Catwoman's Bloat (Patreon)

The moon, a bloated pearl, hung fat in the Gotham sky, casting long, skeletal shadows across the grimy brickwork outside Selina Kyle’s hideout. Inside, the only illumination came from the flickering blue light of a dusty television, painting her skin in ghostly hues. Two months. Two months since the last thrill, the last chase across rooftops, the last whispered taunt to a certain caped crusader. Two months of silence.

                Selina sat on the cold, hard floor, her legs splayed before her, knees tented mountains of flesh. Her fingers, still nimble despite the added weight, worried at the elastic band, a futile gesture against the relentless expansion of her form. A half-eaten pizza box lay discarded beside her, grease stains blossoming on the cardboard, a testament to her recent culinary habits. The air, thick and still, carried the faint, sweet-and-sour tang of stale takeout and unwashed skin.

                A sigh, heavy and mournful, escaped her lips, vibrating through the soft folds of her throat. Her gaze drifted to the reflection in the dark screen, a distorted image of a woman she barely recognized. The once sharp angles of her jawline had softened, blurred by layers of indulgence. Her famed, lean physique, a weapon in itself, had given way to a generous, almost monumental curvaceousness. Her ass, once a firm, athletic curve, now spread wide, anchoring her to the floor like a voluptuous anchor. Thighs, thick and powerful, met her calves in a seamless, impressive mass.

                A low rumble started deep within her gut, a familiar prelude. She shifted, trying to subtly reposition her weight, but it was no use. A soft, wet phhhht escaped her, a quiet protest from her overtaxed digestive system. The scent, warm and faintly sulfuric, bloomed around her, a private shame. Her eyes, usually sharp and calculating, brimmed with tears, blurring the already distorted image on the screen.

                "God, Selina," she whispered, her voice a raw, husky rasp. "What have you done?"

                Another rumble, louder this time, promised more. She clenched, then released, allowing the pressure to escape. Pffffffft. This one was bolder, longer, carrying a distinct aroma of garlic and processed cheese. The shame deepened, a hot flush spreading across her chest. She remembered, with a pang, the nights she’d danced on rooftops, a lithe shadow against the moon, her body a symphony of muscle and grace. Now, she felt like a forgotten monument, slowly succumbing to the elements.

                Her fingers traced the soft, downy hair that now covered her once-sleek ass, a wild, untamed growth that mirrored the neglect she’d shown herself. The hair between her legs, usually kept trimmed, had grown into a thick, dark jungle, a secret garden she hadn't tended in weeks. She imagined the coarse strands tickling her inner thighs, a constant reminder of her descent into sloth.

                "He wouldn't even recognize me," she mumbled, the words heavy with self-pity. "He'd just… stare. Or worse, he wouldn't even see me at all." The thought of Batman, stoic and unyielding, encountering this version of Catwoman sent a fresh wave of humiliation through her. She pictured his cowl-shrouded face, the unreadable intensity of his gaze, and shuddered. He was a creature of precision, of control. She was… a mess. A glorious, sprawling, farty mess.

                Another, more insistent gurgle erupted from her depths. She braced herself, her cheeks puffing out slightly as she exhaled. This one was a true behemoth, a guttural PRRRRRRRRRRRT that vibrated through the floorboards. The stench was immediate, potent, a pungent cloud of fermented carbohydrates and regret. She sniffed, a morbid curiosity overriding her disgust, and a fresh wave of tears stung her eyes. It smelled… powerful. Like a forgotten feast, decaying gracefully.

                Her gaze, red-rimmed and watery, drifted to the window, drawn by the luminous orb outside. The full moon. It was always there, a silent witness to her nocturnal escapades, her triumphs, her narrow escapes. Tonight, it seemed to mock her, its perfect, unblemished surface a stark contrast to her own bloated reality.

                "Remember when we used to chase each other across those rooftops?" she murmured, addressing the silent, accusing moon. "My heart pounding, not from exertion, but from… something else. Something electric." She closed her eyes, picturing the exhilarating dance, the near misses, the breathless whispers exchanged in the dead of night. "You'd catch my eye, just for a second. That glint. That flicker."

                She opened her eyes, the moonlight now a silvery stripe across her enormous thighs. Her toes, still delicate and perfectly formed, twitched. They were the only part of her that seemed to have escaped the bloat, a tiny beacon of her former self.

                "Now what?" she asked the moon, her voice cracking. "What's a cat burglar with a gut full of pizza and a perpetually gassy ass supposed to do?" A final, defiant blat escaped her, a surprisingly loud report that echoed in the quiet room. She leaned back against the wall, her massive frame settling with a soft thud. "You know, the funny thing is," she continued, a wry, self-deprecating smile twisting her lips, "I bet I could still outrun him. At least downhill. The momentum alone…" She chuckled, a shaky, tearful sound that quickly dissolved into a fresh wave of sobs. "No. No, I couldn't. I’d probably just roll." The thought, absurd and painfully accurate, sent a fresh ripple of despair through her. "Who would want this? This… mountain of woman? No one. Not even him. Especially not him."