Setting her prize aside atop the edge of her tub, she begins to strip, regarding herself in the mirror as she does. She undoes either strap of her sundress and simply lets it drop to the floor. Her polka-dot push-up bra is a B cup which her breasts simply don't need, a look she has grown tired of, but what bothers her more is everything else:
She has a perfect body--for a gymnast. She's conventionally pretty, she likes to think, with her richly-brown hair framing her elfin features. But she's a stick. Her fairly-sedentary lifestyle and constant snacking have done nothing to provide her anything resembling bulges, let alone curves. Even true effort with protein and butt-building exercise didn't make any difference she could discern. Desperate, she even tried a months-long binge of fatty meals, but all this contrived was a few spare pounds around her waist, which evaporated once the cost became prohibitive.
It isn't that she feels ugly, it's that she feels she'd be so much prettier if there were more of her in the right places. She isn't ashamed of her vanity. She just wants to fill her clothes out right.
But her fortune is changing.
She catches up the bag and tosses it to clutch at the treasure within: an unassuming plastic bottle, squishy and bulbous. A handmade paper label wrapped around it reads 'Bewitched Booty.'
Her roommate, Beckie, tipped her off some time ago to the existence of literal, actual, factual, working magic. The particulars of why it isn't very public are unimportant. Beckie describes herself as 'a dabbler, but not a real witch'. A little desperate digging is all Lacey needed to find a potion shop in an alley downtown. The proprietor, a middle-aged woman who never gave her name, simply pointed to the proper shelf the moment the wide-eyed Lacey stumbled in. A quick exchange of cash and she was on her way.
Lacey turns the bottle over in her hands, then flips the label over to read it. There's no sales copy or slogans, just instructions.
- Apply directly to desired area of growth, then spread thin with fingertips. Immediately wash hands. Immediately dry hands. Before the desired result is achieved, rinse with water. Immediately dry after rinsing. Growth will briefly continue after removal of potion. Caution: strong feelings of arousal will result. Consequences of overdose are untested. Caution: This is a transmutation effect; the result cannot be dispelled. Caution: do not allow the lotion to fully absorb.
Simple enough, Lacey thinks, and she quickly ditches her bra and panties before turning on the faucet to draw a hot bath. Eager, though, she immediately squirts a dollop of the stuff onto either of her puffy, somewhat-pointy mosquito-bite breasts, rubs it over their whole surface area as directed, and then immediately rinses her hands. The lotion looks plain and ordinary, maybe a little thinner than the stuff she used in anticipation of the stretch marks that were never an issue. She has little apprehension about whether or not it will work, and so experiences undiluted excitement when it almost-immediately kicks in.
Her breasts seem to tighten, first, pulling into firmer shapes as though particularly chilled, her nipples hard. A warmth builds in their centers, which radiates in waves through the adjoining nerves, not unlike having her breasts teased at when aroused. Her breath catches a moment as she sees real, physical change the likes of which she has fantasized about for years, but the true change comes with her halted breath releases. As she suddenly exhales, her breasts surge with growth, her puffy mosquito bites burgeoning straight to pendulous teardrop-shaped C-cups, easily the largest breasts her skinny frame can support without looking odd. Her cock hardens immediately, the 'strong feeling of arousal' feeling somewhat like an understatement in application; it's more than arousal, she doesn't-have-the-spare-neurons-to-think, more like her chest itself had an orgasm down to the ribs.
She gasps in a breath, unable to clearly form thoughts.
"Oh, fuck," she says by way of releasing it, and her tits surge bigger still, spilling her over the bathroom countertop. They aren't stiff and taut like implants, but completely natural, soft and subject to gravity. They pour into the cold bathroom sink, eliciting a sharp breath, a lidding of tearful eyes--
Sufficient adrenaline mounts. Her mind having lost track of the fantasy, there is only her body panicking at the foreign weight and hindrance. She turns the sink on hot and lets the water splash her breasts clean of the magical substance. True to the label, this doesn't halt the growth, but it does stem the arousal. She's able to focus.
She is immediately ambivalent. Then, somewhat horrified.
Her breasts are huge. Gorgeous, and full, but in the realm of custom bra territory; she looks like a cartoon. Her flimsy, skinny body struggles to straighten its spine, and she nearly staggers back against the towel rack opposite the bathroom as she tries to heft them in her hands. She promptly gives up, hefting one with both. The sensations of her fingertips shock her. It isn't just that the magic worked, it's that the breasts are hers. She can feel them. They're different to what they were merely a minute ago.
Nervously, she quits looking down at herself and looks at her reflection. Immediately, she can pick up a certain porn star vibe, perhaps chasing the themes of the world-record-breaking-breast-size performers, but...
She takes a deep breath. A bust like this wasn't what she was trying for. The lotion is much stronger than she anticipated. But her fear is gradually dampened by arousal; even if this isn't what she intended, it's still hot. She can catch up to it being hot on her later, is what she's rapidly becoming too horny to think. No, she'll fix this. She'll balance the rest of herself out. She takes up the bottle again, and twists to consider her butt, which...
Trying to reach around herself with her now-massive knockers in the way is a challenge, but...
She tries to use the mirror to watch her backside, her arm cocked awkwardly around her back to try to apply the lotion, and...
Her fatal mistake is trying to swing her arm backward, hoping the momentum will get the bottle where it needs to go. The shift in weight sets her breasts swinging in ways the rest of her scrawny body simply can't compensate for, and she topples. Her feet slip on her abandoned close on the slick linoleum, she reaches to catch herself with her free hand, but isn't willing to abandon the lotion. In the next few moments, very many things happen in rapid sequence:
First, her stumbling sends her plunging for the wall of the bathroom behind the tub, opposite the door.
Then, her newly-swollen breasts hit the wall, and her greatly-expanded nipples react strongly to the stimulation.
Her muscles escape her control long enough for her to lose her grip of the lotion, which tumbles into the water.
She cries in panic and lurches downward for it.
She grabs it.
In her haste, she squeezes it, squirting some of the contents into the tub.
Then the heft of her tits takes over, and losing her balance, she puts her full weight down on the bottle with the heel of her hand, expelling the rest.
Then, the slick, bulging bottle, which her weight is perched upon, slides, and once it no longer supports her, she topples into the tub.
Trying to avoid injury, she twists to swing her legs up and over the edge into the tub on reflex, as though she'd intended to 'jump' in, leaving her sitting on her butt in the water after a splash.
Finally, before her engorged breasts can even slap at her ribcage, she realizes just how bad that decision was.
= = =
The sensation creeps into her in order of exposure. Hands, first. Tits, again. Her chest. Her back. Hips. Thighs. Calves. Feet. She splashed her face on impact--
Her conscious thought narrative blacks out as her nerves flood her mind with white noise. The lapse of mindfulness her breast growth induced was nothing. Every exposed inch of her body is lit up, overstimulated as adipose cells multiply and drag new nerve cells with them. Lacey lets out a keening shriek of mindless pleasure for precisely two seconds before her breath halts and her body seizes--
Lacey loses herself to an orgasmic coma, not for long. But long enough.
The sound of splashing is what refocuses her onto reality. Water overflowing the edge of the tub. She pushes forward on reflex to twist the knob.
She can't at first.
Her belly presses against her thighs. Her breasts press against her belly. Her chins press against her breasts. She doesn't understand any of this. She hasn't yet noticed. She pushes harder, and it hurts, but she shuts off the water before she falls back, and the motion induces a wave and a splash worse than the overflow.
And then, gaining some lucidity, she sees herself.
And what she sees is a vast, bulging expanse of pale skin, a heavy gut hoping to part her equally-heavy thighs. Her breasts have grown even further still. She isn't sure what cup she estimates them at, but the term 'watermelon' comes to mind, and it doesn't seem very ironic, but their size is absolutely a matter of fat, because they aren't trying to stay perky. She becomes conscious that her hips are pressing against the edges of the tub. She becomes conscious that her arms are as well. She reaches to feel her face and realizes her chin is imperceptible under a hanging blob of flab.
Lacey stares in horror down at herself. This isn't what she wanted. She's never even considered the possibility she'd ever get so fat. And, she realizes, regarding her body: it hasn't stopped. Her belly is still swelling, pushing her heavy breasts further apart and pushing her thighs tighter against the walls of the tub! She scrambles to get herself up and out, but it's little use until she learns how to properly manipulate her weight. It's a full minute before she manages to roll over the edge of the tub onto the bathmat.
She does, though. The effort takes her breath away. The muscles needed to move a much smaller, thinner frame are not up to this challenge.
But it's not over. She isn't dried off. And the potion, however dilute, is still working.
Lacey marvels with horror at the sheer thickness of her arm as she reaches for a towel. It seems to occur in slow motion, or maybe she just isn't moving very quickly. As she tries to fetch the tool she needs to salvage this situation, she can feel her legs, her ass, her gut grow further, the locations most soaked. She's still turned on. So, so turned on. She doesn't know how to process it. She scrubs at herself with the towel until the good, horny feelings stop. Which isn't easy to do. It's exhausting. She's exhausted. She can't properly imagine what's happened to her, and can't process what she's feeling. She lies on the floor of her bathroom awhile. Maybe she falls asleep, spent. Maybe she's delirious, aroused. She can't tell the difference.
Eventually, Lacey gets the notion to look.
With great effort, she reaches a thigh-thick arm up to her bathroom counter, latches her palm to the edge, and hoists.
Her back cries out in protest as she shifts her frame. It doesn't cry nearly as loud as her mind when she properly views her new form.
To say she is 'fat' is an understatement.
She doesn't recognize her own face. The fine, delicate features afforded by her bone structure have been completely blurred by fat. Her high cheekbones are blotted out by chubby cheeks, and her slender chin is overwhelmed by two additional chins beneath. Her once-prominent collarbones have been drowned. Her once-slender shoulders look broadened by the blubber, given the thickness of her arms, a trend that carries all the way down to her hands, which look like they've been made of overstuffed sausages. Her hands, in particular, look somehow unnaturally fat to her, because she's simply never seen what hands that fat look like.
Her breasts evidently experienced diminishing returns. They're sagging lower, but they're no fuller. Just two half-deflated beach balls hanging wide on her torso. Her areolae are huge compared to the boyish little nubs they were before.
Her ass, as well, didn't seem to care to expand beyond the bounds of the tub. Her hips are wide. Her ass is fat, but ultimately flat. Not near the ghetto booty she envisioned when she ponied up for the potion. It isn't entirely shapeless, but all the appeal has to stem from size. Assuming one enjoys or can look past cellulite that would put the surface of the moon to shame.
Her dominant feature is, without a doubt, her belly. The only thing that expanded when she tried to fatten herself up with food; it hangs just inches shy of her knees, rounder than her ass and tits by far. It spreads over and past her broad thighs. Her navel is so deep and wide you could do a whole body-shot out of it. When she tries to lean in closer to get a better look at her face--she can't. It's in the way.
She stares, aghast, at the distance her belly demands she stay away. She puts her fingertips to her cheeks, first. Her feelings go numb as she brushes her second chin and watches it continue to wobble. She can't even guess what her weight is. She's the fattest person she's ever seen. She wants to cry. She does. She cradles her head in her doughy arms, letting her huge butt spread out like a cushion against the wall behind the sink to wedge her in for balance, and simply weeps as she tries to work through everything she's feeling.
= = =
Beckie knocks an indeterminate span of time later. Lacey flinches as if to jump up, but it doesn't go that way. She just sends a shock through her fattened form that sets her whole body wobbling.
"Lacey? You okay?"
"No," Lacey blurts, her sobbing renewed. How does she even describe this?
"Hey, talk to me," Beckie says. They were just roommates when they first moved in, but they became close friends over time. Lacey knows she cares. "Are you just not okay, or do you need help?" She sounds panicked. Beckie never panics. Lacey redoubles her sobbing.
"...p-potion shop," Lacey blubbers. She'd tried to compose a better sentence, but it was all she could manage.
A long pause.
"O...kay?"
"Could... could you please... call..."
Beckie is starting to comprehend the nature of the issue, though she has no idea what Lacey's actual problem is. Lacey fails-to-jump as a firm knock on the door rattles the whole apartment. Beckie, quietly, takes a deep breath. She has a feeling about the knock.
"I will, let me answer the door. Be right back."
= = =
At the door is Madame Vanity, Beckie's first, and really only contact in the magical community, the proprietor of the potion shop. An old friend, they've dated. Beckie has a thing for older women, if she's being honest, but doesn't enjoy the notion of being tied down to anyone.
Vanity clutches what looks like a typewriter case with both hands in front of her, her arms squishing her considerable cleavage together as a result. Her smile is placid.
"Hi, hon," she croons. "Heard your roomie needed some help."
"How," Beckie deadpans, still blocking entry where she stands.
"I keep tabs on my clients' results," the witch says with a shrug. "Sometimes--not often, mind you--there are side effects." She flashes a tiny spiral-bound ledger, flips open a page. Her thumb deftly obscures any text beyond Lacey's name, but it's obvious the book somehow magically recorded an anomaly. "I tag all my products. Malcasting insurance is going to get ridiculous when Hell gets around to inventing it."
"Nothing personal," Beckie says, remembering all the other reasons she didn't want to continue dating the witch, "But I don't know if I want to let you in."
"Does Lacey want me?"
"She does."
"That's why you'll let me in."
"This is not about me," Beckie affirms, and stands aside to usher Madame Vanity into their home.
= = =
"Lacey, dear," the witch knocks thrice at the bathroom door, her voice sweet and lilting. "I'm coming in."
Beckie doesn't quite trust her. She looks too eager, to happy to be here.
The well-wedged Lacey can't manage a response before Vanity unlocks the door with a magically-charged snap of her fingers. Lacey draws a sharp breath as the corner of the door sinks deeply and immediately into her hip, and the witch promptly casts another spell to reverse the hinges, and flings the door open backward, revealing the thoroughly traumatized, freshly minted fat woman.
Beckie's reaction is one of horror. She's as body-positive and nonjudgmental as a thin person can be, but her eyes and brain can't reconcile that this bloated woman is her good friend.
Lacey is hiding her face in her pillowy arms, still crouched over the sink, nearly too stunned to be humiliated.
Until Vanity begins to cackle like the most stereotypical of wicked witches. Lacey begins to cry again. Beckie takes immediate umbrage, striking a combative posture and interposing herself between the witch and the wobbly woman.
"Vanity, what the fuck is your problem?! Quit laughing and fix this!"
"Fix what?" The witch manages in a breathy gasp, still giggling. "My potion worked."
"I-it wasn't her fault," Lacey interjects, quivering with sobs, voice muffled around her jiggling limbs. "I... I tripped into the tub and..."
Beckie looks between the two, aghast.
"Let me stop you there, dear. This is my fault. The potion worked perfectly! It was simply cursed."
"Then why the fuck did you sell it?!" Beckie screeches, stepping forward. Vanity silences her with a gentle flick of a long-nailed fingertip over the lips, then gently catches her up with invisible occult power to pin her softly to the wall. When she struggles, the witch calms Beckie with an enchanted wink.
Then she closes in on Lacey like a stalking predator. The fat girl recoils as the witch's hands come to rest on her shoulders, but only for a moment. Then she's frozen in place the way Beckie is. Working her arms and fingers like a puppeteer performing with a marionette, Vanity works the girl upright and waddling back into her bedroom. Behind her enchantment, Beckie is both disgusted and fascinated with the ponderous, graceless way Lacey moves, the way no given inch of her holds still.
"I was testing the curse, and it worked," the witch calmly explains. "The moment it took effect, it leeched her luck to fuel the transmutation. Extra mass is magically expensive, you know, but so is luck. I had to see if I could consume one to produce the other."
Vanity maneuvers her over near her bed, then takes a pinch of powder from a pouch hidden in her prominent cleavage, and sprinkles it before her to conjure a simple mechanical scale, which she manipulates Lacey to stand upon.
The markings on the dial top out at 450, but if the needle can be trusted beyond them, she's not quite 460.
The witch grins and giggles as she directs Lacey to look down. She can't see the scale, let alone her feet, past her new breasts and belly.
"457 pounds of fat and precious little else," she whispers into her victim's ear, then glances at Beckie. "Not just her luck, mind you, but her dissatisfaction with her appearance fueled the curse as well. And her libido, which the potion raised, causing a loop..."
Madame Vanity's grin softens into a wry smile as she lets her now-redundant explanation trail off. She shrugs elaborately, as though everything that just happened was inevitable.
"What can I say? I was a roleplaying game nerd before I was a witch. Nothing in the potion brewing rules of reality says you can't do any of what I just demonstrated, but as far as I can tell no one is trying. I'll be rich."
Lacey barely hears the theory lecture. Knowing that her dissatisfaction and sex drive contributed makes her feel like she deserves it, somehow. Vanity left her staring down at herself, at the way her skin is stretched, the way it puckers a little around her cavernous navel, the way her tits sag. She used to look down and imagine cleavage, however modest. Now she can't. There's too much of her where that reasonable cleavage should be to do anything but stare at her own fat.
Beckie strains at her magical bindings. She no longer looks so angry. She looks sad. Vanity unseals her lips with a tip of her head.
"You promised you weren't wicked! When I went out with you!!" Beckie cries out.
Vanity's eyes glaze a bit. "Did I?"
"Yes!!" Beckie screams. "It took so much trust! I knew how powerful you were!! I never would have let you into my life, I never would have sent Lacey to your shop! I asked and you promised you weren't!"
Madame Vanity seems to be lost in reverie as Beckie begins to break down, feeling betrayed. Then, she recalls the fact she was trying to retrieve, and cackles.
"Well, yes, of course I did," she says, sauntering over to the still-pinned Beckie. With a flick of her wrist over her shoulder, she dismisses her hold on Lacey and tosses her casually onto her bed. Its springs shriek, then creak, then groan in protest. Lacey grunts with effort, sobbing as she flails like a confused turtle, trying to figure out how to get up without something to hold onto.
With her friend struggling and sobbing in the background, Beckie feels particularly put off by the witch's gentle touch under her chin.
"Thank you for reminding me, dear. I did promise, and I was lying. In my defense, the question caught me off guard. All witches are wicked, who was I to know you didn't know that? I didn't want to lose you. I took the break-up hard, hon. You broke my black little heart. But now..."
"This is so fucked-up," Beckie whimpers as the witch takes her face in her hands, eyes alight with malice.
She tampered with her memory after the breakup, just a bit, to forget why she wanted Beckie so bad. She needed room to develop her craft, and she couldn't be obsessing over some flighty twenty-something on the path to power. But now, face-to-face, she remembers everything, remembers how much magical potential Beckie has, remembers how badly she wanted to form a coven with her.
The question remains, now that she has the girl at her mercy: will she give up her good morals willingly to become a wicked witch?
"It's going to get so much worse," Vanity promises.