One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

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Re: One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

Postby Matt L. » Wed Apr 05, 2017 10:00 pm

Another superb chapter, wonderfully executed and smoothly written.
Kudos!

Cheers, Matt
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Re: One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

Postby Junketh71 » Thu Apr 06, 2017 5:01 pm

This was a very impressive new installment. Thanks for sharing.
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Thread reorganized

Postby brucejedi » Sat Sep 16, 2017 8:17 am

I reorganized this thread a bit. I've been doing small edits to the chapters on my home computer, and it was getting to be a pain to upload them. So I consolidated the story into two posts. I left all your comments, but some of them will no longer follow the chapters they were in response to. If you've read the story before, not much has changed, just some minor corrections and altered wording.
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Chapter 7

Postby brucejedi » Sat Sep 16, 2017 8:40 am

– May -

Ashley shuttered with embarrassment as Mr. Crookershank took her pre-treatment weight and measurements.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said the nurse. “You lost over thirty pounds in six months. Most women would be overjoyed.”

“I didn’t lose nearly enough,” Ashley muttered. “I dieted, I slaved away at the gym…but it was never enough…” her voice trailed off.

The nurse stared at her kindly, waiting for her to go on.

“Strap me in,” said Ashley, “I know I deserve it.”

Crookershank raised an eyebrow.

“I was supposed to lose fifteen pounds this month and I only lost five.”

The nurse touched Ashley’s softened shoulder. “Alright honey, lie down and try to relax as best you can. They say it gets more intense each time.”

The humming began and Ashley tingled from head to toe. She didn’t fight it. This time she let it come with calm resignation.

Images began to flash through her brain. First she was out on the field playing capture the flag, in short shorts and a pink sports bra, her firm ass on display, her body feeling light as a feather. Then she stood in the fitting room, fighting with the zipper on her jeans. “This is what I feared,” said the saleslady. “With those hips, a size six is a stretch for you.” In the next scene her gym outfit hugged her thighs and heaving chest. Sweat dripped from her face as she ran as if through quicksand. She blinked again and felt George’s hands on her squishy ass. “I’ve gained some weight since last summer,” said Ashley. “I guess you probably noticed.” She could hear the chamber humming as the flesh back there tingled and expanded between his fingers. She blinked again. “Just five more! You got this, Ashley!” She made it halfway through one more sit-up and fell back against the matt, panting for breath. She pressed her hand into her stomach, searching for the firm muscles that once were visible to the world, but all she could find was layer upon layer of flab.

The tingling finally ceased. Ms. Crookershank removed the constraints, but Ashley did not sit up. She just lay there, taking it all in.

“How do you feel, Ashley?” asked the nurse.

She breathed in deeply as the images faded from her mind. She felt fat, there was no other way to describe it.

“Do you need to rest for a bit?”

“I think I can manage,” said Ashley.

She learned forward but the pressure of the fat bunching up around her waist sent her sprawling back against the chair. She tried again, and with the nurse’s help, she managed to sit up, her trunk-like legs dangling off the edge. Her breasts sagged heavily against her stomach, straining her back a little. She peered down. What remained of her waistline surged outward in all directions, yet her hips still managed to thrust out even further to either side.

“Can you stand up on your own? Here, let me help.” A firm tug brought Ashley to her feet. Her chest and stomach jostled as her toes hit the floor. A few heavy, hesitating steps brought her face-to-face with the digital reading.

“173 on the nose,” Mr. Crookershank announced.

“Sixty pounds almost…” Ashley whispered.

“That’s correct, sweetheart. I have you starting at 114. You might feel tired during physical activity as your body adjusts to the weight. As you might remember from the brochure, none of those 59 pounds is muscle. I want you to take it easy the next few days. Try not to overexert yourself—I’ll write you a note to get out of gym. But you should try light exercise as soon as you feel up to it. You need to lose some weight. At 5’3”, you’re officially obese.” She held out some loose-fitting clothes to wear.

“Thank you, Ms. Crookershank,” said Ashley, fighting back tears. She could feel the pull of her stomach with every breath, and it made her wonder what even light exercise would feel like now. Her hand crept underneath it, as if to relieve some of the weight.

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” said the nurse with genuine sympathy.

A few minutes later, a red-faced Ashley climbed the final steps into the main hallway, wiping tiny beads of sweat from her forehead. She plodded over to the drinking fountain, but the school bell rang just as her eager lips met water. Streams of students began pouring into the hallway. “Ohhh no,” Ashley whispered.

She tried to make a break for it, but the pain from her sloshing breasts convinced her otherwise. So she clutched her chest and half-trotted, half-waddled towards the exit.

Then she froze. In front of her stood a wide-eyed Carrie, hand at her mouth. “Omygosh, Ashley!”

“Leave me alone,” she panted.

Carrie stared on at Ashley’s receding figure, her ass shaking violently under the skimpy shorts as she sauntered towards the door.

At home Ashley collapsed on the couch, tired even from the short trip home. She clutched her belly like a pregnant woman. She felt so fat, felt every one of her 173 pounds, felt them in the soles of her feet that ached from the walk, in her wide butt that sank deep into the cushions, and in her back, sore from the weight of her breasts.

She was only ten percent heavier than yesterday, but it felt like way more, like she had crossed a line from overweight to unequivocally fat—obese, as the nurse had put it. That was exactly how she felt as she leaned back against the cushions, cradling her belly in her arms.

* * *

After a long while, Ashley peeled herself off the couch and trudged upstairs. She peered into her bedroom closet and sighed. Dresses and tops in various sizes stared back. The smalls hung at the far left, unworn for months. Then came the mediums and finally the larges purchased in April when nothing else fit. She saw the dress that was altered to accommodate her expanding curves—twenty-five pounds ago. No amount of tailoring could make it fit now. Turning to her dresser, she pulled out her roomiest pair of jeans and slid them up her legs. Every inch was a struggle. They buttoned only because the fat at her waist was so pliable. She hid the spillover under a sweatshirt and headed off to the mall.

“See? This is the problem,” Ashely explained. She bit her lip and then folded her t-shirt up around her chest, exposing her bulging hips and belly.

“Oh no!” said the saleslady

“I was actually down about five pounds, but then…” Ashley fought for words.

“Then you gained it back and then some? It happens, sweetheart. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“I think I’m gonna have to go up a size, as much as I hate to admit it.”

“I’m sorry,” said the saleslady. “Those are a fourteen, right?”

“Uh huh. Well, like you said, I’d rather wear pants that fit. Can you show me what you have?”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “it’s just that—well we don’t carry anything larger.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“It’s just not the market we cater to. Kind of silly if you ask me, but whatever.”

Yeah whatever, thought Ashley.

“I can call my friend who works at Curves,” the saleslady offered. “That’s the plus-size place just down the way.”

“So I’m plus-sized now?” asked Ashley dejectedly.

“Well, technically yes.”

“But why can’t…heavier girls shop at the same stores as everyone else?”

“I know, like I said, it’s weird.”

Weird? More like ‘fucked up’, thought Ashley. She looked around at the cute outfits on display that she could no longer wear. “It’s a stupid policy!” she cursed, and stomped out of the store.

“I’m really sorry…” the saleslady called after in her cute, annoying voice.

At home Ashley slammed the door to her bedroom. She hadn’t gone to Curves; it was too embarrassing. She would squeeze into the fourteens until she lost enough weight for them to fit properly. There was even still time for the gym before dinner. Her workout clothes would be dicey, but they were made of stretchy fabric and could probably still be worn. She started to open the dresser drawer…but the curve of her stomach caught her eye—her protruding, plus-sized stomach. She thought of how her legs ached—tasked with supporting her plus-sized hips and rear—and how her back felt sore again from the weight of her plus-sized chest. Exercise could wait.

She leafed through a magazine while sipping a diet soda. Eventually she glanced back at her phone. It was too late now—the gym would close in half an hour. She would have to go tomorrow.

* * *

At school the next day, Ashley buried her face in her books. People kept looking at her and whispering, and she halfway wished they would resume treating her like she didn’t exist. During P.E. she gave Ms. Mudville the nurse’s note and watched from the bleachers as her classmates ran laps around the field. It was nice to get off her feet. Three different teachers today had asked them to move their desks into a different shape, and she found it annoying to have to keep standing up. Plus her math class was on the opposite side of school from English. She cursed the bozo administer who planned that one. She leaned back and rested her head on her soft forearms, enjoying the cool spring air.

After school she plopped down on the couch. Her back ached and her knees too for some reason. Her bra was killing her so she unhooked it. That felt so much better. She would head to the gym just as soon as she caught her breath from the walk home…

“Ashley!” yelled her mom. “Time for dinner!”

The cycle repeated. As she moved from class to class, Ashley would devise a grandiose plan for losing all the weight. She would imagine herself light and toned, sprinting around the track just behind the boys. Then she would trudge home and hold up her gym outfit in one hand while the other rested on her gut, and a sort of fear would grip her. She had avoided exercise in the past, annoyed at how much harder it felt compared to the month before, or at how her next treatment would negate all her effort anyway. This was different. The treatments were over, but this last one left her feeling so fat that the mere thought of exercise frightened her.

So too did the prospect of dieting from now until who knows when. She’d been down that road before and couldn’t quite bring herself to start again. She tried to watch what she ate, but food was an easy source of comfort when the stress piled up. How could her body crave more calories, she wondered, when it had so many stored away?

The scale told the same sad news every morning. She had imagined that with the curse finished, the pounds might float away on their own, but as she lay with her feet up on the couch, snacking on diet pretzels, they stuck to her like glue. She didn’t even need the scale to tell her. Her jeans felt as tight as ever, and her thighs still touched all the way to the knee.

When a week had passed, she locked her bedroom door and stood at the mirror with her chest thumping in nervous anticipation. She couldn’t put it off any longer—she had to know. She shut her eyes tight before removing her clothes, then opened them bit by bit until her naked form came into view.

It wasn’t all bad news. Her face had a cherubic cuteness to it, and her ribcage still tapered inwards around her voluminous breasts. Below that, her torso snaked out to meet her luscious thighs. Her upper body had acquired some padding but had not kept pace, leaving her shoulders much narrower than her hips. In this sense her figure was still very curvy and feminine.

But Ashley didn’t see curves. She saw a fat girl staring back. She held a chubby hand in front of her face, with its chubby fingers that her rings no longer fit. She watched the crease form when she tilted back her wrist, watched her portly upper arm jiggle with every movement. She clutched her fattened breasts and released, distressed with the amount they drooped. Then she turned and observed how much rounder her belly looked, even compared to last month—how it domed way out past her bust and sagged under its own weight.

So this was how she looked now. This was her, Ashley Hart, eighteen years old, 173 lbs. What happened now was all in her hands—and that’s what scared her the most. Her hand curved back under her stomach. She wondered how sit-ups would feel now with all the extra padding there. She thought of getting back on the treadmill, and of how tired her legs felt just from walking home from school. She lifted one…so heavy—her thighs were enormous, probably the fattest thing on her body. Then she peered over her shoulder and shuddered. All right, so they were the second fattest thing.

In the past, these sessions in front of the mirror sparked motivation. This time it made her want to hide under the covers. Her fingers massaged her belly, lifting it upwards and feeling it sag back down. How could she possibly lose all this weight? She was terrified even to try.

* * *

A couple days later, Ashley gave in and returned to the mall. She would soon have to cycle back through the same ill-fitting outfits she had just worn, and it offended her sense of style. A very round and energetic saleslady greeted her as she entered. “Welcomes to Curves, where fit is everything!”

Ashley glanced around at the plump mannequins. She could hardly believe she was here.

“Ah, first time? First we should take your measurements, not everyone’s favorite part but very important.”

In the fitting room Ashley stripped down to her underwear, blushing as the woman looked her up and down.

“You have very nice curves,” she said. “All right, 40 in the bust…35 in the waist…and 45 in the hips. Like I said, nice curves.”

“Thank you,” said Ashley. Fantastic. Compared to a dress fitting last summer, she had gained six inches around her chest and eight around her waist and hips. No wonder she felt so fat.

“I’m going to pick out a few items for you. Would you like to sit down for a moment? Can I get you anything to drink?”

The dressing area was roomy and luxurious, with velvet cushioned armchairs and matching ottomans. Ashley sank into one of the chairs. It felt exquisite, especially after walking all the way from the parking lot. She put her feet up and sipped a cup of lemonade.

The saleslady returned all too soon. “You look comfortable! Listen, I’m gonna say it bluntly: Your bra doesn’t fit. Can I interest you in a new one?

“Okay…”

“Excellent! Then let me tell you about this bra. The underwire is cushioned, so it won’t poke into your skin. It has three rows of eyelets and a two-inch band for extra support. And the straps are padded to feel more comfy against into your shoulders. This is a full coverage bra. Your breasts will not spill out of it if you bend over. The foam cups are double-lined for uplift and stability without making you appear any larger than you already are.”

The saleslady helped Ashley do it up in the back. “How does it feel?” she asked after adjusting the straps.

Ashley bounced on her heels. For the first time in days, the weight of her chest felt adequately contained. “Wow,” she admitted, “it fits like a dream!”

The saleslady smiled.

“Do you have any sports bras in this line? It’s so hard to find one that actually works.”

“Sports bras? We don’t carry them. Most of our clientele isn’t into sports.”

“Oh,” said Ashley.

“At your size, I assumed that everyday comfort and support would be your top priorities.”

Ashley stared in the mirror. Too bad the bra didn’t look as nice as it felt. There was a bow in the center and a hint of lace at the sides, but the wide straps thwarted any attempt at cuteness—as did the flesh that puffed out around them. “Um, what is my size?” she asked.

“You’re a 36-double-D.” The saleslady explained that cup size is relative, so if you go up in the band like Ashley had, the size of the cups increases even if the letter stays the same. Ashley liked this system. From their heft and sway she knew that her breasts had absorbed a chunk of the weight, but at least she didn’t have to buy some huge-sounding size like ‘E-cup’. In her opinion, they needed a similar system for panties, because learning she needed an XXL was just depressing.

“How much is the bra?” she asked.

“This style is on sale for $68.”

Ugh. Her mom was going to kill her.

They were about to leave the intimates section when the saleslady burst out, “Oh, I almost forgot! We have a sale on swimsuits.”

Ashley winced. “I don’t need a bikini, thanks.”

“Who said anything about a bikini? We don’t even sell them. But we have some beautiful one-pieces.”

“Oh…I've never worn a one-piece.”

“Really? Wow, you must have been a whole lot thinner at one point.”

Ashley said nothing.

“Sorry, that just slipped out. Listen, most of our swimsuits have what they call ‘tummy control’. I like to think of it as a bra for your belly. Not that you need it all that badly—a lot of our larger clientele have some serious hang going on. Your belly doesn’t hang, but it’s definitely there—otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right? Tummy control helps smooth everything out. Sometimes it even makes you look a little slimmer, but don’t expect miracles. A lot of our underwear has it, and so do our jeans. Women seem to like it.”

“Um, okay, we can try the uh, tummy control thing,” said Ashley, “but I’m good on bathing suits.”

They walked together through the store. It was really a nice selection. The saleslady knew exactly which styles would work for Ashley’s body type. Nothing she tried on could truly hide the pounds, but they still looked way better than what she’d been wearing. The lady showed her how a high belt or horizontal stripe drew the eye to her curvy bust and hips and away from her bulging stomach. A light-colored top could make her butt appear a little less huge, and the right skirt and heels could make her legs seem longer and slightly slimmer. In between fittings, Ashley got to sit with her feet up in that lovely chair.

“I saw you rubbing your back earlier,” said the saleslady as she rang up Ashley’s purchases.

“Yeah it’s a little sore. Maybe the new bras will help.”

“They should. How about your feet? You seemed to enjoy our luxury ottoman.”

“A little sore there too, I guess.” More than a little. She wished she could have parked closer.

The saleslady handed Ashley a card. “My sister works there. It’s called Luscious Massage. A lot of our clients swear by it.”

“Ok, thanks,” said Ashley, not sure quite what to think. Was she really getting enough exercise to deserve a massage?

“I say, pamper yourself every once in a while. It’s what we’re all about here at Curves.”

Ashley smiled politely. Then she read the sales tab and cringed. Her mom was truly going to kill her.

* * *

At home Ashley modeled her new clothes—the control-top panties, the jeans in a size sixteen, the tops with loose fabric at the waist. Everything fit so well, like it was perfectly fine to weigh this much.

She paused. No, she wouldn’t let herself fall into this trap. She would drag herself back to the gym even if it killed her.

So Ashley struggled into last month’s workout clothes and stepped nervously onto the treadmill. She had chosen a time when the trainer wouldn’t be there—she was too embarrassed to try this in front of him. She switched on the machine and started jogging.

Her mind replayed the last six months: how those first eleven pounds felt as she ran around the bases, how each month something new jiggled—first her butt, then her thighs, then her upper arms, and finally her belly—how her recorded times grew worse and worse as her waistline expanded. It was like playing an infomercial in reverse.

It all led up to this final scene. Ashley soon discovered that these last several pounds had erased whatever remained of her former athleticism. She cursed the online reviewers who claimed her sports bra offered decent support. Liars. But the motion elsewhere disturbed her more. Her stomach sloshed like a bowl full of Jell-O, and the weight of her swaying rear caused her hips to sashay. It was like boobs times a hundred. She plodded on for about five minutes before her lungs began to complain.

Maybe another piece of equipment would be easier. She tried the Stairmaster, the elliptical, and some other unnamed contraption, but the result was no different. Then she lay on the mat and struggled through eight sit-ups before collapsing. It was almost worse than she feared. Cursing, she peeled out of her skin-tight clothes and let the hot water sooth her aching muscles. She hated showers. Applying the soap put her in intimate contact with every crease and bulge.

Ashley felt tired and sore the next day—perhaps a sign she had burned a few calories? But the thought of struggling through another workout sickened her. It took all her willpower to drag herself back twice more that week. She kept waiting for it to get easier, but it never did. Each time she would lie on the mat, her hands clutching her soft belly, still unable to complete that tenth sit-up. She would stand in the shower, water cascading off the layers of fat that jiggled everywhere when she tried to run, feeling just as exhausted as the time before.

On Saturday the scale for the first time read 172 lbs. <Woohoo> she thought sarcastically, <only 58 more to go!> But the next pound would have to wait. When she rose from her bed that morning, everything hurt: her legs, her arms, even her breasts. She remembered the card in her wallet—and finally felt she deserved a little pampering.

* * *

“You must be Ashley!” beamed the receptionist at Luscious Massage. “I’ll tell the masseuse you’re here. Cute outfit, by the way. Where did you get it?”

“Curves,” answered Ashley, blushing a bit.

“Of course. I love that store!”

A few minutes later, Ashley lay back on the massage table in just her underwear.

“What feels sore, sweetheart?” asked the masseuse in a soothing voice.

“I don’t know, everything,” said Ashley.

“Have you been working out?”

“Yeah. A lot this past week.”

“That can be rough. Do your feet hurt afterward?”

“Yes,” said Ashley.

“What about your back?”

“Yes.”

“And your legs?” she patted a squishy thigh.

“Uh huh.” Ashley nodded.

“Poor thing. Let’s get you feeling good as new, shall we?”

“If I could feel well enough to work out again tomorrow, that would be great.”

“Of course…” said the masseuse with an odd expression on her face. “For you I’m going to recommend the deluxe package. It’s normally kind of expensive, but for first time customers we offer it for only $99. It includes a foot massage and a few other surprises.”

“Oh, that sounds great,” said Ashley. Her mom’s credit card would come in handy again.

“Could you flip over for me please?”

Ashley complied, feeling her breasts and belly smush against the table.

“We’ll start at the bottom and work our way up.”

Ashley felt cool hands on her calves, working the sore muscles. Soon the hands moved higher, pressing deep into the flesh at the back of her thighs.

“You must be jogging a lot—your legs feel very tight,” said the masseuse as she kneaded the toneless flesh.

Ashley then felt hands press against her butt. She didn’t know quite how to feel about that—it was embarrassing how deep the lady had to push to reach the muscles buried beneath all the blubber.

“Feeling any better yet, honey?”

“Mmm hmm,” said Ashley dreamily.

After a time, the massage moved up to her back, neck, and shoulders. “Sweetheart, you’ve got a fabulous rack, but it’s not doing your back any favors.” She had a point. The new bras helped only so much.

“Alright, flip over.” It took Ashley a couple tries, given how relaxed she felt.

The masseuse then set to work on the girl’s tender feet, pausing to coddle each toe. The relief was instantaneous. This past couple weeks Ashley had grown so accustomed to the soreness there that she hardly noticed it anymore. Now she realized what she’d been missing.

“You have very pretty feet,” said the masseuse. “You shouldn’t be so hard on them.”

As the massage moved to the front of her thighs, Ashley tried to see what the woman was doing that felt so amazing, but she moved with such speed and precision that all Ashley saw was jiggling flesh.

“Legs feel any better now, sweetie? Okay, let me know if the next part tickles.” The masseuse pressed her hands into the fat on Ashley’s belly. She cringed at first, but it felt so soothing after all those attempted sit-ups that she forgot her shame.

“You carry some tension here,” the masseuse observed. Suddenly Ashley felt what the lady was referring to: a subtle tightening of her abdominals, an unconscious reaction perhaps to the added heft of her belly. Now aware of it, she relaxed the muscles and felt another layer of stress disappear.

The tummy massage was followed by a lovely segment focused on her hands on up to her lush upper arms. “Are you sore here, too?” The woman touched Ashley’s chest with the back of her hand.

“Um, yeah,” whispered Ashley. Her eyes closed as the lady gently kneaded her breasts, alleviating the tension from those bouncy sessions on the treadmill.

The final element involved her soft chin and rounded cheeks, so wonderful, so soothing…

“Ashley? Ashley?”

She blinked her eyes open and yawned. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“It happens. Do you need any help getting up?”

“I’m okay.” She tried but fell back against the table. Her body felt like jelly.

“On the count of three, okay?” The lady lifted her up by the shoulders.

As Ashley’s feet hit the floor, a flood of sensations overwhelmed her. Her breasts and belly sagged downwards, tugging as heavily as ever. “Ow,” she whispered as the full weight of her body bore down on her soles.

She took a few wobbly steps, clutching the woman for support. Everything seemed to jiggle even more than usual—whether because her muscles were so relaxed or she was just hyper aware right now, she wasn’t sure.

“Need to sit down for a bit? Sometimes it can take a few minutes to readjust.”

Ashley nodded eagerly. It took all her concentration to keep her knees from buckling.

The masseuse helped her young client into a loose-fitting robe. “Let me show you our lounge,” she said with a smile.

Ashley found that she could hardly walk without aid. When they arrived, she sunk into the first chair she saw, and her muscles converted back to jelly.

“Can I get you some lemonade?” asked the masseuse.

Ashley gazed around the room. The velvet chairs were the same as the ones at Curves. The décor was so similar, in fact, that both establishments could have been owned by the same company. Several overweight women sat with their feet up watching television or reading magazines. Ashley seemed to fit right in. She tilted back her head and closed her eyes, trying to remember a time when sitting felt so good.

* * *

The aftereffects of the massage lingered that whole day—and the next. Ashley lay sprawled on the living room couch, relieved that her feet and back felt pain-free for the first time in days—so long as she never stood up.

When the alarm rang Monday morning, she hit the snooze and buried her head under the pillow.

“Ashley!” yelled her Mom.

Eventually she dragged herself out of bed, her feet complaining as she padded barefoot to the bathroom. She crossed her arms under her breasts. They felt so heavy, like they had all weekend. She sighed as she fastened one of the new bras from Curves, grateful for the well-engineered support. She slipped on a t-shirt but frowned when she saw her reflection. Her belly looked extra round this morning. She consciously sucked it in. That helped a bit, but it was tiring to maintain. So she swapped out her underwear for a pair with more substantial tummy control. She checked the mirror again and smiled. What a wonderful invention! Now she could relax as the panties did all the work.

“Can we drive this morning?” she asked her mom. “It’s cold out.”

“Ashley, it’s the middle of May! I think you should walk to school.”

Her legs protested the entire way, and it only got worse as the day wore on. By the time she returned home, she had to lift each one deliberately off the ground.

Ashley kicked off her shoes and plopped down on the couch. Her muscles relaxed, and she felt the final remnants of the massage. She knew she should head back to the gym—or at least do something other than lie here—but she wanted to revel in this sensation one last time before it faded for good. She unhooked her bra. She could do it up again when she needed to move. For now, she would lean back and appreciate how her bottom provided such a soft cushion to sit on.

* * *

The next morning Ashley stepped on the scale for the first time in days. 173, it read. <What?> She stepped on again. 173. She had gained a pound back already? She tried to remember what she ate last week: nothing overly fattening. She supposed all this lazing around was doing her waistline no favors.

She trudged into the gym that day with her head hung low. Three weeks had passed since her final treatment, and still she weighed the same. She gazed in the mirror at the gym outfit she had purchased online. It fit a lot better than her old one, but the spandex traced the contours of her bloated hips with glaring precision. The items from Curves hid some of the pounds; these hid nothing. Working out felt as awful as before the massage—worse even.

The next day she couldn’t bear to go back. She finally dragged herself there twice in a row but woke up the next morning in pain. When she felt no better on Sunday, she snuck into her mom’s purse and stole the family credit card. Then she drove off to the massage parlor.

“Back again!” said the receptionist. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” said Ashley. “Everything is sore all over again.”

“Oh no! So would you like the same package as last time?”

“I don’t know if I can afford it…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that! We’re always looking to help our clients out. If you come twice in one month, we take 25% off.”

Minutes later, Ashley lay back against the padded table, all her cares wiped away as firm hands kneaded her squishy thighs. <I could get used to this> she thought.

(last edited 3/18/18)
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Re: One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

Postby Matt L. » Sat Sep 16, 2017 10:59 pm

Intelligent writing, fantastic story.

Cheers, Matt
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Re: One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

Postby allthosecurves » Sun Sep 17, 2017 11:12 am

Love this story!

If you're ever interested, I would love to read a story that explores the "beanpole chest" option.
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Re: One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

Postby david515 » Thu Sep 21, 2017 2:02 am

Is this the final chapter?
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Re: One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

Postby WtG » Tue Oct 10, 2017 3:59 pm

One of my favorites, thank you for continuing it!
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Re: One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

Postby Junketh71 » Sat Mar 03, 2018 5:59 pm

Thank you for the update. This was really good.
Junketh71
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Re: One-Hundred-and-Ten Percent, by brucejedi (wg)

Postby Junketh71 » Sun Mar 04, 2018 5:57 pm

And the plot keeps on evolving. Groovy!
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