Chapter 12: The Numbers

Sugi sobbed into Jennie’s shoulder until the fabric of Jennie’s shirt grew damp and cold against her cheek. The crying came in messy waves, each one leaving her more drained than the last. Eventually the waves slowed, then stopped altogether, leaving behind a hollowed-out quiet. She just sat there, slumped over, her breathing hitching every few seconds. Her face felt swollen and tight.

Jennie’s hand stroked her hair in slow, steady passes. “Shhh,” she murmured again, her voice a low hum near Sugi’s ear. “It’s okay. You did so good. That was perfect content.”

The words didn’t comfort her, exactly. They didn’t erase the image of her father’s furious face or her mother’s shattered look. But they were a fact, solid and undeniable in the wreckage. Content. That’s what it was now. The most devastating moment of her life had been captured, edited, and uploaded. It existed somewhere outside of this room.

Sugi went numb. The tears had scraped her raw, and now there was nothing left to feel. She let Jennie guide her up from the chair, supporting most of her weight as they shuffled to the bedroom. Jennie helped her out of the stained dress and into a soft sleep shirt. The bed groaned as Sugi lowered herself onto it. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and closed her eyes. She didn’t sleep. She just lay there in the dark, listening to the faint sounds of Jennie cleaning up the dinner table in the other room. The clatter of plates, the rush of water in the sink. Life going on.

Morning light found her in the same position. Her body ached with a deep, systemic soreness that had nothing to do with physical strain. Her head felt stuffed with cotton.

She heard movement in the living room, then the smell of coffee brewing. After a while, the bedroom door opened softly.

“Hey,” Jennie said. She came in carrying a laptop and two mugs. She set one mug on the nightstand—black coffee, just how Sugi used to drink it back when she cared about things like caffeine efficiency—and perched on the edge of the bed with the laptop.

“You need to see this,” Jennie said, her voice bright with a restrained energy.

Sugi pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the protest in her back. She took the coffee mug just to have something to hold. The warmth seeped into her palms.

Jennie opened the laptop and navigated to their channel’s dashboard. The analytics page loaded, a grid of numbers and graphs.

Sugi blinked.

The view count on the new video wasn’t in the thousands, or even the high tens of thousands they sometimes hit for a big challenge. It was already pushing two million. The little line graph for revenue had spiked vertically, like a cliff face.

“Look,” Jennie said, pointing at a figure. “Donations just from that one video.” It was over eight thousand dollars. And it was still climbing, with new tip notifications popping up in a sidebar every few seconds with soft ping sounds.

Sugi stared at the number. Eight thousand dollars. For her father calling her an unemployed pig. For her mother’s silent condemnation. For her own public breakdown.

“The comments are insane,” Jennie said, clicking over to the video page itself.

The comment section scrolled endlessly, a waterfall of text. Jennie began scrolling slowly, reading snippets aloud in a clear, performative voice.

“‘OMG the drama! Chubby Cutie is a queen for surviving that.’” Jennie glanced at Sugi. “See?”

She scrolled further. “‘Her dad is such a dick but lowkey that “pig” line was kinda hot? Sorry not sorry!’”

Another one. “‘This is the realest shit I’ve ever seen on this site. You can keep your shake marathons, this is PEAK content. Donated.’”

Jennie kept going, her finger tapping the screen. “Here’s a good one. ‘She didn’t even flinch when he said it. Just took it like a gluttonous queen owning her throne.’ Gluttonous queen,” Jennie repeated, letting the phrase hang in the air.

She found another cluster. “‘The way she just sat there and ate while they judged her… iconic behavior.’ And this guy says, ‘Unemployed pig? More like professionally fat. Get that bag, girl.’”

Professionally fat.

Sugi took a sip of her coffee. It was bitter and too hot. She swallowed it anyway.

Jennie was watching her face closely now. “They loved it, Sugi. They loved you. Not despite what happened, but because of it. They’re on your side.”

On her side. Sugi looked back at the screen, at the endless stream of praise and arousal and vicarious thrill. These strangers weren’t horrified. They were entertained. They were turned on. They saw her humiliation and recast it as power.

Her father’s words echoed in the hollow space inside her head. Unemployed pig.

In the cold light of her parents’ eyes, those words had been the ultimate condemnation, stripping her of humanity and value. But here, in this scrolling feed, they were being repurposed. They were a badge. A fetish object.

“Read that one again,” Sugi said, her voice raspy from disuse.

Jennie’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Which one?”

“The one about… owning it.”

Jennie scrolled back up a bit. “‘Just took it like a gluttonous queen owning her throne.’”

Owning it.

A strange warmth began to spread through Sugi’s numbness, starting in her chest and moving outward. It wasn’t happiness. It was something sharper, more defiant. It was the feeling of having a weapon handed to you after you’d been disarmed.

Her parents had seen a monster and rejected it. Her audience saw the same monster and cheered for it. They funded it. They wanted more of it.

Which reality held more weight, honestly? The one that paid her rent and bought her food and gave her a girlfriend who looked at her with something like pride? Or the one that walked out the door and likely wouldn’t call again?

She set the coffee mug down on the nightstand with a soft click.

“Show me more,” she said.

Jennie’s smile widened into something real and satisfied. She clicked on a filter to show only top comments from high-tier donors.

“‘Your dad gave you the perfect brand,’” she read aloud. “‘Lean into it. Be the pig he’s afraid of.’” She read another. “‘That was metal as hell. What’s next? A whole roast pig feast? Call it ‘Daddy’s Little Piggy’ lol.’”

A whole roast pig.

The idea landed with a dark, resonant thud. It wasn’t just food; it was symbolism. A literal pig, consumed by the figurative one.

The numbness was gone now, burned away by that spreading heat. It was anger, but not the messy, sobbing kind from last night. This was a clean, focused anger that knew exactly where to aim itself—back at the shame they’d tried to make her feel.

They wanted to call her a pig? Fine.

She looked at Jennie, who was watching her with an expectant gleam, already seeing the shift happen.

“I want to be it,” Sugi said, her voice firmer now. “Be what?” “The pig.” She said the word clearly, testing its weight on her tongue. It didn’t feel like an insult anymore. It felt like a decision. “If that’s what he sees, that’s what I’ll be.”

Jennie’s smile turned into a full grin. She snapped the laptop shut, setting it aside on the rumpled bed. “Okay. Talk to me. What does that look like?”

Sugi’s mind, sluggish with grief an hour ago, began turning over with a new, sharp clarity. It wasn’t about just eating a lot. That was every stream. This needed to be an event. A statement.

“A feast,” she said, the idea forming as she spoke. “But not a normal one. Something… defiant. A ‘Pig Out’ feast.” She emphasized the words, liking the childish, taunting sound of them.

“Literally,” Jennie said, nodding slowly. “We make it literal.”

“An entire roast pig. By myself.” The scale of it was absurd, nearly impossible at her current capacity. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To attempt the impossible thing her father’s insult implied she already was.

Jennie’s eyes lit up with the logistical thrill of it. “A whole lechón. Crispy skin, tender meat, the whole presentation. We’d need to find a place that does full catering.”

“How big?” Sugi asked.

“For a standard party size? Maybe thirty, forty pounds dressed. But for something this specific, we should go bigger. Make it a centerpiece.” Jennie was already pulling out her phone, thumbs flying over the screen. “There’s that Filipino place downtown that does whole pigs for festivals. They deliver.”

Sugi watched her, the plan solidifying from a vague notion into actionable steps. The heaviness in her limbs began to feel less like despair and more like potential energy, coiled and waiting to be unleashed in a specific direction.

“We stream it live,” Sugi said. “No edits. They see the whole thing from start to… well, until I finish or pass out.”

“Perfect,” Jennie murmured, scrolling through a website. “Theatre. It’s all theatre.” She looked up. “What’s the narrative? For the stream title, the intro.”

Sugi didn’t have to think long. The words were already there, borrowed and repurposed. “This one’s for Daddy,” she said, her voice flat. “The ‘Unemployed Pig’ Feast.”

Jennie let out a short, appreciative laugh. “Brutal. I love it.” She turned her phone screen toward Sugi. “Look. They have a sixty-pound option. Fully cooked, head on, apple in the mouth, the whole traditional display. Garlic and herb rub. It says it serves eighty to a hundred people.”

Eighty people. And she would be the only one eating it. On camera.

A flicker of the old anxiety tried to spark—the sheer physical impossibility of it, the certain agony—but she smothered it with the new, hotter fuel of defiance. Let it be impossible. Let it hurt. That was the whole story.

“Order it,” Sugi said.

The pig was scheduled for delivery the next evening at six, giving them time to prepare. The rest of that day passed in a strange, suspended state. The crushing grief of the previous night was gone, but it hadn’t been replaced by joy. It was more like a focused mania. Sugi moved through the apartment with a sense of purpose, helping Jennie tidy the main living area not for guests, but for a set. They cleared the dining table completely, scrubbing away the last ghost of the disastrous family dinner.

Jennie handled the technical details, ordering supplemental lighting to ensure the pig would be gloriously highlighted, testing camera angles. She booked the stream slot on their channel, putting up a teaser image—just the text “THE UNEMPLOYED PIG FEAST – LIVE TONIGHT 7PM EST” against a black background. The subscriber notifications started chiming almost immediately.

Sugi spent hours online, not watching her own video, but reading more comments. She searched for the word “pig” in the thread, watching how her audience played with it, eroticizing it, reclaiming it. Each comment was like a small injection of resolve. You are what they say you are, they seemed to whisper. And we think it’s beautiful.

By the next afternoon, the anticipation was a tangible thing in the apartment, thick in the air alongside the smell of lemon cleaner.

At 5:58 PM, the intercom buzzed.

Sugi was in the bedroom, and she heard Jennie’s bright voice through the wall. “Yes, bring it up, please!”

A few minutes later, there was a heavy knock and the sound of strained greetings. Sugi edged her way to the bedroom door and peered out.

Two delivery men in matching polo shirts were maneuvering an enormous insulated carrier through her apartment door. The carrier was the size of a small couch. They handled it with professional care, grunting with effort as they carried it to the cleared dining table.

“Where do you want it?” one asked, his face red.

“Right in the center, thank you so much,” Jennie said, directing them like a museum curator installing a priceless sculpture.

They heaved the carrier onto the tabletop with a final solid thump. One man unlatched the front, swinging open a door to reveal a cavernous interior lined with foil. A wave of heat and aroma rolled out.

The smell hit Sugi first. It was profound—garlic, deep herbal notes of rosemary and thyme, the rich, fatty scent of perfectly roasted pork that had been cooking for hours. It was savory and mouthwatering and somehow overwhelming in its intensity.

The men reached in and, with a coordinated lift, brought out the pig.

It was a monster.

They placed it on the large platter they’d also brought, which barely contained it. The pig lay on its side, glistening under the apartment’s lights. Its skin was a deep, crackling amber-brown, shatteringly crisp in places where heat had bubbled it into perfect blisters. Whole cloves of roasted garlic were nestled against its side where they’d fallen from the rub. Its mouth held a red apple, a grotesque and traditional touch. It was fully intact, from its pointed snout to its curled tail. The sheer mass of it dominated the table, making everything else in the room look miniature.

One of the delivery men whistled lowly. “Big party?” he asked Jennie.

“Something like that,” Jennie said with a cryptic smile, already handing them cash tips.

Once they were gone, Jennie closed the door and turned to look at the centerpiece. She walked around the table slowly, examining it from every angle.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed. She glanced at Sugi still hovering in the doorway. “Look at that. That’s your co-star.”

Sugi just stared. The reality of the thing was so much more imposing than the idea had been. Its eye seemed to stare blankly at the ceiling. The phrase ‘eating like a pig’ suddenly felt less like an idiom and more like a direct command from a mythic beast.

Jennie didn’t let the moment linger too long in awe. They had an hour until stream time.

“Okay, let’s get set up,” she said, clapping her hands once softly.

She moved their best camera onto its heavy-duty tripod, positioning it for a wide shot that would capture Sugi at the head of the table with the pig sprawled magnificently before her like an offering. She set up two softbox lights on stands, angling them to eliminate shadows on Sugi’s face and to make the pig’s crispy skin gleam. She tested the microphone, her voice crisp in the quiet room.

“Testing… audio levels good.” She checked her phone for the streaming app dashboard. “Connection is solid. We’re green.”

While Jennie worked, Sugi retreated to the bathroom to get ready.

She looked at herself in the mirror first without any artifice—puffy-eyed from yesterday’s crying, her face round and soft. The girl from Japan was utterly gone, buried under layers of fat and choice.

Now she had to build the new one on top.

She turned on the shower and let it run hot, not to bathe but to steam up the room and open her pores while she laid out her tools on the counter: foundation two shades darker than her skin for contouring, black eyeliner, a deep red lipstick she’d never worn before.

After toweling off her face in the steam, she began.

This wasn’t about looking pretty or cute like her early “Chubby Cutie” days. This was about armor. She applied foundation heavily, using a sponge to carve out sharper cheekbones than she actually possessed and to darken the hollows of her eyes slightly—not for beauty but for severity. She lined her eyes with a thick, sharp stroke of black liquid liner that extended past the outer corners into a small, cruel wing.

She stepped back and examined her work so far. Her reflection looked back with a harder gaze already.

Next came lipstick—a matte crimson that looked almost black in certain lights. She applied it carefully to her full lips until they were a stark, dramatic slash of color against her pale foundation.

Finally, she opened a small pot of highlighter and dabbed a bit on the very center of her lower lip and on her cheekbones where she’d contoured them—not for sparkle but for an oily-looking sheen that suggested sweat or grease under hot lights.

Her face was now a mask of gleeful defiance.

Now for the dress.

Jennie had picked it out during an online shopping spree last month—“for something different,” she’d said at the time. It hung in Sugi’s closet like a promise of another self.

It was made from a stretchy jersey fabric as all her clothes were now but designed to look like something more structured: a mock-neck sleeveless dress in a deep charcoal gray that bordered on black. It wasn’t loose or tent-like; its magic was in its compression panels designed for “shaping.” In reality for Sugi it acted more like an industrial restraint hugging every massive curve tightly from armpit to mid-thigh where it ended

Getting into it alone would have been impossible but Jennie came in just as she was struggling

“Let me help” Jennie said taking hold of fabric

Together they managed working dress up over Sugi’s hips which required some strategic wiggling then over stomach where fabric strained visibly flattening softness into single taut dome Then came challenge arms lifting them so Jennie could pull dress up over shoulders tugging back panel into place

The dress settled with final snap into place feeling more like being sealed inside something than getting dressed

Sugi looked in mirror again

The dress squeezed her torso creating deep creases at sides where flesh bulged slightly above hips It plunged back strain across belly pulling fabric so tight Sugi could see faint outline navel beneath The dark color absorbed light making her look even larger more monumental somehow

Her made-up face perched atop this mountain of constrained flesh looked alien theatrical dangerous

“Wow” Jennie said standing beside her reflection admiring work “You look… exactly right”

Sugi nodded slowly feeling costume settle around her not just fabric but persona The numb girl from this morning gone The sobbing wreck from last night locked away This woman in mirror was someone else entirely ready sit down before feast named after insult embrace role fully

She took deep breath which dress resisted halfway

“Let’s go” she said voice already lower tighter than usual filtered through makeup tension

They walked back into the living room, which now felt like a soundstage. The pig dominated the space, its aroma filling the air with a savory, fatty perfume. The camera’s red recording light glowed like a single unblinking eye. Jennie guided Sugi to the chair at the head of the table, positioning her directly in front of the animal’s midsection.

Sugi lowered herself carefully, the tight dress restricting her movement even more than usual. She settled into the chair, which gave its familiar groan of protest. The table edge pressed into her belly immediately, a firm reminder of her limits before she’d even begun. She arranged her face into the expression she’d practiced in the mirror—a sharp, knowing smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Jennie gave her a thumbs-up from behind the camera, then tapped her phone screen. “Going live in three… two…”

The camera light blinked from red to a steady green.

A chime sounded from the laptop off-camera, signaling the stream was live and viewers were pouring in. The chat window on Jennie’s phone began to scroll almost instantly, a blur of usernames and emojis.

Sugi leaned forward slightly, looking directly into the lens. Her smile widened, showing teeth stained faintly by the dark lipstick.

“Hello, everyone,” she said, her voice steady and lower than her normal register. “Welcome to a very special dinner.”

She gestured with one hand toward the roasted beast beside her, not looking at it, keeping her eyes locked on the camera. “I think you can all see what’s on the menu tonight. Sixty pounds of pig.” She let the number hang there for a beat. “Some of you might remember my last family dinner didn’t go so well. My father had some… choice words for me.”

She paused, her smile turning brittle at the edges. “He called me an unemployed pig.”

The chat scrolled faster, a frenzy of heart emojis and fire symbols.

“So I got to thinking,” Sugi continued, picking up the large carving knife that lay beside the platter. She turned it slowly in her hand, letting the light catch the blade. “If that’s what I am, then I should probably eat like one. This feast is for everyone who’s ever been called something they decided to become instead.” She brought the knife down with a soft thunk onto the crispy skin of the pig’s shoulder. “So let’s pig out.”

The chat exploded. Donation alerts began to ping in rapid succession from the laptop.

Sugi set to work with a focused, aggressive energy. She carved into the shoulder, slicing through the crackling skin with audible snaps and crunches. She forked a large piece onto her plate—a chunk of dark meat glistening with rendered fat, attached to a swath of golden skin. She didn’t bother with utensils after that. She picked it up with her fingers, tearing into it with her teeth.

The first bite was a symphony of textures and flavors she was too wired to truly taste—the salty, herbaceous crust giving way to juicy, impossibly tender meat that fell apart on her tongue. She chewed quickly, swallowing with only a few motions of her jaw before going in for another tear.

She ate like she was proving a point, her movements sharp and deliberate. Between bites, she wiped her greasy fingers on a napkin and leaned toward Jennie’s phone, which was propped up to show the chat.

“Let’s see what you’re all saying,” she said, her mouth still half-full. She squinted at the scrolling text. “‘Eat that revenge, queen!’” she read aloud, then gave a short laugh that was more air than sound. “Oh, I am.” She took another huge bite.

Another message flew by. “‘That’s how you handle haters! Consume them!’”

“Literally,” Sugi mumbled around a mouthful of pork, grease shining on her chin.

She carved more meat, this time from the loin, piling her plate high with leaner slices and more crispy skin. The initial adrenaline carried her through the first fifteen minutes. She ate rapidly, mechanically, reading off comments between mouthfuls, her voice growing thicker as grease coated her throat.

“‘Make him watch!’” she read. “‘You’re an icon.’” “‘That skin looks insane.’” “‘The apple is kinda cute lol.’”

The donations kept coming, each ping a little electric shock of validation. She was doing it. She was being the thing they wanted, and they were rewarding her for it.

But her body had its own accounting system, one that didn’t care about narrative or defiance.

She was maybe a quarter of the way through the massive animal—she had demolished most of one shoulder and part of the loin—when the first real wall hit. It wasn’t gradual. One moment she was swallowing a piece of rich, fatty belly meat, and the next, a deep, unsettling lurch rolled through her gut.

She set down the meat in her hand, her fingers suddenly clumsy.

Her pace, which had been a steady, aggressive march, slowed to a crawl. She picked up her fork and tried to cut a smaller piece, but her movements were sluggish. Her breathing had changed; it was shallower now, each inhalation pressing her packed stomach against the unforgiving table edge.

She took another bite anyway, forcing it down. It sat in her esophagus for a long moment before sliding slowly into an already-crowded space.

A low groan escaped her lips before she could stop it. She pushed her plate away an inch, a tiny gesture of retreat.

On camera, it must have looked dramatic. The chat reacted immediately.

She’s hitting the wall! That’s gotta be so full omg. Keep going Cutie! You can do it!

Sugi looked at the remaining pig. It seemed to have grown larger. Vast sections of untouched meat and skin gleamed mockingly under the lights. The apple in its mouth looked smug.

She put a hand on her belly under the table, pressing gently. It was hard as a drum, stretched taut against the constricting fabric of her dress. A sharp cramp twisted through her, making her suck in a sharp breath.

That’s when Jennie stepped into frame.

She had been a silent presence off-camera until now, monitoring the stream and the donations. Now she moved to stand beside Sugi’s chair, placing a hand on her shoulder. The touch was probably meant to look supportive for the audience. To Sugi, it felt like being anchored in place.

“Getting full?” Jennie asked softly, her voice pitched for the microphone.

Sugi could only nod weakly.

“That’s okay,” Jennie said, though her tone suggested it wasn’t okay at all. “But look at all this beautiful food left. And look at all these people who believe in you.” She gestured toward the chat screen. “They want to see you conquer this.”

Sugi shook her head slightly, a minuscule movement. “I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

“Sure you can,” Jennie said brightly. She picked up Sugi’s fork and carved off a perfect bite—a piece of tenderloin wrapped in a curl of crispy skin. She held it up to Sugi’s lips. “Just one more bite. For them.”

Sugi looked at the bite, then at Jennie’s expectant face, then at the camera’s green eye. The audience was watching this interplay, this moment of coercion dressed up as encouragement. They were loving it.

She opened her mouth.

Jennie fed her the bite. Sugi chewed slowly, miserably, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes which she willed not to fall and ruin her makeup.

The moment she swallowed, Jennie was ready with another piece already speared on the fork.

“And another,” Jennie said cheerfully.

This became the new rhythm. Sugi would chew and swallow under duress and Jennie would immediately present another bite as soon as her mouth was empty. There was no pause anymore for reading chat or performing defiance. It was just consumption under command.

Sugi’s groans grew more frequent—low, pained sounds she couldn’t suppress as each new portion settled onto the dense mass already inside her. Her face lost its performative sharpness, going pale and strained beneath the makeup. Sweat beaded at her hairline and along her upper lip where foundation started to break down.

Jennie ignored every sound of distress. She just kept feeding—a piece of juicy ham from the haunch here a strip of crackling there sometimes using fingers to pop smaller bits directly into Sugi’s mouth

“Good girl” Jennie murmured after one particularly difficult swallow “So good You’re doing so well”

The praise felt hollow but necessary somehow a tiny reward for enduring torture

Under Jennie’s relentless direction they worked their way through another quarter of pig Sugi stopped looking at chat stopped looking at anything except fork coming toward face opening mouth chewing swallowing on autopilot while pain radiated outwards from core making whole body feel swollen inflamed

Her stomach visibly distended further straining charcoal fabric until it looked ready to split seams A deep uncomfortable heat built inside like furnace had been lit beneath ribs

When finally Jennie paused to survey damage Sugi slumped back chair closing eyes for second fighting wave nausea

Half pig was gone

Jennie surveyed the platter with a critical eye. One entire side of the pig was stripped to the bone, gleaming white and clean in spots. The other side remained mostly intact—the haunch, the ribs, much of the belly, the head still staring blankly with its apple. It was a bizarre tableau of triumph and surrender.

Sugi kept her eyes closed, concentrating on breathing through the pain. Each inhale was a shallow sip of air that made her swollen middle press painfully against everything—the dress, the table, her own straining diaphragm. She felt dangerously full in a way that went beyond any shake marathon or buffet. This was a solid, immovable mass. She could feel individual lumps of un-chewed meat and fat sitting heavily in her gut, a geological layer cake of consumption.

A fresh, sharper cramp seized her, making her gasp. Her eyes flew open.

Jennie was looking at her, not with concern, but with calculation. The stream was still live. The chat was probably going wild at the sight of Sugi’s pale, sweaty face, her heaving chest.

Sugi found her voice, a thin, strained thread of sound. “Please,” she whispered, leaning toward Jennie so only she might hear over the hum of the lights. “Please stop. I can’t. It’s too much.”

Jennie’s expression didn’t change. She gave a slow, thoughtful nod as if Sugi had just commented on the weather. Then she turned and walked calmly back to the laptop off-camera.

Sugi watched her, a faint hope flickering. Maybe Jennie would tell the audience she’d hit her limit. Maybe they’d end the stream here, with half a pig conquered—still an impossible feat.

But Jennie didn’t address the audience. She simply reached over and clicked something on the streaming software interface. The little microphone icon on the screen went from green to gray.

She had muted the audio.

Jennie turned back to Sugi, her face now all business. “We’re on video-only for a minute,” she said, her voice low but clear in the sudden quiet. The chat would still be scrolling, viewers confused but watching the silent pantomime.

“What are you doing?” Sugi croaked.

“Solving a problem,” Jennie said simply. She walked back to the table and without ceremony began dismantling what was left of the roast pig.

She picked up the massive platter and carried it, staggering slightly under the weight, around the table and out of the camera’s view toward the kitchen. Sugi heard the heavy platter clatter onto the countertop.

Then came sounds of ruthless efficiency. The crack and snap of bones being broken by force. The wet, tearing sound of meat being ripped from the carcass. The thud of large pieces being dumped into a container.

Sugi sat frozen in her chair, trapped by her own distended body and the unblinking eye of the camera. She couldn’t turn to see what was happening in the kitchen without a monumental effort. She could only listen.

The loudest sound was the blender being taken from its cabinet—a heavy glass pitcher set on the counter with a definitive clunk. Then the sounds of more meat and skin and fat being shoveled into it.

Jennie reappeared briefly in the living room, walking quickly to a lower cabinet near the TV stand where they kept miscellaneous kitchen gadgets and supplies. She rummaged for a moment before pulling out a large cardboard box that had been delivered weeks ago. Sugi had forgotten about it. Jennie had ordered it “for potential future content.”

Jennie carried the box into the kitchen.

Sugi heard the cardboard flaps being torn open.

Then the blender motor roared to life.

It was a horrible sound—a deep, grinding whir that vibrated through the floor. It pulsed in waves as Jennie used the ‘pulse’ function, not running it continuously but in brutal, jarring bursts meant to break down stubborn solids.

Sugi could picture it: chunks of pork loin, gelatinous skin, globs of white fat, roasted garlic cloves, all being churned together into a thick, homogeneous paste. The smell that wafted out from the kitchen changed—no longer the appetizing aroma of roast herbs and garlic, but a warmer, gamier, more primal scent of pureed meat.

The blending stopped. There was a pause, then the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. A carton being shaken. Broth. She was adding broth to thin it out.

The blender roared again, this time for a longer, smoother cycle, turning the paste into a slurry.

When it finally fell silent, the quiet felt heavy and ominous.

Jennie walked back into the living room carrying two things.

In one hand was the blender pitcher, now three-quarters full of a thick, lumpy brownish liquid that moved with a viscous slowness when she set it on the edge of the table. It looked like something industrial, not food.

In her other hand was a long, clear plastic tube coiled loosely like a garden hose. One end had a small funnel attachment taped securely to it. The other end was neatly trimmed and smooth.

Sugi stared at the tube. She knew what it was. They were sold online for “funnel feeding” or “weight gain enemas.” She’d seen them in videos on other creators’ channels, always with a thrill of distant horror and fascination. It was a tool for bypassing the limits of a stuffed stomach, for forcing nutrition—or in this case, pure caloric mass—into the body through another route.

Jennie placed the tube beside the blender pitcher and looked at Sugi with a calm, expectant expression. The camera continued to record their silent standoff.

The message was clear: they weren’t done. The feast wasn’t over. It was just changing form.

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the camera’s internal fan. Sugi looked from the tube to Jennie’s face, her mind sluggishly trying to process this new escalation. This wasn’t part of their brainstorm. This wasn’t defiant theater. This was something else entirely.

Jennie didn’t wait for permission or protest. She walked around behind Sugi’s chair and placed her hands on Sugi’s shoulders.

“Up,” Jennie said, her voice quiet but leaving no room for debate.

“I can’t,” Sugi whimpered, the words thick with pain and panic. Moving felt impossible. Her body was a single, overstuffed sack.

“You can.” Jennie’s grip tightened. She began to pull, using her own body weight as leverage to haul Sugi up from the chair.

It was an ugly, graceless process. Sugi cried out as the movement jostled the dense mass inside her. She had to brace her hands on the table, sending tremors through the platter and empty pitcher, to help heave her own weight upward. Her legs trembled violently as she finally gained her feet, swaying like a building in a mild quake.

Jennie didn’t let her stand there. She guided her away from the table, one hand firmly on Sugi’s back, steering her toward the open floor space directly in front of the camera tripod. The green light stared at them, an impassive witness.

“Down,” Jennie instructed.

Sugi shook her head, a tear finally breaking free and tracing a line through her foundation. “No, Jennie, please…”

“Now.” The word was flat. Final.

With a sob of pure defeat, Sugi lowered herself. It wasn’t a controlled descent; she collapsed forward onto her hands and knees, her arms barely catching her before her face hit the carpet. The position was excruciating. It compressed her swollen stomach between her thighs and the floor, sending fresh waves of cramping agony through her middle. She groaned, dropping her head between her shoulders, her greasy hair falling around her face.

From this vantage point, she could see the bottom of the camera tripod, Jennie’s feet moving purposefully around her.

Jennie picked up the tube and the blender pitcher, bringing them over and setting them on the floor within easy reach. She then walked back to the kitchen briefly, returning with a small bottle of clear lubricant.

She knelt behind Sugi.

Sugi flinched at the touch of Jennie’s hands on the hem of her tight dress. Jennie pushed the fabric up, bunching it around Sugi’s waist, exposing her lower half to the cool air and the unblinking lens of the camera. There was no dignity left. It had all been carved and eaten away.

Sugi heard the click of the lubricant bottle cap, then the wet sound of Jennie coating the first several inches of the clear tube.

“Try to relax,” Jennie murmured, her tone clinical.

There was pressure, then a blunt, invasive probing that made Sugi gasp and tense up instinctively.

“Relax,” Jennie repeated, a hint of impatience creeping in. “Or this will hurt more.”

Sugi tried to force her muscles to unclench, tears now dripping steadily onto the carpet beneath her face. She focused on the pattern of the fibers, grey and beige swirls swimming in her blurred vision.

The pressure intensified, then there was a sickening, internal slide as the tube passed the point of resistance and entered her. It felt cold and wrong, a violation deeper than any she had ever consented to, even in the abstract fantasies that had once seemed so thrilling. This was real, physical, and happening live on stream.

Jennie fed more of the tube in slowly, carefully, until about a foot of it had disappeared. Then she stopped.

Sugi heard the soft clink of the funnel being attached to the external end of the tube. Then came a heavier sound—Jennie lifting the blender pitcher.

A new kind of terror seized Sugi. “Wait,” she choked out.

But it was too late.

She felt it first as a change in temperature—a warm trickle moving through the tube inside her, a sensation so alien and intrusive it made her whole body stiffen. Then the trickle became a flow as Jennie tipped the pitcher higher.

The blended pork slurry entered her.

It wasn’t a solid she could refuse to chew or swallow. It was a liquid fact, gravity-fed, bypassing every defense. She felt it filling her colon, a spreading warmth that quickly turned into a stretching, bloating pressure in an entirely new cavity. Her stomach was already packed to bursting in front; now this heavy liquid was inflating her from behind.

Jennie poured slowly, steadily. The viscous slurry glugged quietly through the funnel and down the tube.

On camera, Sugi’s initial pained resistance began to transform. The sharp edges of her distress—the clenched fists, the grimace—started to soften under the relentless, impersonal influx. Her protests died in her throat, replaced by shallow, hitched breaths. Her eyes, wide with horror moments before, lost their focus. They stared at nothing, glazing over as her consciousness retreated from the overwhelming sensory assault.

It was too much to fight. The pain was still there—a deep, expanding ache that melded with the agony in her stomach into one all-encompassing fullness—but her ability to react to it shut down. A strange numbness spread through her mind, a protective dissociation.

Her belly, already monstrously distended against the carpet, began to swell further. The skin stretched tighter under the dark fabric of her dress, which was now rucked up around her ribs. The dress strained across her lower back and sides, seams creaking audibly. She could feel every ounce of the slurry adding itself to her mass, pushing outward against her own flesh and the constraints of her clothing.

Jennie kept pouring until the pitcher was empty. She gave the funnel a little shake to get the last drips down before setting it aside with a soft plastic clatter.

For a moment, nothing moved except the slow rise and fall of Sugi’s engorged torso as she struggled to breathe.

Then Jennie leaned forward and carefully, gently, began to withdraw the tube.

The sensation made Sugi moan—a low, guttural sound that held no words, only profound physical overwhelm.

When it was fully out, Jennie set it aside and lowered Sugi’s dress back into place, not that it did much to restore modesty. The fabric was now stretched drum-tight over a stomach that looked almost spherical, pushing Sugi’s hands and knees wider apart on the floor.

Jennie stood up and walked back to the laptop. She reached over and unmuted the audio with a click.

The room was suddenly filled with the frantic buzz of the live chat notification sounds that had been piling up during the silent minutes. They chimed over each other in a chaotic symphony.

Jennie stepped back into the camera’s frame and knelt beside Sugi’s immobilized form. She placed a hand on Sugi’s heaving back.

“And that,” Jennie said to their audience, her voice returning to its smooth, hostess tone as if she’d just demonstrated a simple recipe, “is how you finish a feast.”

She turned Sugi’s face gently toward the camera with a finger under her chin.

Sugi’s expression was blank, glazed. Her makeup was ruined—mascara smudged under empty eyes, lipstick smeared across her cheek where she’d pressed against the floor. Her face was pale and slick with sweat. But she wasn’t crying anymore. She wasn’t anything. She just existed there on her hands and knees, impossibly full in every conceivable way, a monument to consumption finally completed.

Jennie smiled at the camera—a bright, triumphant smile. “Thanks for watching,” she said. And she reached out and ended the stream. The green light on the camera went dark.