The Harem on the Hill (Part IV)

“I’ll be right there.”

You grab the handcuffs and serpentine your way down numerous hallways, corridors and stairwells.  You had considered installing a central elevator when you first built your home, but thought better of it.  You figured traversing the roughly 20,000 square foot property would be good exercise.  Now that you have another floor to contend with, however, you’re beginning to regret your decision.    

Your heart races as you reach the basement—partly from exertion, but mostly in anticipation.  You twirl the cuffs on your finger.  You have additional failsafes in place if Tina makes a break for it, but you really hope it doesn’t come to that.

As you grasp the handle to Tina’s chamber, you hear a faint 'click' signaling the door is now unlocked.  You swing it open and step through.   Outside of a lack of windows, Tina's quarters look just like a typical studio apartment: comfy sofa, large flat-screen TV, the latest stereo equipment, and lots of mirrors…both traditional and two-way.   

You walk through the living area into the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen...but freeze in the doorway.  Tina is gone!

You glance back into the living room.  You were careful to shut the door behind you and there aren't many places she could hide.  (After a couple of months you expect there will be even fewer.)

You step tentatively into the kitchen.  That's when you spot a trail of garments leading away from the dining table.  Blouse.  Shorts.  Bra.  Underwear.  Each is staggered a few feet from the next leading into the bedroom.  (You'll have to remember to review the surveillance tape striptease later.)  

You follow the well-tailored trail into the bedroom--and find Tina lying in bed, her robe tied loosely across her hips and torso.

“I thought you’d never come.”

You let the handcuffs dangle in your hand.  Tina’s eyes widen, but offer no hint of anxiety.

“You planning to cuff me and stuff me?”

You nod. 

Tina runs her hands between the gaps in the lattice headboard.  Then she lowers her voice to approximate a growl.  “Feed me, Seymour!” 

It takes all the cuff’s teeth to clasp them around Tina’s tiny wrists.  She squirms, but doesn’t complain.

Marching back to the kitchen you head for the pantry.  Tina might have been alarmed had she opened that instead of the refrigerator.  It’s a monument to junk food, packed stem-to-stern with processed pastries, potato chips, donuts, and assorted candies.  While there’s fruit in the fridge, the healthiest items in the pantry are oatmeal cookies.

You grab a box of Twinkies from the shelf, hook your arm around a dining chair, and head back to the bedroom. 

Tina frowns as you plant the chair next to the bed. “Wouldn’t you rather be up here with me?”

You rattle the Twinkie box.  “After.”

Opening the box, you take out a Twinkie and delicately remove its cellophane wrapper as if unveiling a sculpture.  Tina opens her mouth expectantly, but instead of feeding her you set it on her chest, just out of reach of her lips.  Then you open another and place it behind the first.  And then another.  And another.  Until a line of Twinkies stretches from her chin to her crotch.   

“It looks like a choo-choo train,” Tina says.  The exaggerated tilt of her head forces a double-chin that belies her size—perhaps providing a glimpse into the future.

You nod, placing the final Twinkie into position.

“Am I the tunnel?”

You nod again.

Tina smiles and opens wide.

You make a “chugga-chugga” sound as you maneuver the first spongy treat up Tina’s chin, over her bottom lip, and into her gaping maw.  Surprisingly, you’re able to get the entire cake inside just as the 'tunnel' collapses gently around your fingers.  You let them linger on her lips for a moment, allowing Tina to suck them clean before retrieving the train’s next calorie-laden car.

This ritual repeats itself over and over—as one car completes its journey the next begins its ascent, reaching the summit just as the tunnel reopens, leaving no trace of the previous fat-filled freight.          

It soon becomes clear where it’s going, however.  The flatlands that marked the end of Tina's Twinkie train gradually becomes a hill, with the ‘caboose’ pointing upwards towards the crest of her abdomen and the adjacent car angling downward towards her torso.  You can’t help but wonder how much stuffing it would take for each to slide down their respective sides. 

“I’m done,” Tina says, licking a spot of cream from her lips.  She looks uncomfortable.  You’re not sure which is tighter--the pinch of her handcuffs or the tie of her robe across her waist.  Still, she manages a sly smile.  “Care to explore any other tunnels?”   

“Last two.”

Tina says nothing, but obligingly opens her mouth.  You make her wait, relishing the Twinkie’s journey down the fresh slope of her stomach, through the gentle valley between her pert protuberances, and finally up the rounded peak of her chin.         

After you weave the last Twinkie’s circuitous path to demise, Tina tilts her head back like a baby bird struggling to swallow regurgitated food from its mother…though you suspect it's regurgitation she's trying to avoid in this case.

“Oh, God,” Tina says, as she forces down the final bite.  “I’m going to get fat as fuck.”

What’s next?