Chapter 1: The First Calculation

The pipette released a single, viscous drop of canola oil onto the analytical balance. The digital readout flickered, settling on 0.92 grams. Sugi noted the figure in her lab notebook with a precise, small hand, the pen making a soft scratching sound in the quiet of the food science laboratory. She adjusted her glasses, leaning closer to the screen of the gas chromatograph. The machine hummed steadily, breaking down the lipid profile of a new frying oil blend her company was testing for stability. Her job, mostly, involved making sure things didn’t break down when they shouldn’t.

The lab was sterile and bright, all white surfaces and stainless steel. It smelled faintly of solvents and clean plastic. For eight hours a day, Sugi measured the precise degradation points of emulsifiers, calculated the shelf life of salad dressings, and documented the caloric density of various fats and sugars. It was meticulous work, requiring a kind of focused detachment. You couldn’t think about food as something to be eaten. You thought about it as a matrix of proteins, carbohydrates, and lipids. A collection of data points.

But today, a different kind of calculation was threading its way through her usual focus. As she logged the calorie count per gram for the canola oil—nine calories, essentially pure energy—her mind didn’t stay on industrial fryers. It drifted to a pot on a stove. A single tablespoon of this oil was about 120 calories. A quarter cup would be nearly five hundred. The numbers were so clean, so efficient.

She finished her official task early, with twenty minutes left before her shift ended. Her supervisor had already left for a meeting. The lab was empty. Sugi opened a fresh spreadsheet on her workstation, minimizing the company reports. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before she began typing new headers: Ingredient, Quantity, Calories.

She started with a base. Pasta. Two hundred grams of dry fettuccine. She looked up the average caloric value, typing it in. That was a foundation. Then the sauce. Heavy cream, a full pint. The number that appeared made her breath catch slightly. Butter, half a stick. Parmesan cheese, grated, a cup. Each entry was a deliberate addition, building a structure far more compelling than any stability report.

This wasn’t about preservation. It was about accumulation.

She added garlic bread—a whole loaf slathered in butter and garlic paste. Then a milkshake: whole milk, heavy cream again, a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup. She used precise measurements, the kind she used at work: milliliters, grams, standard servings. But the intent behind them was anything but standard.

The spreadsheet calculated the total automatically. The number sat at the bottom of the screen: 4,872 calories.

Sugi stared at it. Her glasses had slid down her nose a little. She pushed them back up, her focus so intense the sterile white walls of the lab seemed to fade away. Four thousand eight hundred and seventy-two calories in one sitting. It was an absurd number for a meal. A shocking number. For someone her size—petite, barely five feet tall—it represented more than two days’ worth of standard nutritional requirements consumed in maybe an hour.

A hot, sharp thrill shot through her chest, settling low in her stomach. It wasn’t anxiety. It was anticipation.

This was just a hypothetical “starter stuffing,” as she’d labeled the file. A proof of concept. The math checked out. The theory was sound. The practical application, however, was a territory she had only ever mapped in her private thoughts, late at night in her dorm room back in Japan, or during dull lectures here in America. A territory of fullness, of softness, of a shame so delicious it made her face flush even now, alone in the empty lab.

The clock on her computer ticked over to 5:00 PM. Her shift was done. Sugi saved the spreadsheet to a personal USB drive—not the company server—and ejected it, slipping the small device into the inner pocket of her cardigan. She shut down her workstation with practiced efficiency, wiped down her section of the lab bench with ethanol spray, and hung her white coat on its designated hook.

Walking out of the building into the late afternoon felt like stepping across a threshold. The lab was a place of rules and restrictions, where food was data. The outside world was a place of possibilities, where data could become experience.

The thrill from earlier hadn’t faded; it had crystallized into a steady pulse of purpose. She usually took the bus straight back to her apartment complex on the edge of the city. Today, she walked past the bus stop without slowing down. Her sensible flats clicked against the pavement with a new rhythm.

Two blocks down was a large grocery store, all bright lights and sprawling aisles. Sugi rarely shopped here—she usually picked up just what she needed from a smaller convenience store—but tonight required specific ingredients.

The automatic doors hissed open. The familiar grocery store smell—a mix of chilled air, waxed fruit, and baked bread—washed over her. For most people, it was just background noise. For Sugi tonight, it was an overture.

She grabbed a cart instead of a basket. The metal handle was cool under her palms. She moved past the vibrant produce section without a glance, past the lean meats and fresh fish. Her destination was the center aisles and the dairy cooler.

In the pasta aisle, she chose a thick fettuccine nestling in a clear plastic package. Not the whole wheat kind she sometimes bought. The regular kind, made from refined semolina. She placed two packages in the cart, though her plan only called for one. Just in case.

The dairy section’s chill raised goosebumps on her arms under her cardigan. She opened the heavy glass door and reached for the heavy whipping cream. The carton felt substantial, dense with potential. She took two pints. Butter went in next—a full pound block of the salted kind. A wedge of real Parmigiano-Reggiano followed, its rind rough against her fingers as she placed it carefully beside the cream.

Next was the bakery section for garlic bread. The store-made loaf was already slathered with pale yellow garlic butter and wrapped in foil. It looked decadent and utterly unnecessary. Perfect.

For the milkshake: a half-gallon of whole milk, another pint of vanilla ice cream—the premium kind with a high butterfat content—and a bottle of rich chocolate syrup.

Her cart was beginning to look conspicuously indulgent. A collection of pure, concentrated calories with very little nutritional pretense. A man reaching for skim milk glanced at her cart, then quickly looked away. Sugi felt a flush creep up her neck. That look—dismissive, maybe slightly judgmental—should have made her feel embarrassed. Instead, it fed the low hum of excitement inside her. This was already a transgression, however small. A quiet defiance of the expectation that someone who looked like her—small, young, neat—should fill her cart with salad greens and yogurt.

She paid in cash, avoiding any chance of a digital record linking this purchase to her usual habits. The bags were heavy as she carried them the few blocks to her apartment building, straining the thin plastic handles. Each step reminded her of what she was about to do.

Her apartment was a small one-bedroom unit on the third floor, furnished sparsely with IKEA furniture she’d assembled herself after graduation. It was clean and orderly, a blank slate. The kitchen was galley-style, with just enough counter space for one person to work.

Sugi set the heavy bags on the linoleum floor with a soft thump. She took off her cardigan and hung it neatly on the back of a chair, then rolled up the sleeves of her blouse.

First, she filled a large pot with water for the pasta and set it on the stove over high heat. The click-click-woosh of the gas igniting was a familiar start to any cooking session, but tonight it felt like lighting a fuse.

She unwrapped the block of butter and cut off a substantial chunk, dropping it into a saucepan over medium-low heat. As it melted and began to foam gently, she minced several cloves of garlic with careful precision, just as she’d been taught in home economics class years ago in Osaka. The sharp scent filled the small kitchen.

Once the garlic was sizzling softly in the butter—fragrant but not browned—she poured in one of the pints of heavy cream. The cold cream hit the hot fat with a hiss before settling into a lazy simmer. She added salt, black pepper, and a generous handful of grated Parmesan from the wedge she’d just opened. The sauce thickened slowly as she stirred it with a wooden spoon, becoming velvety and pale ivory.

The pasta water was boiling vigorously now. She added salt and then slid in the nest of fettuccine, watching it soften and curl into the bubbling water.

While the pasta cooked and the sauce simmered, she prepared the garlic bread according to the package instructions: unwrapping it from its foil shroud and placing it directly on an oven rack to warm through until the butter topping was sizzling.

Finally, she assembled the milkshake component in her blender carafe: two large scoops of ice cream splashing into cold milk with thick plops; then a long drizzle of chocolate syrup that coiled darkly into the white mixture before she secured the lid and pulsed it briefly into something thick enough to barely pour.

She worked methodically yet calmly despite an underlying current which kept threatening quickness—a desire simply just get everything ready already so that part could be done quickly enough before moving onto what came next after preparation ended altogether when all these separate elements finally converged onto one plate (and glass). But she resisted rushing through these steps because they mattered too much for building proper anticipation leading up towards consumption itself where every detail counted towards maximizing overall effect later down line once eating actually began seriously without interruption until finished completely regardless how full she might become before reaching end point planned earlier today inside sterile lab environment far removed from this warm fragrant kitchen space now clouded lightly by steam rising off both pots simultaneously boiling away side-by-side atop stove burners glowing orange beneath them while oven hummed warmly nearby filling air further still with smell roasting garlic butter melding seamlessly together into single rich aroma promising imminent satisfaction soon forthcoming once everything finally ready altogether at same time served together properly arranged upon table waiting patiently just beyond kitchen doorway inside adjacent dining area currently still dark until she flipped switch flooding room suddenly bright revealing simple square table already set single placemat single plate single fork single knife single glass all standing empty awaiting arrival soon now almost ready indeed very soon now almost there just about done finishing touches remaining few last things left completing final stages preparation process nearing completion steadily approaching climax moment when sitting down begins everything else following after inevitably thereafter unavoidably so indeed yes absolutely definitely certainly sure thing unquestionably so obviously naturally of course without doubt whatsoever clearly evidently apparently manifestly patently plainly distinctly unmistakably undeniably indisputably irrefutably incontrovertibly conclusively decisively finally at last eventually ultimately presently shortly momentarily imminently soonish pretty soon any minute now right about…now.

The pasta was al dente. The sauce had thickened. The garlic bread was hot. The milkshake stood tall and frosty in its glass.

Sugi drained the pasta in a colander before turning it out into the saucepan with cream sauce gently folding everything together until each strand gleamed coated luxuriously. She transferred this mountain onto waiting plate piled high precariously almost overflowing edges. She retrieved garlic bread from oven placing it alongside pasta on same plate balancing carefully. She poured milkshake into tall glass until creamy foam crowned rim.

She stood looking at meal assembled before her creation born from spreadsheet now made manifest tangible real occupying space smelling incredible looking decadent promising everything she’d imagined earlier today while sitting inside sterile lab surrounded by machines analyzing oils sugars fats objectively dispassionately scientifically unlike this wholly subjective passionate deeply personal project here now ready begin properly truly seriously for first time ever no longer hypothetical no longer fantasy no longer secret shameful daydream but actual concrete edible reality waiting patiently before her ready consumption commencement initiation ritual beginning start launch kickoff inauguration opening curtain rise action go proceed advance commence initiate embark upon undertake set out start off get going get underway get started begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin begin

The meal sat there, a silent challenge on the counter. Sugi took a slow breath, the air tasting of garlic and cream. This wasn’t just dinner. It was an event that deserved proper staging.

She picked up the heavy plate in one hand and the cold, sweating glass of milkshake in the other. Walking carefully into her small dining area, she set them down on the plain wooden table with a soft clink. The table usually held just her laptop or a single bowl of soup. Tonight, it looked almost absurdly crowded.

She went back to the kitchen for a cloth napkin—a real one, not paper—and a single fork and knife from the drawer. She arranged them beside the plate with deliberate care, aligning the fork’s tines parallel to the table’s edge. The napkin she folded into a neat rectangle, placing it just so. She pulled out the chair, positioning it at the perfect distance. She even switched on the overhead light, though the evening sun still provided some glow through the window, because the ceremony required full visibility.

Every action was slow, considered. She was constructing a frame around this act, elevating it from a simple binge to something intentional. A ritual. This was the moment she had imagined for years, and she wouldn’t let it be rushed or sloppy.

Finally, she sat down. The chair creaked under her slight weight. For a long moment, she just looked at the food. The pasta glistened, coils of fettuccine tangled in the thick sauce. Steam rose from it in faint wisps. The garlic bread was golden-brown where the butter had pooled and toasted. The milkshake was a deep chocolate brown, a straw standing at attention in its frothy top.

Her stomach felt tight, but it was empty-tight. Anticipation-tight.

She picked up her fork, the metal cool against her fingers. She speared a few strands of pasta, winding them carefully into a manageable bite. She lifted it to her mouth.

The first taste was a shock of richness. The cream sauce was velvety and clung to the pasta, salty from the Parmesan and fragrant with garlic and butter. It was heavy. Substantial in a way that most food she ate simply wasn’t. She chewed slowly, letting the flavors coat her tongue, feeling the texture of the al dente pasta give way between her teeth.

She swallowed. A warm trail of satisfaction slid down her throat and settled into her belly. It wasn’t just tasty. It was impactful.

She took another bite, then another. Each mouthful was a deliberate act of savoring. She alternated with small sips of the milkshake, which was so thick it almost required chewing itself, cold and sweet and overwhelmingly chocolaty. It cut through the savory creaminess of the pasta perfectly.

This was the part she had fantasized about: the pure, unadulterated indulgence. The permission to consume something so dense, so purely for sensation rather than sustenance. Every creamy, buttery mouthful felt like a tiny rebellion against everything she’d ever been taught about moderation, about health, about how a woman her size should eat.

She ate half the garlic bread next, tearing off a piece with her fingers. It was soggy with butter in the middle, crispy at the edges. The garlic was pungent and delicious. Grease shimmered on her fingertips.

About a third of the way through the plate, a change began. The initial careful pace started to feel like an obstacle. The intense focus on each individual bite began to blur into a desire for more. The deliciousness wasn't diminishing, but her patience for appreciating it was.

The forkfuls became larger. She stopped winding the pasta neatly; she loaded the fork until it was a dripping heap and guided it into her mouth. Chewing became faster, more functional—just enough to get the food down safely before taking the next bite.

The sips of milkshake turned into gulps. She’d take a huge mouthful of pasta, chew hastily, swallow with some effort, then lift the heavy glass and drink deeply, the cold sweetness flooding her mouth and washing everything down.

Her breathing grew slightly audible between bites. A pleasant warmth had spread through her core. Her stomach, which had been flat and empty when she started, now felt pleasantly rounded, a firm curve under her blouse. It was a good feeling. A full feeling.

This was what she had wanted. That deep, physical signal of satiation. Comfortable fullness.

The rational part of her brain, the part trained by years of societal cues and basic biology, sent up a quiet flag. Okay, it suggested. That’s enough. You’re satisfied. You could stop now.

Sugi looked at her plate. There was still a formidable mountain of pasta left—maybe half of what she’d served herself. The second piece of garlic bread sat untouched on the side of the plate. The milkshake glass was only half empty.

The comfortable fullness was just that: comfortable. It wasn’t remarkable. It wasn’t transformative. It was what anyone might feel after a large dinner.

She hadn’t gone through all this planning and preparation and shopping for comfortable.

She ignored the signal.

Instead of putting her fork down, she reached for the remaining piece of garlic bread with her free hand. She didn’t tear it this time; she just picked up the whole slab. It was still warm, leaving a glossy butter stain on her palm.

She took a large bite directly from it while simultaneously shoveling another forkful of pasta into her mouth with her other hand. For a moment she had food in both cheeks, chewing awkwardly, a mix of doughy garlic bread and creamy pasta forming a dense bolus that she worked to swallow.

The fullness in her stomach shifted from comfortable to present. It became a definite weight, a occupied space that pushed gently against the inside of her waistband.

She didn’t pause. She washed the double mouthful down with another long gulp of milkshake, finishing nearly all of what was left in the glass. The cold liquid sloshed into her stomach, adding volume to the expanding mass already there.

Her pace was urgent now, almost frantic. The ceremonial care was gone, replaced by a driving need to finish what she’d started. To push past that first polite signal from her body and see what lay on the other side. The taste was still good—rich and decadent—but it was secondary now to the act of consumption itself, to the feeling of filling up beyond reason.

Forkful after forkful vanished from the plate. She stopped using her knife entirely. She used the edge of her fork to cut through clumps of pasta when necessary, or just shoved large bites in whole. Her chewing grew less thorough.

The physical sensation became impossible to ignore. Her stomach wasn't just full; it was distended. She could feel it pressing outward against her blouse with every breath she took—short, shallow breaths now because deep ones made the pressure feel too intense. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on her forehead and upper lip from the effort.

Yet her hands kept moving: fork to plate to mouth to glass and back again in a determined cycle that ignored the growing protests from her gut. The goal line—the empty plate—was still visible ahead, and she was going to cross it no matter how much heavier each step became.

The last few bites were a battle of pure will. The pasta had cooled into a gluey, congealed mass. The cream sauce felt like paste in her mouth. Each swallow was a conscious effort, requiring her to work her throat muscles against the rising tide of nausea that threatened to send everything back up.

She didn’t taste it anymore. She was just completing the task.

Her stomach was a taut, painful sphere beneath her ribcage. It pushed so insistently against the fabric of her blouse and the waistband of her slacks that she felt constricted, almost strangled from the middle. Every breath was a shallow gasp, as if her lungs couldn’t fully expand against the immense volume occupying her abdomen. A dull, deep ache had settled in, the kind that comes from sheer overextension.

With a final, grim determination, she scraped the last oily strands of fettuccine and clumps of sauce onto her fork. She stared at it for a long second, her hand trembling slightly from the strain of holding the utensil aloft. Then she opened her mouth—already feeling too full—and forced it in.

Chewing was a mechanical, joyless process. She swallowed hard, feeling the heavy lump travel down and settle onto the crushing pile already inside her.

Done. The plate was empty save for a few smears of sauce.

Her eyes drifted to the milkshake glass. A thin, melting residue of chocolate ice cream coated the bottom and sides. About two thick swallows remained.

She knew she should stop. Her body was screaming at her to stop. The ache was blossoming into a sharp, cramping pain with every new addition. But the spreadsheet had said 4,872 calories, and the spreadsheet had included that whole milkshake. The plan was the plan. The data had to be honored.

Her fingers, slick with grease from the garlic bread, wrapped around the cold glass. She lifted it. It felt impossibly heavy. She brought the rim to her lips and tilted her head back.

The sweet, icy sludge hit her tongue. It was too much sweetness on top of all that savory richness. Her stomach clenched in protest, a violent spasm that made her eyes water. She gagged, but clamped her mouth shut, forcing the thick liquid down in two painful gulps.

The glass clanked back onto the table, empty.

Silence flooded the dining area, broken only by her ragged, wheezing breaths. She sat utterly still, afraid that any movement would be the tipping point. Her entire universe had narrowed to the crushing, agonizing pressure in her midsection. It felt like she had swallowed a bowling ball, one that was now expanding, threatening to crack her ribs apart from the inside.

She needed to move. Sitting upright at the table was becoming unbearable. The chair’s wooden seat dug into the backs of her thighs, which now seemed to press against the distended curve of her belly.

Slowly, with immense care, she pushed herself back from the table. The simple act of shifting her weight made everything inside her slosh and settle with a low gurgle that she could both hear and feel. A soft groan escaped her lips.

Standing up was a monumental effort. She had to use both hands on the table to lever herself upright, her arms shaking. When she was finally standing, she swayed slightly, dizzy from the sheer mass she was carrying in front of her.

Her stomach protruded in a hard, round dome that strained the seams of her sensible work blouse. The fabric was pulled taut across it, the buttons looking stressed. She looked down and couldn’t see her feet past the dramatic swell of her belly.

Walking was out of the question. What she managed was a slow, wide-legged waddle. Each step sent jolts of discomfort through her packed digestive tract. She moved from the dining area into the small living room, her breathing a loud, labored panting in the quiet apartment.

The couch—a low, firm IKEA sofa—was her intended destination. But as she approached it, a new problem presented itself. To sit on it, she would have to bend at the waist. The idea of folding her body in half, of compressing that agonizingly full stomach any further, seemed physically impossible and utterly terrifying.

She stood beside the couch for a moment, defeated by its geometry. The floor, however, was flat and required no bending.

With another low groan, she slowly lowered herself into a crouch, then let herself tip sideways onto the thin area rug. The impact was soft but sent another wave of queasy pressure through her core. She lay there on her side for a minute, panting, before carefully rolling onto her back.

The relief was immediate and profound. Lying flat allowed her stomach to spread outwards instead of being compressed downwards. The pressure diffused from a single sharp point of agony into a more general, bearable ache of extreme fullness.

But her slacks were still a vice. The button and zipper were digging into her swollen abdomen like knives.

With clumsy, fumbling fingers, she worked at the button of her trousers. It took several tries; her fingers felt numb and uncoordinated. Finally, it popped open with a soft ping. She dragged the zipper down an inch.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. A sigh of pure relief shuddered out of her as the constricting band of fabric loosened its grip. Her belly seemed to expand even further into the newly freed space, settling into a softer, more pronounced mound that rose up from the floor.

She lay completely still on her back, arms splayed out at her sides like a starfish. The ceiling above her was white and blank. Her breathing began to slow from frantic gasps to deep, heavy sighs. The sharp pain receded, leaving behind a deep, throbbing fullness that was… not unpleasant.

In fact, as the initial shock subsided, she began to notice other sensations. A warm lassitude seeped through her limbs, making them feel heavy and content. Her mind, which had been single-mindedly focused on consumption and then on pain, finally quieted. A profound sense of physical satisfaction bloomed in the center of that incredible fullness.

She let one hand drift from her side to rest lightly on the swollen curve of her stomach. Through the fabric of her blouse, she could feel the heat radiating from it. It was firm yet yielding under her palm—a solid mass of food that she had put there. She gave it a gentle press and felt it push back, dense and alive with digestion.

A soft burble echoed from within, followed by another low gurgle. Her body was working on it already, beginning the immense task of breaking down everything she’d forced into it.

And then it happened. A smile touched her lips—not a big one at first, just a faint curl at the corners. It grew without her permission, spreading across her face until it became a wide, euphoric grin that made her cheeks ache.

She had done it. She had actually done it. All those years of secret longing, of watching videos online with a hungry heart, of imagining this exact feeling—it was no longer imagination. It was real flesh and real fullness. The shameful fantasy was now a physical reality lying on her living room floor.

The discomfort was part of it. The aching pressure was proof of her accomplishment. The struggle to waddle, the inability to sit on a couch—these weren’t failures; they were badges of honor. She had pushed past comfortable and into something extraordinary.

A giggle bubbled up from her throat, short and breathless. She felt drunk on fullness, giddy with transgression.

Staring up at the blank ceiling, seeing not plaster but possibility, she whispered the words aloud into the quiet room. Her voice was hoarse from panting but clear with conviction.

“Tomorrow.”