Misslead

Lena slammed her car door harder than necessary, the sound echoing in the deserted parking garage. "Soft feeder my ass," she muttered, adjusting her purple sweater over hips still aching from last night's unsatisfying session. "Anne wouldn't push me past a damn sandwich." The elevator doors opened to a dimly lit hallway smelling overwhelmingly of vanilla and buttercream—a scent so thick it coated her tongue.

Inside the meeting room, a towering six-tiered cake dominated the central table, its fondant gleaming under low pendant lights. Lena's eyes darted past the sugary behemoth, catching details that prickled her neck: oversized couches with industrial-strength frames bolted to the floor, and the soft but definitive *click* of the door locking behind her. "Welcome, Lena," purred a raven-haired woman with hungry eyes, gesturing to the only empty seat encircling the cake. "First slice is tradition for newcomers."

As Lena sank into the deep cushion, ten women emerged from shadowed corners—their collective gaze fixed on her like predators scenting wounded prey. The facilitator slid a dense slice onto Lena's plate, frosting glistening. "We're not feedees, dear," she murmured while Lena's fork sank into moist sponge. "We hunt for unsatisfied appetites... like yours." Lena's chewing slowed as warmth spread through her limbs, muscles going languid against her will.

The first sugary bite melted on her tongue just as recognition hit—these weren't fellow enthusiasts but a pack of feeders who'd lured her in. Panic flared, warring with the traitorous pulse between her thighs as the first slice's weight settled low in her belly. "Relaxant in the...?" Lena slurred, fingers trembling on her fork. The women leaned forward in unison, their smiles sharp. "Just enough to help you stretch," whispered the facilitator, placing another slice before her. "And to help you accept... everything."

Hands began passing plates—smooth, deliberate motions that left no escape. Lena's purple sweater strained against the first real swell as she swallowed slice after slice, the cake's cloying sweetness turning thick and suffocating. Her belly pushed against the table edge, a taut globe beneath soft fabric. "Faster," someone hissed when Lena paused, gasping. Fingers plunged into the next tier, tearing out a dripping wedge that crushed against her lips. Buttercream smeared across her cheeks as she choked it down, crumbs scattering like confetti onto her expanding lap.

Impatience crackled through the circle. Two women seized whole slices, shoving them past Lena's teeth before she could chew. Frosting clogged her nostrils; sponge bulged her cheeks. Her belly surged outward violently, pushing up the sweater's hem. Fabric strained, exposing skin stretched impossibly glossy and round—a vast, trembling dome that dwarfed the table. The top tiers vanished, leaving only the monstrous base layer, wider than an inner tube.

Hands descended—not with plates now, but fistfuls of cake scooped directly from the crumbling foundation. They crammed it into her mouth, over her chin, against her heaving throat. Lena's world narrowed to the agony-pleasure of swallowing, the slick press of tongues lapping buttercream from her distended skin. Her belly eclipsed her own body, a gargantuan sphere that could have swallowed two grown women whole and still quivered for more. Whimpers escaped between forced mouthfuls—not protests, but raw, animal sounds of a limit shattered forever.

"Look at her shine," one feeder breathed, tracing the obscene curve where Lena's navel had vanished beneath drum-tight flesh. Another pressed her ear to the groaning expanse, listening to the wet churn within. "Hear that? Still room." They rubbed in wide, possessive circles, fingers sinking slightly into the yielding surface, coaxing groans from Lena that mingled with their own sighs of satisfaction. Crumbs dusted her like sugar snow, licked away by quick, hot tongues that left trails of saliva cooling on her stretched skin.

The base layer dwindled to a wreckage of frosting smears and scattered crumbs. Lena's head lolled, eyes unfocused, every desperate breath lifting her mountainous belly higher. Her purple sweater bunched on top of her belly, useless against the sheer enormity she'd become. The women didn't pause; they scraped moist chunks from the cake stand, pressing them into her slack mouth, massaging her throat to make her swallow. "Almost full," the facilitator murmured, not to Lena, but to the rapt circle. "Almost perfect."

Lena's vision swam. Her belly was a universe of pressure, a taut, trembling planet that pinned her to the couch. The feeders' hands worshipped it, kneading, stroking, smearing the last traces of sweetness across its impossible surface. Their murmurs blended into a single hum of adoration—a sound that vibrated through her bloated flesh and into her bones. She couldn't move, couldn't think, could only exist as the vessel, the monument they'd built. The air tasted thick with vanilla and salt sweat. Somewhere, distantly, she felt a tongue trace the underside of her belly where it met her thighs—a slow, deliberate lick that drew a shuddering gasp from her ruined throat.

The facilitator leaned close, her silver hair brushing Lena's cheek. "Open," she commanded softly, holding a crumbling fistful of the cake's dense base layer. Lena's jaw felt unhinged, slack. The cloying mass pressed against her lips, forcing entry. She choked, gagged, but fingers massaged her throat, coaxing the impossible bite down. Another fistful followed, shoved deep. Lena's belly surged outward another fraction, a groan escaping her that sounded less human, more like the creak of overstressed leather. Crumbs cascaded down her chin, onto the straining curve below. Hands smoothed them away, fingers dipping into the yielding warmth of her stretched skin, leaving trails of cool saliva in their wake.

"Beautiful," breathed a woman with dark, hungry eyes, pressing her cheek against Lena's flank. The sheer enormity dwarfed her. Lena felt the heat of the woman's skin, the vibration of her sigh against the taut drum of her belly. Another feeder straddled Lena's lap—not sitting *on* her, for there was no lap left, only the vast, curving expanse—and leaned forward to lick a smear of frosting from the highest point, where Lena's navel had vanished. The touch sent a jolt through Lena, a confusing mix of agony and electric pleasure that made her whimper. Her body was no longer hers; it was an altar, and they were fervent devotees.

The last crumbling handful vanished into her mouth. Silence fell, thick and heavy, broken only by Lena's shallow, labored breaths and the slick sounds of tongues exploring her contours. Her belly dominated the room, a colossal, gleaming dome covered in sticky crumbs and glistening trails of saliva. It looked capable of swallowing the couch whole. Lena stared down at it, dazed, her mind adrift on a sea of sugar and helpless sensation. The feeders didn't pull away. Their hands continued their possessive worship, their whispers promises of more, always more. Lena closed her eyes. The ache was profound, terrifying... and utterly, irrevocably complete.