Chapter 10: A Real Thing

The word “girlfriend” hung in the car’s quiet interior, soft and strange.

Sugi floated on a dense sea of food, her body a heavy, humming machine of digestion. The ache was everywhere, a deep and satisfying throb that anchored her to the passenger seat. Jennie’s laugh still echoed in her ears—that bright, amused sound that hadn’t been for the stream. It felt like a key turning in a lock. Sugi didn’t have the mental clarity to examine the mechanism. She just knew something had opened.

Jennie drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm against her thigh to some song on the radio Sugi couldn’t really hear. She glanced over, her expression softening when she saw Sugi’s eyes closed. “You okay over there?”

“Mmm.” It was all Sugi could manage. A pleasant, dopey sound.

“Good.” Jennie reached across the console, her fingers finding Sugi’s hand where it rested on the swollen dome of her own stomach. She gave it a squeeze, then left her hand there, warm and light. The contact sent a different kind of warmth through Sugi’s haze. This wasn’t a performative pat for the camera. This was just a hand holding another hand in a car.

Girlfriend. The concept felt too big and too simple at the same time. It wasn’t just a label for what they did together online. It meant Jennie would come over without a camera setup. It meant she might stay after the food was gone. It meant Sugi could text her about something stupid, like a funny cloud or how much her back hurt, and Jennie would actually answer as herself, not as JennieLush. The thrill of it cut through the food-drunk fog, sharp and sweet.

Over the next few days, the new dynamic settled in like a comfortable weight.

Jennie started showing up at Sugi’s apartment in the late afternoons, carrying grocery bags that bulged with intentionality. She didn’t ask for permission; she just arrived, letting herself in with a cheerful shout of “Honey, I’m home!” that always made Sugi’s stomach flip.

She took over Sugi’s small kitchen with an authority that brooked no argument. Out came pots and pans Sugi hadn’t used in months. Jennie cooked with a focus that was different from her streaming persona—quieter, more methodical. She rendered bacon for fat before frying thick slices of French toast that she soaked in a custard of cream and eggs. She simmered heavy cream with cheese until it formed a sauce thick enough to coat pasta without sliding off. She prepared massive trays of nachos layered with ground beef, multiple cheeses, and scoops of full-fat sour cream.

“You need your calories,” Jennie would say, placing a heaping plate in front of Sugi at the small dining table. “Can’t have my girl wasting away.”

It was a joke, obviously. Sugi was visibly, palpably not wasting away. But hearing “my girl” in that domestic context, while looking at a meal designed solely to add to her mass, made the act of eating feel like compliance with a loving directive. It felt like care, even if the care was manifesting as another thousand calories on a plate.

Between these orchestrated meals, Jennie encouraged constant snacking. She left bags of chips open on the coffee table, bowls of candy within easy reach. If Sugi paused during a movie, Jennie would nudge a bag of cheese puffs toward her without looking away from the screen. “Keep grazing,” she’d murmur. “Idle hands and all that.”

Their time together began to blur lines in a way that felt dizzying.

One evening, they were watching a terrible reality show, slumped together on Sugi’s couch. Sugi’s belly was full from a dinner of sausage lasagna, a tight sphere under her loose sleep shirt. Jennie had a family-sized bag of peanut M&M’s in her lap.

She wasn’t eating them herself.

Instead, she’d pick one out, hold it between her fingers, and bring it to Sugi’s lips. “Open up,” she’d say softly, during a commercial.

Sugi would open her mouth, letting Jennie place the candy on her tongue. The chocolate was sweet, the peanut salty. She’d chew slowly, the act feeling incredibly intimate. There was no camera here. No audience expecting a show. This was just Jennie feeding her, piece by piece, for no reason other than to do it.

But was that true? Sugi couldn’t quite shake the feeling of performance, even now. The way Jennie watched her chew, the slight smile that played on her lips—it felt appreciative, like she was admiring her own handiwork. It felt genuine, too. The warmth of Jennie curled against her side was real. The casual touch of her fingers on Sugi’s chin was real.

The intimacy sat in an uneasy space between those two poles. It was both a private affection and a practiced ritual from their public life, now imported into the living room with the volume off. Sugi found she didn’t mind the confusion. In fact, the confusion was part of the charge. Being fed by her girlfriend felt like a privilege. Being fed as Chubby Cutie, even off-stream, felt like fulfilling a destiny. The two feelings braided together until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Three days after the buffet stream, Jennie arrived with no grocery bags. She had a different energy, buzzing with planning.

“Okay,” she announced, flopping onto the couch next to Sugi who was still in her pajamas at two in the afternoon. “I have an idea for us. A date.”

Sugi perked up, setting aside her laptop where she’d been half-heartedly editing some older footage. “A date?”

“A real one,” Jennie said, her eyes sparkling. “Well, mostly real. The state fair is in town starting Friday.”

The state fair. Sugi had a vague childhood memory of one in Japan—orderly displays of fruit and flowers. American state fairs, from what she’d gleaned online, were different beasts altogether.

“It’s perfect,” Jennie continued, ticking points off on her fingers. “Romantic atmosphere, in a kitschy way. Twinkly lights at night. Crowds we can get lost in.” She leaned closer, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “And about a hundred different food stalls selling nothing but deep-fried everything on sticks. It’s basically a content goldmine waiting to happen.”

The excitement in Sugi fizzed, immediate and potent. A date. With Jennie. Somewhere that wasn’t her apartment or a buffet restaurant. The romantic part sent a flutter through her chest—walking around together, holding hands in public just because they wanted to.

But then there was the other part: the content goldmine. Her mind instantly supplied images: powdered sugar dusting her dress from a funnel cake, grease shining on her fingers from a corn dog, Jennie laughing as she fed her some absurd deep-fried concoction. They could film it. They should film it. The viewers would love it.

“We could do a live stream from there,” Sugi said, the idea forming as she spoke. “Or just film a really long vlog. The fairgrounds would be such a cool backdrop.”

“Exactly!” Jennie beamed, looking pleased that Sugi had immediately connected to the same wavelength. “We can make it a whole thing. A romantic eating tour of the fairgrounds. Call it ‘Date Night with Chubby Cutie & JennieLush’ or something cute.” She reached out and poked Sugi’s side playfully through her shirt. “You’ll need to save up some appetite though. We’re going to hit every fried food stand we see.”

The plan solidified the new dynamic perfectly. It was a date—a romantic outing with her new girlfriend. It was also clearly material for their channels, a planned spectacle disguised as fun. The fact that both things could be true at once, that one fueled the other, made Sugi feel like they were pioneers in some weird, wonderful territory only they understood.

“I love it,” Sugi said, and she meant it entirely.

Jennie smiled back at her—a wide, unguarded smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Good. It’s going to be amazing.” She settled back against the cushions, pulling out her phone. “Now, let me look up the fair map. We need a strategic route. Maximum food stalls, minimum walking.” She glanced at Sugi, her expression turning thoughtful. “Actually, speaking of walking… the fairgrounds are huge. We should probably talk about logistics for you.”

Sugi knew what that meant. Her lower back gave a sympathetic twinge at the thought of miles on paved pathways. The excitement for the date hummed alongside a practical, dull dread of the physical toll. But mostly, there was just the hum. Jennie was planning their future, both the immediate one full of fried dough and the ongoing story they were telling together. For now, that was enough. It was more than enough. It felt, for perhaps the first time, like a real thing she could hold onto, even if her hands were already full

Jennie’s logistical planning turned out to be frighteningly thorough.

Two days later, a package arrived at Sugi’s door. Inside was a sundress, ordered online by Jennie. Sugi unfolded it, holding it up. It was made of a soft, stretchy cotton in a cheerful sunflower print. The cut was simple—spaghetti straps, a smocked bodice that would expand, and a skirt that flared out from just under the bust. It was, undeniably, a tent. A pretty, floral tent designed to drape over her form without clinging to any specific curve. The tag listed it as a size 3X, a number that made Sugi’s breath catch for a second before she pushed the feeling down. This was practical. This was Jennie taking care of her.

On the morning of the fair, Jennie arrived early to help her get ready. The dress slid on easily, the fabric loose and cool against her skin. It did what it was supposed to do: it covered her. The skirt billowed around her thighs, and the bodice stretched comfortably over her bust and the great swell of her stomach without marking their dimensions too clearly. She felt almost… normal-sized in it. Or at least, normally-shaped in a very large dress.

“Perfect,” Jennie declared, circling her. “Comfy, cute, and no waistband to dig in when you’re packed full later.” She then presented her second logistical solution. “Okay, so I looked into it. The fair rents those little electric scooters near the entrance. You know, the ones old people use? We should get you one.”

The suggestion landed with a thud. A mobility scooter. Sugi had seen them before, of course—small, battery-powered vehicles with a basket on the front, puttering along at walking pace. The image of herself perched on one, navigating crowds while Jennie walked beside her, was acutely embarrassing. It was a declaration of incapacity.

“I can walk,” Sugi said, though even she heard the lack of conviction in her voice.

“For like, an hour, maybe,” Jennie countered, not unkindly. She was in problem-solving mode. “Then your feet will hurt, your back will ache, and you’ll be miserable. And more importantly, you’ll be too tired and sore to eat properly. The whole point is to enjoy the food and the date, right? Not to suffer through it.” She put a hand on Sugi’s arm. “It’s just to conserve your energy for the fun part. For the eating.”

That reframe worked its magic. It wasn’t about being unable to walk; it was about strategic resource management. She needed to save her stamina for consumption. It was a feeder’s logic, and it made perfect, twisted sense. The embarrassment curdled into a different kind of shameful acceptance. She nodded silently.

The fairgrounds were a sprawling chaos of noise, color, and overlapping smells—popcorn, frying oil, livestock, and sugary syrup. Sugi felt overwhelmingly conspicuous as she maneuvered the rented scooter away from the rental booth. The machine whined softly under her weight as she followed Jennie through the main gate. People glanced at her, their eyes skipping from her face to the scooter and then quickly away. Some looks held pity. Others held a flicker of understanding, or judgment. She kept her gaze fixed on Jennie’s back, focusing on the cheerful sway of her ponytail.

Jennie, for her part, seemed utterly unbothered. She fell into step beside the scooter, her hand occasionally resting on Sugi’s shoulder as if guiding her. “Okay, first stop has to be classic,” she announced, pointing to a bright yellow stall with a giant rotating corn dog sculpture on its roof. “Can’t start a fair food tour without a corn dog.”

She bought two, handing one to Sugi before Sugi could even think about parking the scooter. The corn dog was hot, the batter golden and slightly crisp. Jennie took a small bite of hers, then watched as Sugi took hers. “Good?” she asked.

It was good. Salty, savory, familiar. Sugi nodded, taking another bite.

“Great. Now keep eating that while we move to the next one.” Jennie began walking, and Sugi nudged the scooter’s lever forward to follow.

This became their rhythm for the next hour. Jennie was a relentless tour director of calories. They would pull up to a stall—the high-pitched whine of the scooter announcing their arrival—and Jennie would hop out of line to survey the menu with a critical eye before placing an order.

She returned with a paper boat of crispy, squeaky cheese curds dusted with powdered sugar, feeding one to Sugi after dipping it in marinara sauce. “Try that,” she’d say, holding it to her lips even as Sugi was still chewing the last of the corn dog.

They stopped at a funnel cake stand where Jennie ordered one topped with strawberries, whipped cream, and a drizzle of chocolate. The plate was enormous, a tangle of fried dough buried under toppings. Jennie broke off a large piece with a fork, holding it steady as Sugi leaned forward from her seat to take it. Powdered sugar snowed down onto the sunflower print of Sugi’s dress.

“You’re making a mess of me,” Sugi mumbled around the sweet, oily dough.

“You look delicious,” Jennie replied easily, wiping a spot of whipped cream from Sugi’s chin with her thumb.

At a stand proclaiming “Deep Fried Everything!”, Jennie’s eyes lit up. She returned with a cardboard tray holding deep-fried Oreos and something called a “deep-fried Twinkie.” The Oreos were hot and soft inside their puffy batter shells, the cream filling molten. Jennie fed them to Sugi one after another until the sticky sweetness coated her tongue and throat.

Sugi’s scooter basket slowly filled with half-eaten food items and empty containers. Her stomach, which had started the day merely full from a large breakfast Jennie had prepared, began to distend in earnest under the loose dress. The smocked bodice grew tighter across her middle as she sat on the scooter seat. Each new bite required more effort to swallow, her digestion working overtime on the parade of fats and sugars.

She was drifting in this cycle of consumption—the whine of the scooter, the press of the crowd, Jennie’s smiling face offering another bite—when they rounded a corner near a small performance stage.

A banner strung across the front read: ANNUAL STATE FAIR PIE-EATING CONTEST – SIGN UP NOW! A man with a microphone was warming up a modest crowd gathered in folding chairs. “We’ve got a few spots left! Who wants to win a blue ribbon and a fifty-dollar gift card? All you gotta do is eat one whole pie faster than anyone else!”

A line of contestants was already forming at a table off to the side. They were mostly teenagers and young men, looking lean and competitive.

Jennie stopped walking so abruptly that Sugi nearly ran the scooter into her heel. She stared at the stage, her head tilting. Then she looked down at Sugi, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face. “Oh my god. You have to do that.”

Sugi blinked, her mind still processing the sheer volume of pie implied. “What? No. Look at them. They’re all…”

“Skinny? Fast?” Jennie finished, her grin widening. “Exactly. Imagine their faces when you roll up there and demolish them.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Come on, Cutie. You could crush this. Literally. It would be hilarious. And so hot.”

The protest died in Sugi’s throat. The idea was absurd, and that was what made it compelling. Showing up on her scooter, her dress already dusted with sugar, to compete against people who looked like they trained for this. The sheer defiance of it. It wasn’t about the gift card. It was about proving, in the most public way possible, what her body was built for.

A spark of that old, defiant pride ignited in her chest, cutting through the food haze. “What kind of pie?” she heard herself ask.

“Apple, looks like,” Jennie said, pointing to stacks of foil tins on the judges’ table. “Classic. Easy.” She nudged Sugi’s shoulder. “Do it. For me. It’ll be our secret little competition.”

That did it. For me. Sugi parked the scooter clumsily near a fence. She heaved herself out of the seat, the full weight of her recent eating settling low in her belly. She walked toward the sign-up table, feeling every eye on her—the contestants, the crowd, the man with the microphone. Her heart hammered against ribs that felt compressed from within.

At the table, a bored-looking woman handed her a clipboard. “Name?”

Sugi panicked for a second. She couldn’t use her real name. “Um… C.C.,” she stammered, giving the initials of her online persona.

The woman wrote it down without comment and handed her a number on a sticker. “You’re contestant twelve. Go stand over there with the others.” She gave Sugi a once-over that wasn’t quite judgmental, just assessing, like she was calculating the odds.

Sugi walked back to where Jennie waited, peeling the backing off the sticker and pressing it crookedly onto the front of her dress. Number 12. Jennie was practically vibrating with excitement. She squeezed Sugi’s arm. “Okay, no hands allowed. Face in the pie. Just go until it’s gone. Don’t think, just eat.”

A few minutes later, the emcee called the contestants onto the stage. Sugi moved slowly up the steps, her breath already coming short. She took her place behind a small table at the end of the row. A foil tin holding an entire apple pie was placed in front of each competitor. The crust was pale golden brown.

The man explained the rules quickly: hands behind backs at all times, no throwing up or you’re disqualified, first one to finish their pie wins. He raised his starter flag. The crowd let out a whoop.

Sugi looked down at the pie. It seemed enormous. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples wafted up. Her stomach, already packed with fair food, gave a solid, unhappy lurch.

The flag dropped. “Go!”

The contestants to her left plunged their faces into their pies immediately, making loud snuffling and gulping sounds. Sugi took a breath, then lowered her head.

The first bite was chaos. Cool, gelatinous apple filling and chunks of soft fruit filled her mouth. The crust was soggy on top, flaky and dry underneath where it wasn’t soaked through. She chewed frantically, swallowing huge gobs of sweet mush. It was too sweet, overwhelmingly so after all the other sugar. She came up for air, gasping, her face already slick with filling and crumbs.

She could hear Jennie’s voice cutting through the crowd noise, sharp and clear: “That’s it! Go! Don’t stop!”

Sugi ducked back down. This wasn’t about taste or enjoyment. This was pure mechanical function. Open mouth, scoop filling with lips and tongue, chew twice, swallow against an increasingly resistant throat. Her jaw began to ache. Her belly pressed painfully against the edge of the table, the smocked dress straining across it.

Next to her, a teenage boy retched suddenly and straightened up, stepping back from his half-eaten pie with his hand over his mouth. He was out.

Sugi kept going. Her world narrowed to the tin in front of her, the pasty texture of apples and crust, the burn of cinnamon in her sinuses. She heard another contestant drop out with a cough. She was vaguely aware that the crowd’s cheering had coalesced around a few remaining eaters—herself included.

Her stomach felt like a solid, overinflated ballon. Each swallow required a conscious effort, a fight against her own body’s desire to reject more mass. But something stubborn had taken hold. This was hers to win now. She could see bare tin appearing around the edges of her pie where she’d eaten through the middle.

With one last, desperate effort, she scraped her face across the bottom of the tin, gathering up the last streaks of filling and soggy crust fragments. She lifted her head, gulping air.

Silence for a beat, then the emcee shouted, “Contestant number twelve is done! We have a winner!”

The applause erupted around her. Sugi stood there panting, her vision swimming slightly. Her face was plastered with apple filling, crumbs sticking to her cheeks and chin. Her hair was a mess. The front of her sunflower dress was ruined—a Jackson Pollock painting in shades of brown and beige.

Then Jennie was there, climbing onto the stage before anyone could stop her. She threw her arms around Sugi’s sticky shoulders, laughing with pure, unfiltered delight. “You did it! You actually won! Oh my god, I’m so proud of you!” She pulled back just enough to look at Sugi’s messy face, her own eyes shining with ecstatic pride that seemed to go beyond mere amusement at a stunt.

The emcee handed Sugi a damp paper towel that did little good and presented her with a cheap blue ribbon and an envelope holding the gift card. Photos were taken for the fair’s social media—Sugi standing there in her stained dress, ribbon held limply in one hand while Jennie beamed beside her like she’d just coached an Olympic champion.

As they made their way offstage, Jennie kept an arm around Sugi’s waist for support as much as affection. Sugi felt dizzy, overfull in a sharp new way that cut through the earlier bloat. But under Jennie’s palpable pride—that look that said you are everything I wanted you to be—the discomfort felt like victory itself. It felt like proof.

The triumphant high from the pie contest lasted about as long as the sugar rush. By the time they’d collected Sugi’s scooter and begun a slow, meandering path back toward the fairground exit, the reality of her consumption set in with a profound and immobilizing weight.

Every movement was a careful negotiation. The scooter seat, which had been merely uncomfortable before, now felt like a torture device pressing up into her distended belly from below. The once-loose sundress was taut across her middle, the smocked bodice stretched to its limit. A deep, dull ache radiated from her core, a symphony of protest from an overloaded digestive system. She felt dangerously full in a way that was different from the buffet—sharper, more concentrated, less like bloat and more like she’d swallowed a lead ball.

Jennie walked beside her in a similar state of post-feast languor, though she carried it with more grace. She moved slowly, one hand resting on her own stomach. “That was incredible,” she sighed happily, for maybe the fifth time. “You were a champion. An absolute champion.”

Sugi could only manage a weak nod. The cheers of the crowd were a distant memory, replaced by the immediate, pressing need to not move too suddenly. They passed food stalls whose smells now turned her stomach. The twinkling lights of the fair, which had seemed romantic hours ago, now just gave her a headache.

“We should head back to my place,” Jennie said after a long silence, her voice softer. “You can’t drive home like this. We’ll just… decompress.”

The offer felt like a lifeline. The thought of navigating the drive back to her own empty apartment, of being alone with this crushing fullness, was unbearable. She nodded again, more vigorously this time, wincing at the motion.

Getting Sugi out of the fairgrounds, into Jennie’s car, and then up the stairs to Jennie’s third-floor apartment was an epic undertaking in itself. By the time Jennie unlocked her door and flicked on the lights, Sugi was sweating and breathless, leaning heavily against the wall in the entryway.

Jennie’s apartment was neat and stylish in a generic way—IKEA furniture, accent pillows, a large TV mounted on the wall. It looked like a showroom, lacking the lived-in clutter of Sugi’s space. It also smelled faintly of vanilla air freshener.

“Okay, you just… collapse somewhere,” Jennie instructed, kicking off her shoes. “I’m going to make us something to settle our stomachs.”

Sugi didn’t need to be told twice. She shuffled into the living room and lowered herself onto the large, gray sectional sofa with a groan that was part pain, part relief. She leaned back, closing her eyes, listening to Jennie move around in the open-plan kitchen.

The sounds were familiar: the freezer opening, the clatter of bowls, the rustle of packaging. But there was no camera being set up. No tripod. No cheerful commentary for an audience. This was just the domestic noise of someone making a snack. The normality of it was soothing.

After a few minutes, Jennie approached. She was carrying a single, massive glass bowl. It wasn’t a normal dessert bowl; it was more like a mixing bowl or a small salad bowl. And it was filled to the brim.

“Here,” Jennie said softly, sitting down right next to Sugi on the couch. “This’ll help.”

Sugi opened her eyes and looked at what Jennie held. It was a sundae, but calling it that felt inadequate. Three large scoops of vanilla ice cream formed a mountain, already melting at the edges into a creamy pool. This was drowned under a thick river of hot fudge sauce that smelled deeply of chocolate. A generous pour of caramel followed, weaving between the fudge. The whole thing was topped with a towering mound of whipped cream from a can, dotted with maraschino cherries and sprinkled liberally with rainbow sprinkles and crushed peanuts. A single long-stemmed spoon was buried in the center.

“Jennie,” Sugi whispered, her stomach giving a violent lurch at the mere sight. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Jennie murmured, her tone low and intimate. “Just a little something sweet to finish the day. It’s not for a stream. It’s just for us.” She dug the spoon into the mountain, gathering a bite that contained ice cream, both sauces, and whipped cream. She held it out to Sugi’s lips.

The gesture was so tender, so girlfriend-like. This wasn’t JennieLush orchestrating content. This was Jennie offering her something after a big day out. The context made refusal feel like rejecting affection itself. Sugi parted her lips.

The cold of the ice cream was shocking against her overheated mouth. The sweetness was overwhelming, cloying after the pie. But she swallowed anyway, the thick sauces coating her throat.

“Good girl,” Jennie whispered.

And she fed her another bite.

And another.

There was no conversation beyond soft encouragements. “That’s it.” “Just one more.” “You’re doing so well.” Jennie’s focus was absolute. She watched Sugi’s face intently with every bite, monitoring each chew and swallow with a quiet intensity that felt more invasive than any camera lens.

Sugi ate mechanically, her body moving on autopilot while her mind floated somewhere above it. The bowl seemed bottomless. Every time she thought it must be nearly empty, Jennie would scoop from a new angle and find another reservoir of ice cream or sauce. The cold began to ache in her teeth and spread a deep chill through her core that fought with the burning heat of digestion.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the spoon scraped against bare glass. Jennie set the empty bowl on the coffee table with a soft clink. She didn’t move away. Instead, she reached for a bag Sugi hadn’t noticed earlier—one of the fair purchases. She pulled out a family-sized bag of salted pretzel rods and a large bottle of cream soda.

“Okay,” Jennie said, her voice taking on a new, firmer texture. It wasn’t mean, but it left no room for debate. “Now we need something salty to balance all that sweet. And something fizzy to help it all settle.” She cracked open the soda bottle with a hiss, then broke a pretzel rod in half.

Sugi stared at her, a real fear beginning to cut through the food-drunk haze. “No. Jennie, please. I can’t. I really, really can’t.”

“You can,” Jennie insisted, holding the pretzel piece near Sugi’s mouth. Her eyes held that same intense pride from the fair, but now it was edged with something else—a need to see this through, to push past the limit. “You just won a pie-eating contest. This is nothing. Come on. For me. I want to see how much my girlfriend can really take when it’s just us.”

The words were a trap woven from affection and demand. My girlfriend. For me. Sugi felt a hot prickle behind her eyes. She opened her mouth, and Jennie placed the pretzel on her tongue. It was dry and salty, impossible to swallow without moisture. Before she could even try, Jennie was tilting the bottle of cream soda to Sugi’s lips.

The cold, overly-sweet soda fizzed violently in her mouth, mixing with the pretzel crumbs into a gritty, foamy paste. She choked slightly, swallowing convulsively just to clear her airway.

“There,” Jennie said, satisfaction warming her tone. She immediately followed it with another piece of pretzel, then another drink.

The cycle continued—salty, dry, then sweet, cold, and fizzy. Each round felt like an assault on her beleaguered system. Her stomach, already packed beyond any reasonable capacity, began to cramp in earnest. Sharp, twisting pains radiated from deep within. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead and back. Her vision swam.

She was no longer eating. She was being fed, her body used as a vessel for Jennie’s will. The intimacy had curdled into something else entirely—a raw, unfiltered exercise in control where every swallow was an act of submission. The emotional vulnerability of it stripped her bare. She felt tears welling up, a mixture of physical agony and the dizzying realization that she had given someone this much power over her most basic functions.

Jennie broke off another piece of pretzel. She brought it to Sugi’s lips. “Last one,” she coaxed, her voice still soft but unyielding.

Sugi looked at the pretzel, then at Jennie’s expectant face. Her throat closed. A thick, involuntary gag rose up from her stomach. She clamped her lips shut, shaking her head violently as tears finally spilled over and tracked down her sticky cheeks.

A long moment passed. Jennie slowly lowered the pretzel. She studied Sugi’s face—the tears, the sheen of sweat, the utter defeat in her eyes. A complex emotion flickered in Jennie’s own gaze: satisfaction, a touch of concern, and that unwavering pride. She set the pretzel and soda aside. Then she did something unexpected. She leaned in and kissed Sugi’s forehead gently, her lips cool against Sugi’s damp skin.

“Okay,” Jennie whispered. “That’s enough.” She pulled Sugi into an embrace, letting Sugi slump against her shoulder as silent sobs shook her frame. Jennie held her tightly, rocking slightly. “You did so good. You were perfect.”

They sat like that for a long time as the cramps in Sugi’s stomach slowly subsided from sharp stabs to a pervasive, throbbing ache. The emotional storm passed, leaving her hollowed out and exhausted. Eventually, Jennie helped her to the bathroom to clean the dried pie filling and sundae sauce from her face and arms. She gave Sugi one of her own oversized t-shirts to change into while she tossed the ruined sundress into a plastic bag.

It was past midnight when they finally decided to leave. The fairgrounds were mostly dark now, crews cleaning up under harsh work lights. The cheerful noise had been replaced by the rumble of trash compactors and distant voices.

They walked slowly across the vast parking lot toward Jennie’s car, both moving with the careful deliberation of the profoundly stuffed. Sugi carried the plastic bag with her dress. Each step sent a fresh wave of discomfort through her abdomen.

They were almost to the car when a voice called out from behind them.

“Oh my god! JennieLush? Chubby Cutie?”

They both froze. A young woman in her early twenties was hurrying toward them, waving excitedly. She had a friend trailing behind her, both looking like they were leaving the fair as well.

Jennie’s public persona snapped into place instantly, her tired expression transforming into a bright, welcoming smile. “Hey there!”

The fan skidded to a stop in front of them, breathless. “I thought that was you! I watched your buffet stream live! And I saw you win that pie contest earlier—that was amazing!” Her eyes darted between them, wide with admiration.

Sugi tried to muster a smile, but it felt brittle on her face. This moment—this raw, private aftermath of their intense night—was now public domain.

“Aw, thank you!” Jennie said smoothly, slipping an arm around Sugi’s waist in a pose that was both protective and proprietary for the fan’s benefit. “We had such a fun date night.”

“Can I get a picture?” the fan asked eagerly, already pulling out her phone. “With both of you? My friends are never going to believe this.”

“Of course!” Jennie chirped.

She pulled Sugi closer, turning them both to face the fan’s phone camera. Sugi forced her smile wider, leaning into Jennie’s side as the fan’s friend took the picture. The flash was blinding in the dark lot.

“Thank you so much!” the fan gushed, looking at her screen with delight. “You guys are like… couple goals for real.”

Jennie laughed lightly. “Have a good night!”

The fan and her friend wandered off, chattering excitedly.

The moment they were out of earshot, Jennie’s bright smile faded back into tired contentment. She squeezed Sugi’s side gently before letting go to unlock the car.

Sugi stood for a second in the quiet dark, listening to the distant cleanup sounds. The fan’s interruption had severed whatever fragile, private bubble had remained from their night. The picture would be out there now—evidence of their “date,” their togetherness, their shared secret that wasn’t a secret at all.

She slid into the passenger seat with another low groan, the plastic bag crinkling at her feet. As Jennie started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, Sugi looked out at the passing darkness. Her body was a landscape of pain and fullness. Her heart felt similarly overstuffed—with affection, with submission, with a confusion that was as deep as it was thrilling.

The chapter of their first real date was closed now, captured by a stranger’s camera flash. She didn’t know what came next in their story, but as she settled into the seat for the ride home—wherever home was supposed to be tonight—she knew there would be no going back from any of it