Chapter 9: The Butter Assignment

Violet registered for Food and Nutrition because it sounded like the easiest possible way to fulfill her science credit. The course description mentioned something about macronutrients and dietary guidelines, which seemed laughably simple after three years of being a professional eater. She imagined multiple-choice tests about the food pyramid, maybe a paper on fiber. A guaranteed A, or at least a B, which was about the best she could hope for these days.

The class met in a small, windowless lecture hall in the basement of the Life Sciences building. The air smelled faintly of formaldehyde and microwave popcorn. Violet took her usual spot in the back, though “usual” was relative—she’d only been twice so far this semester. The professor, a Dr. Albright, was a wiry man in his fifties with a permanent frown and a habit of tapping his pointer against the whiteboard like he was trying to kill a particularly stubborn insect.

That day, he was droning on about experimental design in nutritional studies. Violet half-listened, her notebook open to a mostly blank page. Her pen felt heavy in her hand. Writing required a focus that kept slipping away from her, like trying to hold onto a greased rope.

“—which brings us to the cornerstone of this course,” Dr. Albright said, his pointer hitting the board with a sharp tap. “The semester project.”

A low groan rippled through the room. Violet didn’t join in. Projects meant papers, maybe a presentation. She could bullshit a paper. She’d gotten good at bullshitting everything.

“This isn’t a library research assignment,” Albright continued, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for dissenters. “This is a practical, hands-on investigation into the physiological and psychological impacts of mono-diets.”

He wrote the term on the board: MONO-DIET.

“For two weeks, you will subsist primarily on a single, assigned food item. You will document everything—weight fluctuations, energy levels, cognitive function, mood swings, digestive responses. This is a simulation of extreme nutritional scenarios. It will be uncomfortable. It may be unpleasant. That is the point.”

Violet scribbled single food item in her notebook, underlining it twice. The concept was weird, but not exactly difficult. Eat one thing for two weeks and write about it. She could do that in her sleep. Probably would do that in her sleep, knowing her sisters.

“The project pairs will be assigned next session,” Albright said, his tone turning grave. “Attendance at that session is not merely mandatory—it is vital. If you are not present to receive your assignment and your partner, you will fail this project. And since the project constitutes sixty percent of your final grade…” He let the implication hang in the air, punctuated by another tap of the pointer.

Violet wrote NEXT CLASS = VITAL in block letters. She’d have to remember. Maybe she could set an alarm on her phone, though she’d probably ignore it if Hannah was in the middle of a feeding. Still, failing another class wasn’t an option. Her academic probation letter was still folded at the bottom of her desk drawer, a quiet threat she tried not to think about.

She left the lecture hall with everyone else, shuffling out into the hallway. The talk around her was all annoyed speculation—what if they got assigned something disgusting, like canned sardines or plain tofu? Violet didn’t participate. Her own diet had been a mono-diet of sorts for years now: whatever was highest in calories. The specifics hardly mattered anymore.

The email from Dr. Albright arrived two days later, late in the evening.

Subject: URGENT REMINDER: Food & Nutrition 210 - Project Assignment Session

To all enrolled students,

A final reminder that our next session is the project assignment and commencement lecture. Attendance is compulsory. Partners and food items will be assigned via a randomized process at the start of class.

Failure to attend will result in a zero for the project component.

Do not be late.

Dr. M. Albright

Violet read it on her phone while lying in bed, her stomach making wet, complicated noises as it processed the evening’s “digestive aid”—a quart of heavy cream whipped with mascarpone that Susan had insisted would “coat everything nicely.” The email’s tone was unnecessarily stern, honestly. Who did this guy think he was? It was just a stupid gen-ed class.

She felt a flicker of her old academic irritation, the kind that used to make her double-check citations and rewrite thesis statements. Now it just manifested as a mild annoyance, a pebble in the shoe of her general numbness. She’d go. Obviously. She tapped out a quick note in her phone’s calendar app: Food class – GO. Then she rolled over, the motion requiring a careful heave of her hips and shoulders, and waited for the cream to settle into fat.

The following Tuesday, Violet made it to the Life Sciences building with ten minutes to spare. The walk from sorority row was slower than it used to be, each step a conscious negotiation with gravity and balance. She wore one of the few outfits that still sort of fit—a stretchy black dress Hannah had ordered online, which now strained across her chest and hips like the skin of an overripe fruit.

She pushed open the lecture hall door and stopped.

The room was packed. Every seat seemed taken, which made no sense—the first few sessions had maybe two-thirds attendance at best. Students stood along the back wall and crowded the aisles. A nervous, buzzing energy filled the air, completely different from the usual bored silence.

Violet hesitated in the doorway, feeling exposed. Her plan to slip into a back-row seat evaporated. There were no seats.

Her eyes scanned the room, looking for any sliver of space. That’s when she saw the other girl.

She was sitting in the middle of a row about halfway down, and she was impossible to miss. Not just because of her size, though she was enormous—easily as big as Violet, maybe bigger—but because of how she sat. Slumped. Like a sack of grain someone had propped in a chair as a joke.

The girl had lank, dark hair that hung around a pale, round face. She wore a pink sweatshirt that was too small, the sleeves cutting into the soft flesh of her upper arms. The sweatshirt’s front was stained with something yellowish-orange, maybe cheese powder or nacho cheese, in several large, overlapping splotches. She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were half-closed, fixed on nothing.

A Phi Kappa pin was fastened crookedly to the stretched collar of her sweatshirt.

Another Pig Girl. Of course. Violet’s mind supplied the name from some half-remembered house meeting: Carmen. Phi Kappa’s entry. Their secret weapon.

Carmen didn’t look like a weapon. She looked sick. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead under the fluorescent lights. One of her hands rested on her stomach, which pushed against the tiny lecture hall desk with such force that the desk tilted forward at a slight angle.

A thin girl with a Phi Kappa pin sat beside her, typing rapidly on a laptop and ignoring Carmen completely.

Violet felt a cold knot form in her own stomach, which had nothing to do with digestion. Seeing Heidi had been one thing—a spectacle of terrifying agency. This was something else. This was a preview. A reflection without any glitter.

“Excuse me,” someone muttered behind her, trying to get past.

Violet lurched forward into the room, squeezing herself along the side wall until she found a patch of standing room near the front, by the emergency exit. She leaned against the cool cinderblock, trying to make herself smaller, which was a pointless endeavor.

Dr. Albright entered precisely at ten o’clock, carrying a cardboard box. He placed it on the lectern and surveyed the crowded room with apparent satisfaction.

“Good,” he said flatly. “It seems the message was received.”

He launched into a recap of mono-diets, their historical context in nutritional science, their value in isolating variables. Violet tuned most of it out, her attention drifting back to Carmen. The girl hadn’t moved an inch. Her Phi Kappa sister nudged her once, whispering something sharp, and Carmen’s head lolled slightly before settling back into its previous position.

“The parameters are simple,” Albright was saying. “You will be paired randomly. Each pair will be assigned one food item from this box.”

He gestured to the cardboard box as if it contained holy relics.

“For fourteen days, eighty percent of your caloric intake must come from that item. You may consume water, black coffee, or unsweetened tea as needed. All other foods are prohibited. You will meet with your partner every forty-eight hours to compare physical and psychological symptoms and compile your data.”

He pulled a clipboard from his bag.

“The purpose is to document the body’s adaptation—or failure to adapt—to nutritional extremity. Weight gain or loss will be recorded, but more importantly, you will track the subtler effects: mental fog, emotional lability, dermatological changes, gastrointestinal distress.”

Violet shifted her weight from one aching foot to the other. Gastrointestinal distress was her default state. Mental fog was the weather system inside her head. This project sounded less like an experiment and more like being graded on her daily life.

“This is not an exercise in willpower or dieting,” Albright continued, his gaze sweeping over them. “It is an exercise in observation. You are the subject and the scientist. Some of you,” he said, and his eyes seemed to linger for a fraction of a second on Violet’s corner before moving to Carmen’s slumped form, “may find your baseline conditions… amplified.”

He picked up his clipboard.

“When I call your name and your assigned food item, you will meet your partner at the front to collect your project packet. Let us begin.”

He started reading names in alphabetical order. The room rustled with movement as pairs were formed and students came forward to collect manila envelopes.

“Anderson, James – Paired with Chen, Lisa – Assigned food: Lentils.” “Bauer, Samantha – Paired with Delgado, Marco – Assigned food: White rice.” “Cheng, Paul – Paired with Evans, Olivia – Assigned food: Canned tuna.”

Violet waited, her name hanging somewhere in the latter part of the alphabet. She watched Carmen. The Phi Kappa sister had finally gotten her to sit up straighter by pinching her arm, hard enough that Violet saw Carmen flinch from across the room.

The list went on. “Reynolds, David – Paired with Torres, Ana – Assigned food: Sweet potatoes.” “Sorenson, Violet.”

Violet pushed herself away from the wall. “Paired with Vargas, Carmen.”

A low murmur passed through part of the room—the segment populated by Greek life members who knew what those names meant. Violet waddled toward the front, her path clumsy as she navigated packed knees and backpacks. Carmen was being hauled to her feet by her sister, moving with a slow, ponderous reluctance. They met before the lectern, two massive bodies taking up too much space in the aisle. Up close, Carmen smelled like stale sweat and artificial cheese. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. She didn’t look at Violet.

Dr. Albright looked from one to the other, his expression unreadable. He reached into his box and pulled out not a slip of paper, but a single, wrapped stick of butter. He held it up between them like a baton.

“Since you are both pig girls,” he said, his voice devoid of irony or malice, just stating a clinical fact, “you two get butter.”

He dropped the stick into Violet’s stunned hands. It was cold and waxy. He handed them each a manila envelope. “Your project parameters, recording sheets, and my contact information. I expect detailed logs. Dismissed.”

He turned to call the next names. Violet stood there, holding the butter. Carmen blinked slowly at it, then turned and began shuffling toward the door, leaning heavily on her sister. Violet looked down at the yellow stick in her hand, then at the retreating, stained back of her new partner. Eighty percent of calories. For two weeks. Butter.

The noise of the room seemed to recede, replaced by a high-pitched hum in her ears. She became distantly aware that this was supposed to be an easy class. A guaranteed grade. She looked at the butter again. It wasn’t laughing at her, exactly, but it seemed to hold a kind of quiet, dairy-based menace all its own

The stick of butter felt alien in her hand, a dense, waxy rectangle that seemed to absorb the warmth from her palm. Dr. Albright had already moved on, calling the next pair. The noise of the room rushed back in, louder now, underscored by the frantic beating of her own heart. Butter.

Carmen was already halfway to the door, moving with a slow, swaying gait, her Phi Kappa sister guiding her with a hand clamped on her elbow. Violet stared after them, then down at the manila envelope and the butter. Her project packet. Her partner. Her food.

She needed to talk to her. That was the protocol, obviously. They had to coordinate. She shoved the butter and envelope into her backpack and began the awkward process of turning around in the crowded aisle, murmuring “excuse me” to knees and backpacks that seemed to conspire against her bulk.

By the time she made it into the hallway, Carmen and her sister were already at the far end, heading for the stairwell. Violet called out, “Hey! Wait!”

Her voice sounded thin and reedy in the tiled corridor. Carmen’s sister glanced back, her expression impatient, but she stopped, tugging Carmen to a halt beside a bulletin board plastered with flyers for club meetings and tutoring services.

Violet caught up, breathing a little harder than she should have from just walking. Up close, Carmen’s pallor was even more pronounced. Her skin had a grayish undertone, and her lips were chapped.

“We need to… figure this out,” Violet said, gesturing with the envelope.

Carmen’s eyes focused on her slowly, as if bringing her into view required significant effort. “Figure what out?” Her voice was a monotone.

“The project. The… butter.” Violet held up the stick again, feeling ridiculous.

Carmen just stared at it. Her sister, a sharp-faced girl with a severe ponytail, sighed. “She understands the project. We got the same packet.”

“Right,” Violet said, flustered. “But we have to meet. Every other day. To compare symptoms.”

“We’ll meet,” the sister said, speaking for Carmen as if she were an inconvenient parcel. “Name the time and place.”

Violet’s mind went blank. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Um. The library? Second floor? Day after tomorrow? Three o’clock?”

The sister nodded curtly. “Fine. She’ll be there.” She gave Carmen’s arm a little shake. “Won’t you?”

Carmen’s head bobbed in a semblance of a nod.

“Okay,” Violet said, feeling utterly inadequate. This wasn’t a partnership; it was a custodial handoff.

The sister started to lead Carmen away again, but Carmen resisted for a second, her glassy eyes locking onto Violet’s. “It’s insane,” she mumbled, the words slurred.

“What is?”

“This.” Carmen gestured vaguely at her own body, then at Violet’s, then at the butter stick still in Violet’s hand. “Eating just that. For two weeks. When we already…” She trailed off, as if the sentence required too much energy to finish.

“It’s for a grade,” Violet said weakly, repeating Albright’s logic back to herself as much as to Carmen.

“It’s insane,” Carmen repeated, with more conviction this time. A flicker of something—anger, or maybe just profound exhaustion—passed over her face. Then it was gone, smoothed back into blankness by whatever internal machinery kept her going. Her sister pulled her gently but firmly toward the stairs, and this time Carmen went without further protest.

Violet stood alone in the hallway, students flowing around her like water around a boulder. Insane. The word echoed. It was insane. Subsisting on butter was probably dangerous, definitely disgusting. But Dr. Albright had framed it as science. And her grade depended on it.

More importantly, Hannah and Jecka would find out about it. They monitored her class schedule, her syllabi. An official university project that mandated consuming vast quantities of a pure fat? They wouldn’t see it as insane. They would see it as a gift from the academic gods.

The cold knot in her stomach tightened. She had a very bad feeling about this.

The walk back to Chi Omega felt longer than usual, each step weighed down by the new reality in her backpack. The butter wasn’t just a food item; it was a sentence. Fourteen days.

She let herself into the quiet house—most sisters were in class or at the library this time of day—and trudged up the stairs to her room. Her body protested each step, her knees aching, a familiar stitch forming in her side.

She pushed her door open.

Hannah was sitting in the desk chair, waiting for her. She wasn’t alone. Susan perched on the edge of the neatly made bed, swinging her legs like an eager child. And on Violet’s desk sat a platter. A large, white ceramic platter, upon which were arranged at least two dozen sticks of butter, neatly lined up like soldiers on parade. They were unwrapped, their pale yellow surfaces gleaming softly under the overhead light.

Violet stopped in the doorway, her backpack slipping from her shoulder to thump on the floor.

“There you are!” Hannah said, smiling warmly. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. “We were just talking about you.”

Susan hopped off the bed. “We got the most interesting email!”

Hannah nodded, her expression one of pleasant efficiency. “From a Dr. Albright? In the Food and Nutrition department? He sent very detailed instructions to the heads of all relevant student organizations regarding a special project.” Her smile widened. “He was very thorough. He included your official assignment sheet, your partner’s information, and even some… supplemental suggestions for optimal project compliance.”

She picked up a printed email from the desk, holding it delicately between two fingers as if it were a precious document. “He understands that students in… specialized living situations… might require additional support to meet the project’s rigorous parameters. He was kind enough to copy your sorority leadership so we could provide that support.”

Violet’s mouth was dry. “Supplemental suggestions?”

“Oh, just ideas for how to ensure you hit that eighty percent calorie threshold from your assigned food source,” Susan chirped. “He mentioned things like incorporating it into every meal, using it as a dip or a spread, even consuming it in its pure form if necessary.” She looked at the platter of butter with genuine delight. “Isn’t it perfect? It’s like this class was made for you!”

Hannah walked over and placed a gentle hand on Violet’s arm. “We’re so proud of you for taking on such a challenging academic project, Violet. It shows real dedication. And of course, we’re here to help you excel.”

The word excel hung in the air, heavy with double meaning.

“It starts today,” Hannah continued, guiding Violet toward the desk chair she had just vacated. “The project clock is ticking. Dr. Albright was very clear—immediate commencement is key for accurate data.”

Violet sank into the chair, its wooden frame creaking under her weight. She stared at the platter of butter sticks. They looked obscene.

“We thought we’d start simple,” Susan said, bustling over to the platter. She picked up two sticks and carried them over to the small microwave they kept in Violet’s room for “nutritional emergencies.” She put them on a plate and set the timer.

The hum of the microwave filled the room. Thirty seconds later, Susan removed the plate. The butter had softened into two golden pools, shimmering slightly.

Hannah pulled another chair close to Violet and sat down, taking one of the melted butter plates from Susan. She picked up a teaspoon from a set laid out neatly beside the platter.

“Open up, sweetie,” Hannah said, her voice still soft, still motherly.

This wasn’t a request. It was the beginning of a new protocol.

Violet opened her mouth. The spoon slid in, depositing a half-teaspoon of pure, liquefied butter onto her tongue.

The taste was overwhelming—creamy, salty, rich beyond belief. It coated her mouth instantly, a thick film that made her want to gag. She swallowed reflexively, and a warm, oily trail slid down her throat.

“Good girl,” Hannah murmured, already scooping another spoonful.

Susan, meanwhile, had taken several crackers from a box on the desk—plain saltines—and was dunking them directly into the second pool of melted butter until they were sodden and dripping. “Here,” she said, holding one out to Violet. “Try it this way! It’s like a canapé!”

Violet took the cracker, her fingers greasy. She bit into it. The cracker dissolved into a paste of salt and saturated fat, sticking to the roof of her mouth. She chewed mechanically, swallowing another wave of grease.

Hannah fed her another spoonful. Then another. The process had a grim, ritualistic rhythm. Spoonful of pure butter. Butter-soaked cracker. Spoonful. Cracker. No water offered. No break.

The initial shock of taste faded into a numb acceptance, overtaken by the sheer physical sensation of it. Her stomach, already perpetually full, began to register this new influx not as food but as an invasion— a dense, oily mass settling into whatever crevices remained. A heavy warmth spread through her core, different from the bloat of carbs or protein. This was deeper, more insidious.

“See?” Susan said brightly, watching Violet consume another dripping cracker. “It’s not so bad! And think of the data! Dr. Albright will be so impressed with your commitment.”

Hannah nodded, dipping the spoon again. “We’ll make sure your logs are perfect. Every ounce documented. Every symptom recorded.” She brought the spoon to Violet’s lips. “This is just the baseline administration. We’ll need to calculate your maintenance caloric intake from butter alone, then add your project surplus on top of your regular feeding schedule. To ensure robust results.”

Violet swallowed another spoonful, the grease now leaving a permanent slick on her lips and chin. Her mind, foggy as it was, managed one clear thought: Regular feeding schedule. This wasn’t replacing her normal stuffings. This was in addition to them. The project required eighty percent of calories from butter. Hannah and Susan, interpreting Albright’s “supplemental suggestions,” would make sure it was one hundred percent of everything else too.

The spoon came again. The cracker followed. The platter on the desk seemed to hold an infinite supply. Two dozen sticks was just the beginning, she realized. It was a statement of intent. A declaration of what the next fourteen days would be.

She ate. Because what else was there to do? The butter coated her tongue, her throat, her stomach lining. It was no longer just an assignment. It was the new reality, and it tasted like salted fat and absolute compliance.

The library’s second floor was supposed to be the quiet floor, but the silence felt oppressive to Violet as she waddled past rows of study carrels. She was ten minutes late. Every movement required more effort than it had two days ago, as if her joints were slowly fusing together. A deep, persistent ache had taken up residence in her gut, a constant companion to the heavy fullness that never left.

She found Carmen at a table in a secluded corner, far from the windows. The Phi Kappa sister was there too, standing a few feet away like a guard, scrolling through her phone. Carmen looked worse. The stains on her sweatshirt were new—a greasy, translucent patch over her stomach. Her face was puffy, her eyes reduced to slits in swollen flesh.

Violet lowered herself into the chair opposite, the wood groaning in protest. She pulled out her project notebook, a cheap spiral-bound thing Hannah had bought for her. The first few pages were filled with Hannah’s neat, looping handwriting, not Violet’s. Day 1: Baseline consumption – 12 tbsp pure butter, plus butter-integrated crackers. Subject reports initial mouth-coating sensation, mild nausea. Violet hadn’t reported anything. Hannah had just observed and written it down.

“Hey,” Violet said softly.

Carmen looked up. Her gaze was a little clearer today, sharpened by misery. “Hey.”

The Phi Kappa sister didn’t look up from her phone.

“So,” Violet began, flipping to a blank page. “We’re supposed to compare symptoms.”

Carmen let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Okay. Symptom one: I feel like a giant, walking stick of butter.”

Violet nodded. That tracked. “Everything… aches. And I’m so tired. All the time.” It was more than the usual food-coma lethargy. This was a thick, woolly exhaustion that seeped into her bones.

“Sluggish,” Carmen agreed, her voice flat. “My brain is full of static. I tried to read the project guidelines yesterday. The words just… swam.” She shifted in her seat, a pained expression flickering across her face. “And the bloating. It’s not normal bloating. It’s like… I’m inflating from the inside. With something solid.”

Violet knew that feeling intimately. The butter didn’t digest so much as it congealed, forming a dense, waxy mass that sat in her stomach and intestines like a lead weight. The “butter belly,” as Susan had started cheerfully calling it, was distinct from her usual soft fat—it was harder, more pronounced, a solid shelf of flesh that pushed relentlessly outward.

“They’re feeding it to me in everything,” Carmen mumbled, looking down at her own hands, which were puffy and pale. “Melted into my oatmeal. Whipped into my shakes. They made butter-roasted potatoes last night. Ate a whole pan.” She said it like a confession of a crime.

“For me it’s spoonfuls,” Violet said. “Straight. And on crackers. And they started baking.” Hannah, in a fit of domestic enthusiasm, had produced butter-laden shortbread cookies and dense butter cakes that were more fat than flour. Eating them was like chewing sweetened wax.

They lapsed into silence, both staring at their notebooks. There wasn’t much else to say. The experiment was working exactly as Dr. Albright had predicted: their baseline conditions were being amplified. Their bodies, already pushed to extreme storage, were now being asked to process a substance that was pure storage itself.

“My skin feels weird,” Carmen offered after a moment. “Greasy. Even after a shower.”

Violet nodded again. She’d noticed that too—a persistent, slick film on her skin that soap couldn’t quite cut through. It was as if the butter was seeping out of her pores.

The Phi Kappa sister finally put her phone away. “Time’s up. We need to get back for your noon infusion.” She said ‘infusion’ the way a nurse might say ‘medication.’

Carmen pushed herself up from the table, a slow, grunting effort. She didn’t say goodbye, just turned and followed her sister toward the stairs, moving with the careful deliberation of someone carrying a fragile, overfilled vessel.

Violet sat for another minute, then slowly wrote in her notebook, in her own clumsy script: Met with partner C. Same symptoms: tired, bloated, brain fog, greasy skin. It looked pathetic on the page, a gross understatement of the reality curdling inside them both.

The days blurred into a greasy, yellow smear.

The regimen didn’t just intensify; it metastasized. Butter became the medium of every interaction. Hannah and Susan approached it with the zeal of chemists perfecting a formula.

The pure spoonfuls continued, a morning and evening ritual. But now they were supplemented by butter whipped with cream cheese and powdered sugar into a frosting-like paste, eaten by the bowlful. Butter melted into whole milk to make a rich, cloying drink they called “liquid gold.” Butter folded into mashed potatoes until they achieved a texture somewhere between food and mortar.

Baking became an obsession. Hannah’s kitchen experiments grew more elaborate: butter-drenched brioche, pie crusts made with nothing but flour and cold butter shavings, puff pastry that was essentially solidified fat in flaky layers. Each creation was presented to Violet with pride, as if it were a masterpiece of culinary art rather than a delivery system for the project’s required poison.

Multiple daily stuffings were no longer about volume alone, but about form. The 2 p.m. session might be dedicated to “whipped butter applications.” The 7 p.m. session focused on “butter-based baked goods absorption.” Jecka oversaw the “solid butter endurance trials,” where Violet had to suck on chilled butter sticks like lollipops until they melted in her mouth, a process that left her jaw aching and her tongue numb.

Violet moved through it all in a daze. The constant, heavy richness coated her thoughts as surely as it coated her insides. Her world shrank to the next spoonful, the next greasy pastry, the next entry in the log that Hannah maintained with terrifying diligence. Her body changed in subtle, horrifying ways. Her skin took on a sallow, waxy hue. Her breath smelled faintly of rancid dairy no matter how many times she brushed her teeth. A new kind of fat seemed to be accumulating—less soft and jiggly, more dense and solid, padding her torso and limbs with a heavy, inert layer.

She stopped looking in mirrors.

The final project meeting was held in the same library corner on the thirteenth day. Violet almost didn’t make it. Getting dressed had been a fifteen-minute ordeal of heaving and straining against fabric that seemed to shrink hourly. Walking to the library felt like wading through setting concrete.

Carmen was already there, but her Phi Kappa guard was absent. She sat perfectly still, her hands flat on the table. She looked… swollen. Not just fat, but inflamed, as if her body was reacting to the butter as a toxin. Her fingers were like sausages, the skin taut and shiny. Her neck had all but disappeared into the rounded bulk of her shoulders and chin.

Violet collapsed into her chair, the breath leaving her in a wheeze. Just sitting up straight required effort; her lungs felt compressed by the solid mass of her butter-augmented gut.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them felt thick.

“I can’t breathe right,” Carmen said finally, her voice a thin rasp. “Not since yesterday. Like there’s a weight on my chest.”

Violet nodded, swallowing with difficulty. Her own heart had developed a disconcerting habit of skipping beats or pounding suddenly for no reason, a frantic flutter against her ribs that left her lightheaded. “Heart… palpitations,” she managed to say.

“Everything sweats,” Carmen whispered, looking at her own arms. “But it’s not sweat-sweat. It’s greasy.” She rubbed a puffy hand over her forehead and showed Violet the faint sheen left on her palm.

Violet knew. Her own sheets were stained with it—a yellowish grease mark that no amount of washing seemed to fully remove. She perpetually felt unwashed, slick with her own internal seepage.

They looked at each other across the table, two monuments to nutritional extremism. The data points were all there: shortness of breath, cardiac arrhythmia, cutaneous lipid excretion, severe edema, cognitive impairment. They could have written a textbook chapter on the effects of a hyper-lipidic mono-diet on morbidly obese subjects.

Instead, Violet opened her notebook to the final log page Hannah had prepared. Day 13: Subject demonstrates significant thoracic pressure impacting respiration. Heart rate irregular upon minor exertion. Persistent cutaneous oil secretion noted. Abdominal distension pronounced (+4 inches from baseline). Mental acuity: low. Partner reports congruent symptoms.

It was all so cleanly clinical. It erased the feeling of drowning in one’s own fat, the terror of a heart stuttering in your chest, the profound shame of smelling like a used deep fryer.

“Tomorrow’s the last day,” Carmen said, not with hope, but with a kind of numb finality.

“Yeah,” Violet breathed.

They didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to compare. They were living the same experiment, dying the same slow, greasy death by academic requirement. Carmen gathered her things— just a pen and the notebook— and stood. She didn’t say goodbye this time either. She just walked away, her body swaying with each labored step, a ship listing in a calm sea of fat.

On the morning of the fourteenth day, consciousness returned to Violet as a dull throb behind her eyes and a profound heaviness in every cell. She hadn’t so much slept as passed out after the previous night’s “final pre-project weigh-in feast,” which had featured butter-poached steak and butter-glossed vegetables followed by a buttercream pie so rich it made her teeth ache in memory.

The door to her room flew open before she could even attempt to move.

Hannah stood there, backlit by the hallway light. She wasn’t smiling her usual gentle smile. Her expression was one of brisk, determined purpose. She wore a crisp blouse and jeans, her hair perfectly styled.

“Up,” Hannah said, her voice leaving no room for debate. “It’s finale day.”

Violet groaned, trying to roll onto her side—the first step in the long process of getting vertical. Her body resisted, sluggish and uncooperative. The butter bloat was at its peak; she felt like a waterbed filled with wet sand.

“Now, Violet,” Hannah said, stepping into the room. She grabbed Violet’s wrist—her grip was surprisingly strong—and pulled.

It was undignified and brutal. Violet flailed, her legs tangled in the greasy sheets. Hannah pulled harder, using her own body weight as leverage until Violet half-rolled, half-fell out of bed and onto the floor with a soft thump that shook the room.

Violet lay there for a second on the stained carpet, winded, staring up at Hannah’s impassive face. “We don’t have time for this,” Hannah said, not unkindly, as if stating a simple fact. “Everyone is waiting. Come on.” She bent down, hooked her hands under Violet’s arms, and began hauling her upward with a grunt of effort.

Violet scrambled to get her feet under her, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Hannah didn’t let go until she was mostly upright, then kept a firm hand on Violet’s back, propelling her toward the door. “You can do this,” Hannah murmured, her tone shifting back to encouragement as they navigated the hallway. “It’s a big day. A celebration. Just get downstairs.”

Violet stumbled forward, each step an act of will. Her mind was still fogged with sleep and saturated fat. Celebration? Finale? The project ended today, sure, but that just meant she could stop eating pure butter. It didn’t mean anything else would change.

Hannah guided her firmly toward the staircase. The sounds from below were unusual— a low hum of many voices, the clatter of preparation. It sounded like… a party. But it was ten in the morning.

At the top of the stairs, Violet paused, peering down into the main common room. What she saw made the thick blood in her veins run cold for just a second before settling back into its heavy, greasy flow. The room wasn’t just full of Chi Omega sisters. It was packed. And among them, wearing their own sorority letters, were strangers. Phi Kappa girls. Dozens of them. All waiting. And in the center of it all, looking pale and resigned in an armchair that seemed to swallow her whole, was Carmen

The sight of the packed room, a sea of expectant faces from two rival sororities, momentarily cleared the fog from Violet’s brain. This wasn’t just a project conclusion. This was an event.

Hannah’s hand on her back pressed insistently, guiding her down the stairs. Each step sent a jolt through Violet’s overstuffed frame. The chatter died down as she descended, all eyes turning to her. She saw Susan near the front, beaming and waving a small Chi Omega flag. She saw Jecka standing with her arms crossed, a look of intense scrutiny on her face. And she saw the Phi Kappa contingent, their expressions a mix of clinical assessment and competitive glee.

Carmen sat in a large, armless chair that had been dragged into the center of the room. She looked worse than she had in the library—waxen, almost translucent. Her eyes were closed. A Phi Kappa sister stood behind her chair, one hand resting on her shoulder, not in comfort but in possession.

Hannah steered Violet toward a second chair, positioned opposite Carmen’s with about ten feet of polished floor between them. The chair was identical—wide, sturdy, without arms. In front of each chair was a small table. On Carmen’s table sat a tall, wobbling stack of unwrapped butter sticks, a yellow tower that gleamed under the overhead lights.

On Violet’s table sat a platter. Not just a platter—a serving tray, the kind used for banquet roasts. And it was piled high, no, mounded with butter sticks. Hundreds of them, maybe. They were stacked in a rough pyramid that reached nearly two feet high, a monument to saturated fat. The sheer volume was absurd, terrifying.

Hannah released Violet once she was positioned beside the chair. She then moved to stand between the two Pig Girls, facing the assembled crowd. She clasped her hands together, her smile widening into a hostess’s grin.

“Sisters!” Hannah called out, her voice projecting easily over the quiet room. “And our honored guests from Phi Kappa! Welcome!”

A polite ripple of applause and murmurs answered her.

“As you know,” Hannah continued, “our Violet has been engaged in a rigorous academic project for her Food and Nutrition class—a deep dive into the effects of a mono-diet.” She gestured gracefully toward the mountain of butter. “For two weeks, she has dedicated herself to this scientific inquiry with incredible discipline.”

More applause, louder this time. The Phi Kappa girls nodded approvingly.

“We at Chi Omega believe in supporting our sisters’ academic pursuits to the fullest,” Hannah said, her tone taking on a proud, slightly competitive edge. “And when we learned that our friends at Phi Kappa had a sister engaged in the same project…” She gestured toward Carmen, who didn’t open her eyes. “…we knew we had an opportunity. Not just for academic support, but for sisterhood.”

Jecka’s smirk was visible from across the room.

“So we reached out,” Hannah announced, spreading her arms wide as if embracing both sororities. “And together, we’ve planned a special event to mark the conclusion of this challenging chapter. A celebration of dedication! A testament to what our girls can achieve!”

She paused for effect. The room was utterly silent now, charged with anticipation.

“Today,” Hannah declared, her voice ringing out, “we are partnering with Phi Kappa for a special duel Pig Girl butter stuffing finale!”

The room erupted. Cheers, whistles, applause. Chi Omega and Phi Kappa girls were clapping each other on the back, grinning. It was a party atmosphere, suddenly and completely.

Violet stared at Hannah, then at the butter mountain, then at Carmen. A duel? A finale? This wasn’t in the project parameters. This wasn’t science. This was a spectacle.

“No,” Violet whispered, the word barely audible even to herself.

Hannah either didn’t hear or chose to ignore it. She turned to Violet, her eyes bright. “Take your seat, sweetie. It’s time to show everyone what you’ve learned.”

A hand clamped on Violet’s arm—not Hannah’s this time. It was Jecka. “You heard her,” Jecka said lowly, her fingers digging in. “Sit.”

Violet tried to pull back, a weak instinctive resistance. “I can’t… I’ve done the project… it’s over…”

“The project is over when we say it’s over,” Jecka hissed, yanking her toward the chair. “This is the grand finale. Now sit the fuck down before you embarrass us.”

The physical pull combined with the threat was enough. Violet’s legs buckled, and she half-fell into the wide chair. It felt less like sitting and more like being deposited. Her bulk settled into it with a finality that felt like a sentence.

Across from her, Carmen had opened her eyes. She looked at Violet, and in that flat gaze Violet saw no surprise, no protest—just a deep, weary recognition. A Phi Kappa sister—the same sharp-faced one from the library—leaned down and whispered something in Carmen’s ear. Carmen gave a tiny nod. Then, moving with a slow, robotic precision that was somehow more horrifying than any struggle, she reached out a puffy hand, picked up a stick of butter from the top of her stack, and put it in her mouth.

She didn’t chew. She just let it sit on her tongue for a second before swallowing with a visible effort of her throat muscles. The butter stick slid down. It was a practiced motion. She immediately reached for another.

The Phi Kappa girls cheered.

“Look at that form!” one of them called out admiringly.

“See?” Hannah said brightly to Violet, as if Carmen were demonstrating a perfect golf swing. “That’s the spirit!”

Jecka stepped in front of Violet’s butter mountain, blocking her view of Carmen. She picked up two sticks of butter in one hand. “Your turn,” she said, no trace of ceremony in her voice. This was a job to be done.

Violet shook her head minutely, her mouth clamped shut.

Jecka’s expression didn’t change. She brought one of the butter sticks to Violet’s lips and pushed it against them. The cold, waxy surface was repellent. “Open.” Violet kept her lips sealed, her heart beginning to hammer against the solid wall of her chest. She could hear the crowd’s murmurs shifting, the supportive cheers turning curious, then impatient.

Jecka leaned in close, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper only Violet could hear. “Open your mouth, you fat bitch, or I will break your teeth and shove it down your throat. Your choice.” The casual brutality of it, delivered without heat, was more convincing than any shout.

Violet’s jaw trembled. She opened her mouth a fraction. Jecka didn’t wait. She shoved the stick in, pushing it past Violet’s teeth until it hit the back of her tongue. The taste, so familiar now, flooded her senses— salty, creamy, oppressive.

“Swallow,” Jecka commanded.

And Violet did. Weeks of conditioning had done their work. Her throat, accustomed to swallowing masses of congealed fat, performed the action almost without her conscious command. The solid stick was an odd shape, but it went down with a thick, oily slide that left a burning trail in its wake. It was easier than it should have been. That was the most horrifying part.

A cheer went up from the Chi Omega side. “That’s our girl!” Susan squealed.

Jecka didn’t pause for applause. She picked up another stick. And another. She developed a rhythm: grab, shove to lips, wait for the tiny involuntary opening, push in deep, command swallow. Violet became a machine on the other end of the process. Open. Accept. Swallow. The cold sticks hit her stomach one after another, joining the dense, semi-solid mass already there.

At first, it was just that— a mechanical process. The butter slid down easily, aided by the constant greasy coating that now lined her entire digestive tract. It was gross, it was demeaning, but it was physically manageable in a way that raw pancake batter or keg beer had never been. Her body had been prepped for this. Optimized.

Jecka increased the pace. One stick every thirty seconds. Then twenty. Violet’s swallows became slower, more labored. The easy slide was gone; now each new addition had to push its way down into an already packed space. A deep, uncomfortable pressure began to build behind her sternum, a feeling of solid occupation that left little room for anything else, including air.

She lost track of how many sticks she’d eaten. Five? Ten? The pyramid on her platter seemed undiminished. Across the way, Carmen continued her slow, steady consumption, her face blank, her movements automatic. The room was a roar of competing cheers— chants of “Chi O!” alternating with chants of “Phi Kap!” It was a sporting event. A gladiatorial match with dairy products.

Jecka shoved another stick in. This time, Violet gagged. A violent, involuntary contraction of her throat muscles that sent half-melted butter back into her mouth. She choked, sputtering, yellowish drool leaking from the corners of her lips.

The crowd gasped, then laughed—a nervous, excited sound.

Jecka wiped Violet’s chin roughly with the back of her hand. “None of that,” she snapped. “You’re not done.” She picked up another stick. “Open.”

Violet shook her head, a tiny, desperate movement. Her mouth was a tight, greasy line. She couldn’t. The pressure inside her was no longer just discomfort; it was a warning. A solid, expanding mass that threatened to split her open. She felt each new stick like a brick added to a wall being built behind her ribs.

Jecka’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t argue. She didn’t threaten again. She simply reached out with her free hand, pinched Violet’s nose shut between her thumb and forefinger, and held it.

The world shrank to the immediate, animal need for air. Violet’s eyes widened. She tried to twist her head away, but Jecka’s grip on her nose was iron. Her lungs, already compressed, began to burn. Spots danced at the edges of her vision. The roar of the crowd faded into a distant buzz.

Her body overrode her mind. Survival instinct trumped disgust, fear, even pain. Her jaw went slack as she gasped, a ragged, desperate inhalation.

Jecka was ready. The moment Violet’s lips parted, she shoved the butter stick in, deep, then immediately grabbed another from the platter and pushed it in after the first, like loading a double-barreled shotgun.

Violet choked, her throat working convulsively around the double load. She had to swallow. She had to clear the obstruction to breathe. Her body did it for her, a painful, convulsive gulp that forced the two sticks down in a single, agonizing passage. The air that followed was thin and unsatisfying, tasting of salt and fat.

Jecka released her nose. “Better,” she said flatly, already selecting two more sticks.

The tactic had worked perfectly. Every time Violet hesitated, every time her mouth remained closed for a second too long, Jecka’s fingers would dart to her nose. The cycle repeated: suffocation panic, gasp, insertion, forced swallow. It stripped the act of any last pretense of participation. Violet was no longer a subject or even a victim; she was a biological airlock, forced open and closed to admit cargo.

Across the room, Carmen’s method hadn’t changed. She still ate slowly, mechanically, but her face had gone from pale to a sickly gray-green. A low, continuous moan was starting to escape her with each swallow. Her Phi Kappa handler just patted her shoulder and murmured encouragement, feeding her sticks one by one with the patience of an assembly line worker.

Violet lost all sense of time. The platter in front of her slowly diminished from a pyramid to a hill, then to a scattered collection. Her body was changing under the onslaught. The dense, solid bloat from the past two weeks was being supercharged, inflated to a new extreme. Her stomach, already a hard shelf, began to push outward against the fabric of her dress with such force that the seams creaked. The feeling wasn’t just fullness; it was structural failure. Her skin stretched taut over the expanding mass, shiny and hot to the touch.

She could feel individual sticks now, solid lumps moving through a digestive tract that had long since ceased normal function. Her intestines emitted a symphony of wet groans and deep, ominous gurgles—the sound of machinery grinding itself to pieces under an impossible load.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Jecka picked up the last stick from Violet’s platter. She held it up for the crowd to see, eliciting a final roar of approval, then shoved it into Violet’s waiting mouth—Violet didn’t even try to resist anymore—and watched as she swallowed it with a dead-eyed stare.

It was done.

Jecka stepped back, wiping her buttery hands on a towel a sister handed her. She looked at Violet with something approaching professional satisfaction.

Violet couldn’t move. She was pinned in the chair by the sheer weight and volume of herself. Any attempt to shift sent waves of nausea and piercing internal pressure through her core. She could only sit there, breathing in shallow, panting gasps that did little to fill her compressed lungs. A sheen of greasy sweat covered every inch of her exposed skin, mixing with butter residue to form a slick, shiny coating. Her dress was soaked through with it.

She looked over at Carmen. The Phi Kappa girl had also finished her stack. She was slumped in her chair, eyes closed, tears cutting clean tracks through the grease on her cheeks. Her stomach was a monstrous, distended dome that seemed to rest on her own thighs. She wasn’t moaning anymore; she was just breathing in tiny, whistling hitches.

Both girls were immobilized monuments to consumption. Their bodies were grotesquely swollen beyond their already immense size, distorted by the sheer density of what they’d ingested. The room echoed with the sounds coming from them—a cacophony of groans, gurgles, creaks, and wet bubbles shifting under immense pressure. It was the audible proof of the experiment’s success.

The crowd didn’t disperse. They milled around, chatting excitedly, taking pictures with their phones pointed discreetly (and not so discreetly) at the two incapacitated Pig Girls. The duel was over. The spectacle was complete.

The next day was a haze of pain and profound physical misery. Getting the project report submitted was an ordeal that involved Hannah half-carrying Violet to the library computer lab, guiding her limp hands on the keyboard to type in the final weight measurement.

The numbers were stark on the screen. Starting Weight (Day 1 of Project): 410 lbs. Final Weight (Day 14): 427 lbs.

Seventeen pounds in fourteen days. From butter.

Hannah had filled in all the other data—the symptoms logs, the partner comparisons, the analysis. Violet’s own contribution was just the final number and a one-sentence conclusion that Hannah dictated to her: “The mono-diet of butter resulted in significant mass accumulation and pronounced physiological stress indicators.”

Violet clicked ‘submit.’ The screen refreshed with a confirmation message. Dr. Albright would be pleased with the robust dataset, she supposed. She wondered what Carmen’s final weight gain had been.

Hannah helped her back to the house, where the main common room had been restored to order—mostly. There was still a faint, greasy smell in the air, and one of the chairs had a noticeable dark stain on the seat.

But the party atmosphere from the previous day hadn’t fully dissipated. As evening fell, Hannah, Jecka, and several of the Phi Kappa sisters who had stayed over decided to host an impromptu “completion celebration.” They ordered pizzas—extra cheese, obviously—and brought out bottles of wine and soda.

They laughed and talked loudly in the center of the room, reliving highlights from the “duel.” Hannah praised Violet’s “endurance.” A Phi Kappa girl complimented Carmen’s “consistent form.” Jecka held court, describing the nose-pinching maneuver with clinical pride as a “necessary technique for overcoming subject resistance.”

Violet and Carmen were there too, of course. They hadn’t been moved far. They lay on opposite sides of the room on large pallets of cushions and blankets that had been arranged on the floor—makeshift recovery zones. Neither could sit up properly. They were propped at slight angles, their massive bodies spilling over the edges of their padding.

They were part of the party decor. Living trophies. Proof of concept.

Violet could only lie there, listening to the laughter, smelling pizza that made her gorge rise, feeling every shift and gurgle of the seventeen pounds of butter that were now permanently part of her. Her body throbbed with a deep, systemic ache. Her mind was a numb, greasy void.

Across the room, Carmen stared at the ceiling, unblinking. A single tear welled in the corner of her eye, tracked slowly through the grease on her temple, and disappeared into her hairline.

The party swirled around them, a celebration of successful completion. Of science. Of sisterhood. Of butter. And at its center, immobilized and silently screaming inside their own swollen flesh, lay the two experiments themselves, their contribution finished, their data submitted, their purpose served.