The Beach House Mirror - Part 8 (Patreon)

Part 8: The Life She Never Lived

She woke herself up with a snort.

A real, congested, full-throated snore.

Sarah-Jane blinked, still sprawled across the sheets, naked and warm, her belly puddled over her waist and one arm thrown across her chest. She smacked her lips, scratched her big belly lazily.

"Did I just snore myself awake? That’s kinda embarrassing. Well, guess that’s what I get for having… no neck," she mumbled with a wry chuckle.

Everything jiggled as she sat up. Belly rolling in waves, breasts settling like overfilled water bags, thick thighs brushing and sticking from overnight sweat. Her skin flushed with warmth and satisfaction. She felt... solid. Heavy. Deliciously dirty.

Moving was harder, sure. She had to rock once, twice, three times before hauling herself upright. But the effort made the reward sweeter.  Her feet touched the ground, her belly swayed as she stood. She paused, ran her hands over her sides, and grinned.

Time to explore some more. 

She waddled toward the closet, every step punctuated by the shiff-shuff of thigh-on-thigh friction and the deep creak of floorboards. Her own heaviness punctuated by every groan of floor beneath her widened and pudgy feet. The dresser drawers barely opened. They were filled with clothes stuffed to bursting. She dug out a pair of high-waisted jeans and a tight floral top that looked at least two sizes too small.

Perfect.

Sliding them on was an ordeal. She had to bend, squish, huff. Her belly fought the waistband the whole way up, sloshing over it triumphantly when she finally buttoned the jeans. Her top hugged her breasts like shrink-wrap and clung to her belly, riding up every time she raised her arms. Every seam screamed. Why did she love this so much?

She looked like a woman barely contained. Fat overflowing. Proud.

In the kitchen, she found the fridge and cupboards overflowing too. Sliced meats, cheeses, pastries, leftover pasta, a cake already half-eaten. Clearly, this Sarah-Jane came to the beach house prepared. She didn’t count calories. She barely counted servings.

She made herself a heaping breakfast: a loaded bagel sandwich, three sausages, scrambled eggs with cheese, and a massive cinnamon roll for good measure. She sat down at the kitchen table and the chair creaked like it was soon to give up. She giggled through a mouthful of sausage.

Fork in one hand, cinnamon roll in the other, she lazily glanced toward the bookshelf.

That’s when she saw them.

Her name.Four times.Bold letters. Glossy covers.

She dropped her fork, stood up with a grunt, and waddled over, heart pounding. Her chair sighed in relief behind her.

She pulled them out. Four thick paperbacks. Crime thrillers with names like “Dead Weight”, “Blood & Honey”, “The Widow’s Confession”, and a romance called “Cravings.”

Every single one said Sarah-Jane MILLS in proud block type.

She flipped to the back of the first one… and froze.

The photo.

It was her. Triple chin, round cheeks, curly hair tucked back in a messy bun. Arms bare and plump. A big, self-assured smile. Unapologetically fat. 

Fat. And famous.

She nearly dropped the book. 

Have I always been fat here?

Her fingers fumbled for her phone. It unlocked to a photo of her on a beach, wearing a giant sunhat and an enormous plus-sized bikini. Her belly sprawled into her lap, her thighs like soft columns made to be worshipped.

Hundreds of photos, going back more than a decade.

Picnics, bookstore signings, Christmas cookies, food festivals, cozy café selfies. Always huge. Always smiling.

Her boyfriend wasn’t in any of them. He didn’t exist in this life with her. 

“I guess he was never into fat chicks,” she smirked, a little breathless, swiping through pictures of her expansive thighs stuffed into tiny dresses, smiling with a mouth full of cake.

She grinned.

“Guess I might be, though.”