the manager who got the company sued.

"Do you think your boss -- RRRRrRUUUUUURRRRRPPPP!!!! -- would want to keep you around after that?"

I've never seen fear in Mandee's eyes before. She's never seen me as a threat.

I like this side of her.

"...Alright, fine," she mutters. "If it's so important to you... I'll call you Sue DeNim."

"...Actually, I decided to change my last name too," I reply.

"Now... it's PerSize~"