LEWDS - Chain-toker Cat - 01 (Patreon)

Yaniko’s last cigarette butt had disappeared two days ago. The empty pack still lay somewhere under the mountain of takeout containers that buried her coffee table. Her filthy apartment reeked of old grease, spilled sauce, and the sweet, sticky scent of Yakuko’s weed. Empty pizza boxes formed soft walls around the couch. Crumpled bags of chips and half-eaten cakes littered every surface. She hadn’t bothered to clean in over a week. Why would she? Moving that much soft, heavy flesh was exhausting.

She was well past four hundred pounds now. Her body had become a soft, trembling landscape of pale fat—massive, dimpled thighs that spilled over the edges of the cushions, a belly so round and heavy it rested like a living thing across her lap and draped over her knees, tits swollen into thick, heavy pillows that sagged against the upper curve of her gut. Every breath made the entire mass of her quiver. She was lazy with it, gluttonous with it, and the knowledge made her throb.

The weed had been free. Yakuko had left the bag without asking for a single yen. That meant every coin Yaniko once spent on cigarettes now went straight into food. Mountains of it. Deliveries arrived twice a day—burgers, fried chicken, cakes, ice cream, entire bags of snacks—and she never left her tar-stained mattress to answer the door. She just shouted instructions through the open window and watched the delivery kid leave the bags on the dirty floor. Then she dragged them closer with one thick arm, the motion making her belly roll and her heavy thighs slap together.

She packed another bowl with trembling fingers, lit it, and drew the smoke deep. The high bloomed warm and slow. Instantly her stomach growled, a long, wet, demanding sound that vibrated through the thick padding of her gut. She answered it the only way she knew how—by stuffing her face. Greasy fingers pushed handfuls of fries and soft, sweet cake past her lips while the pipe rested against the soft upper swell of one breast. Sauce dripped down her chin and disappeared into the deep folds of her neck. Crumbs tumbled into her cleavage and vanished. She was feeding two addictions at once: the weed that made her ravenous, and the food that was turning her into this soft, enormous thing.

Her free hand slid between the heavy, sweating folds of her thighs. She was already soaked. Fingers sank into the soft heat of her loins while she smoked and chewed, the dual pleasure making her moan around a mouthful of cake. Every orgasm made her belly bounce hard enough to slap against her thighs. Every new hit of free weed sent fresh hunger clawing through her. She came again and again, fat jiggle and wet sounds filling the filthy room, until her fingers were sticky and her belly felt even tighter, even heavier.

Yaniko stared down at the soft, overfed ruin of her body and felt that familiar mix of worry and filthy arousal. She was getting bigger every day. Lazier every day. The cycle was simple now: smoke, eat, touch herself, doze, repeat. Days blurred together in a haze of smoke, grease, and orgasms. She knew she should stop. She knew this was destroying her.

Instead she reached for another container of cold noodles, stuffed a thick handful into her mouth, and settled deeper into the couch with a soft, satisfied groan that made every roll of fat tremble.

She would try to quit again.Maybe tomorrow.After dinner.