FAT FICTION | Chapter 1 - The Inheritance (Patreon)

Paul still wasn’t sure why he’d bothered coming in person.

The letter, real paper, not email, had arrived a month ago. Some distant great-uncle he’d never met had died, leaving him “the entirety of his literary estate.” Which turned out to be… a dusty old bookstore in some coastal town he’d never heard of, three hours from the city.

Great. Another relic from the weird side of the family, Paul had thought, opening maps to find out where exactly arse-end-on-sea was.

A week later, here he was, driving out of the city in his battered old Volvo, ancient bookstore keys still jangling in the glovebox, His girlfriend, Mia’s voice echoing in his head:
"You’re really going? For a bookstore? You hate bookstores."

"I don’t hate them," he’d told her. "It’s an asset. Could be worth something."

That, at least, was true. The lawyer had hinted at a tidy sum left in an account, and Paul was currently between gigs, with city rent to pay, and Mia had been on edge lately about their future.

Fresh air will do me good, he’d told himself, as if that explained anything.

The shop sat on a crooked side street, squeezed between a tea house and a boarded-up antiques shop. The sign above the door read simply:

HUTTON’S BOOKS

The windows were grimy. The lock stuck on the first try. When Paul finally shoved the door open, a heavy wave of dust and loose paper hit him.

It smelled... old. Ink and parchment, sure. But something else, too, a faint sweetness, like burnt sugar.

He flicked on the lights. Only half of them worked. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, overstuffed and leaning. The counter sagged under an ancient register and a beige computer that looked about as old as Paul himself.

"Christ," he muttered. "The man was a hoarder."

Still, it wasn’t terrible. There was potential, with a lot of elbow grease.

Maybe he could make something of this place. Maybe this was the fresh start he, and Mia needed. 

Paul looked back at the dusty shelves in the back the working lights couldn’t reach. 

Maybe he kept antique books? Rare books? He’d read somewhere about a rare book going for millions. 

He had just crossed the creaky floor to the back shelves when the bell above the door jingled. A real old-fashioned chime. He turned and blinked towards the daylight that had flooded the doorway.

A silhouette softened as Paul’s eyes grew accustomed to the light, into a bald man in his late fifties who stood in the entrance, dressed in a worn leather jacket, eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. He looked... expectant.

“Didn’t think you’d ever open again,” the man said, grinning. “Been waiting months to collect my order.”

Paul blinked again. “I… sorry. I only got the keys today. Haven’t had time to, uh, take stock.”

The man chuckled. “You’re Hutton’s nephew, I take it?”

Paul nodded.

“Well,” the man said, stepping inside, “congratulations!” 

“Erm…” Paul looked around the shonky bookshop, the endless repairs and cleaning before him.. “...thanks?”

The man chuckled. “Did your uncle never tell you? You’ll soon see. This here’s the finest second-hand shop for old-time FA stories in the country.” He knocked proudly on the counter, twice. “Been coming here twenty years.”

“Really?” Paul frowned. “... what exactly are FA stories?”

The man laughed outright this time. “Fat Admirer fiction, son. The real deal. None of your watered-down crap.”

Paul stared, then shook his head to refocus. He glanced at the shelves. The ones up front looked normal; old sci-fi, mysteries, classics.

He looked toward the back again… and squinted.
Voluptua’s Desires.
The Fattening of Lady Blake.
A Hearty Appetite: A BBW Romance Anthology.

Dirty old bastard, Paul thought, amused despite himself.
Turns out his uncle had been a fat loving weirdo, with a book collection authored by literary fat loving weirdos to boot. 

He felt a sting of shame thinking that. He wasn’t one to usually judge. So much of his foreseeable future now rested on this venture, he was a little perplexed was all.
“What kind of… stories does an FA book contain?” he asked, trying not to sound sheepish.
“All sorts!’ scoffed the middle-aged man. 

“Fat fantasies, weight gain, magic, alternate realities. It’s a treasure trove if you like that sort of thing.” The man shuffled and checked his watch, aware he’d offered up a little too much of his own private tastes.

“Dickens,” he said. “You should have a package for Mr D. Dickens.’ 

Paul spotted a couple of book shaped packages sitting under the counter. He reached for them and found the top one addressed to Mr D Dickens.
Paul smiled and passed the book over. “Thank you for your years of custom.” Gotta keep the customers coming.
Mr Dickens accepted the book and pulled out his wallet, but Paul waved the gesture away.
“Twenty years is a long time. Let’s call this one a gift.” 

Mr Dickens looked supremely pleased. “You’re a lot like him, your uncle.”
Paul shrugged and sighed “I never knew him. Never even met him. I certainly didn’t know he was into… this stuff.” 

Mr Dickens looked him over and sized him up. 

“It didn’t start out that way for him. He bought this place from a guy who was running it for years before him. He had ideas about turning it into a bar. But things… change.” 

With that, he turned and was gone.

Paul was left standing alone in the bookstore. “Thanks a lot, Confucius.” He muttered to himself. 

So, I inherited a dirty bookstore. So much for moving up in the world. But hey, if the old man saw a bar, maybe I could too?

He pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket and used the torch to get a better look at some of the titles. 

 A Burgeoning Romance.
The Fattened Wives of Devon Springs.
When Wishes Really Do Come True.
He was about to reach for one, but hesitated. If Great-Uncle Hutton had been converted to the church of chubby-chasing, maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to get high on my own supply.
The thought was kinda ridiculous anyway. From his earliest sexual awakenings, Paul had been smitten with the manic pixie dream girl type. Whether it was watching Zooey Deschanel in New Girl or Mary Elizabeth Winstead as Romona Flowers…boy, he certainly had a type.
His girlfriend, Mia, fit into that category perfectly, although thankfully, not in personality. She was kind, thoughtful, with dark brown hair and all of 110lbs. She was short, sexy and cute as hell. 

A far cry from the fictional characters Paul thought might inhabit his great-uncle’s bookshelves. Still… if this stuff sold… and with a tidy inheritance attached… maybe there was no need to build a bar…

His phone pinged. It was a message from Mia:

“Well? What’s it like then? Xxx” 

He typed a response.

“Remember The Time Machine? When all the books turn to dust in his hands?” 

“LOL! Seriously?”

“It’s not that bad.”

Something about the collection of books was making him horny.

“… you coming over later? X” 

He was soooo bad at seduction. 

“You want me too?” 

Mia wasn’t great either. 

“Pizza night?” he suggested.”I’ll be back by 9 xxx”

“Yum! See you then! Mxx”

He tucked his phone back in his jeans. “OK Paul, time to hustle.” 

Paul powered on the computer with a wheeze of ancient fans. Windows 95.  No surprise.

The inbox pinged to life. Over five hundred unread emails. Mostly orders.

“Jesus…”

As he scrolled through order after order, counting the money in his head, one subject line caught his eye:

DEAR FRIEND

Curious, Paul clicked.

The message was simple.
“Henry, I am still awaiting a response old man! Have you received my package? A book of magical short stories. Bought the thing in the darkest corner of a flea market. The bookseller (a rather witchy-looking old woman) told me her grandfather recovered it from an island in the Pacific. She says he swore it was a land where women had, by the rites printed on page 3, transformed into beings of immense beauty and size, adored and fed by all around them. These goddesses told him, the book had been gifted to them by the God of Generosity.. Or possibly Gluttony! The translation isn’t clear. Marvellous tale nonetheless!”

Paul scoffed. The clientele of this place all sound very similar. I’m guessing most of the books go on like this too. 

Still…

He looked back down at the second package under the desk. This one was addressed to his uncle. He picked it up. There was a faint electrical tingle that passed from the wrapping paper to his hand. He gave it a moment’s thought, before shrugging it off. 

Bloody imagination. 

He tore the wrapper back to discover a leather-bound book. Carved into the front was a simple icon of a very well-rounded woman. 

So far… so kooky. 

He opened it up and it fell open on page 3. 

Four lines, written in a strange language, were handwritten in looping, slopping, text.  

He didn’t know or understand what was written. 

But the electric pulse had returned. He travelled from his sternum to his lips. Before Paul knew what he was hearing, his own voice spoke the words in a low and commanding tone. 

…

Then… nothing. 

Silence. As if it had never happened. He looked down at the 4 lines again.  Did I just say that? He thought.
It seemed so bizarre, he wondered if he had imagined it. 

He closed the book. The cover felt warm to the touch. As if he had been holding it tightly for some while. Something about the book appeared different now. It no longer looked like a rare or unique copy as it did when it had fallen out of the package. And although he couldn’t remember paying much attention to the title, that also now seemed different. 

Tales of a Growing Desire

It sounded awful to Paul.

Ok, enough of this for one day. 

No denying though, he was a little freaked out.
He powered down the computer, unplugged it carefully, and hefted it toward the door. He’d transfer the order list to his laptop at home. The rest of the bookshop could wait. He carried the computer to his car. It weighed a ton. When he placed it in the boot, he was completely unaware that he’d also picked up the book and jammed it between the top of the monitor and his chin. It now slid off and rested behind the computer, out of sight.

On the drive back, Paul felt strangely restless.

Maybe it was the air, or the bookshop’s weird sugary-smell still clinging to his clothes. Either way, he figured a stop for coffee wouldn’t hurt.

The sun was dipping low when he pulled into a roadside café and gas station. The first place he’d seen.

His phone chimed. It was Mia. 

“Can you pick up some Oat Milk… for breakfast? ;) xxx

Just the thought that she was staying over made his crotch stiffen. 

“Horny bastard,” he muttered to himself. 

If only he could find the words to tell her what he really wanted to do before breakfast.