Buffet Sluts-Part 1

Hi everyone:)

This story was a lot of fun for me to work on/create and was actually commissioned by a reader looking for a sequel to the story Buffet Slut by another WG writer (TheSpookyEnd on Devinantart). He's not currently taking commissions, so I was thrilled to have the chance to build within the world he created and I looooove the way the story came out.

The story isn't my typical M.O. in any sense and features domination, rapid weight gain, very extreme weight gain, immobility, a bit of intox, WLW relationships, and just overall darker themes than I usually lean towards, which is always such a fun challenge. I am posting this story in parts but all three total about 10,900 words, making this the longest single story commission I've ever created lol. I really, really hope you enjoy!!

(Tip: If you want to skip the plot and get straight to the gaining, head to chapter two!)

Lyla sighed, her fingers drumming anxiously against the steering wheel as she stared at her phone's blank notification screen, willing it to buzz. Nothing. She navigated to her messages with deft fingers and began to type out another text, changing her mind halfway through and instead hitting the phone icon next to the contact she was quickly finding herself more and more desperate to reach. 

The phone rang once, twice, three times, and Lyla chewed her lip, the onset of each monotone hum representing the ring on the other end sounding to her hopeful ears like the click of an answered call. Nothing. She sighed again, bracing for the voicemail message that was now beginning to make a pit open up in the bottom of her stomach. 

“Hi there,” a sweet, slightly muffled voice greeted. “You’ve reached May Pearson. I’m not available to take your call right now, but if you leave me a message I'll be sure to call you right back. Have a good one!”

The tone chimed and Lyla sighed, attempting to swallow although her mouth felt suddenly entirely devoid of moisture. 

“Hey,” she croaked, clearing her throat and trying again. “Hey. Hey babe. It's me again. Listen, I know this whole thing is probably silly, you were probably just working late and fell asleep at your studio or something but I really, really need you to call me back. 

Lyla giggled nervously, the worst-case scenarios swirling through her mind forcing her to attempt a lighthearted tone in service of the reduction of her own mounting anxiety. 

“You’ll probably be so annoyed with me, I called all your friends, your sister…” she trailed off. “I just wanna make sure you're safe. I’m headed to you now, ok?” she promised, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. “Everything is ok,” she finished, although that reassurance was more for her own sake than for her fiancée's. 

Lyla turned the key in the ignition and brought the car to life, trying to steady her breathing and slow the hare stomp thrum that she could've sworn was making her entire body vibrate, her cardiac concerns not entirely unfounded with the way the situation was raising her blood pressure. 

She made her way to May's art studio as quickly as legally allowed, forcing herself to follow the speed limit as she assured the empty air over and over that May was just fine. Late nights, occasional poor communication, an uncharged phone, all those things were hallmarks of her sweet, somewhat scattered lover’s personality, but it had now been close to 24 hours since she’d seen the kind, slightly shy May. While those characteristics were part of what had made her fall for her fiancé in the first place, she often worried that people would take advantage of May’s nativity and inability to say no. 

She was a people pleaser through and through, and although she and Lyla had been working on that little problem, May still struggled with prioritizing herself over the wants of others, even if they were complete strangers. It was an irrational thought, sure, but Lyla almost worried that May would someday be literally kidnapped, lured into a van by a man feigning the need for assistance to search for a lost puppy as if she were an actual child. 

Lyla screeched to a stop in front of the small studio space May rented, fear clenching her throat when May's car was nowhere to be seen. Lyla jumped out, leaving her own mid-size Subaru idling, and ran to the studio's shared backlot, hoping against logic that May had chosen to park in the less convenient space for some unbeknownst reason. The green Toyota Lyla was desperate to see was still nowhere to be found, and she raced back to the studio's main door, panic rising in her like bile. 

“May!” she screamed, banging on the teal door featuring a hand-painted collage of May’s own designs. “May-May,” she bellowed, her long-ago chosen pet name for a girlfriend whose moniker was inherently too short to shorten further. “May, are you in there?”

No response came but a building silence that was slowly making Lyla feel sick, and she backed away from the door as if frightened by it, threatened even. She cursed herself for not thinking of making a copy of May's studio key in case of emergencies, but regardless, it was obvious May was nowhere to be found. Her car was gone, the lights were off, and May, ever trusting as she was, only locked up when she left the studio, not when she was inside it. There were no broken windows or disturbed screens, meaning a forced entry was unlikely, and even if someone had come to the studio and demanded May leave with them, May would've been smart enough to leave the studio open as a clue. 

Lyla all but sprinted back to the car, hustling for a reason she couldn't identify knowing she had nowhere else to look, and grabbed her phone, the adrenaline racing through her body making her hands shake as she typed in her pin passcode. She scrolled through the torrent of texts she’d sent May once she realized she’d had never come home the previous night and finally landed on the last message May had sent her at about 5pm the day before.

‘Starving’ the message read, a response to Lyla’s daily ‘How ya feeling?’ check-in. ‘I think I'm gonna stop for a break soon and get some food, probably like a pita wrap or something. 

Lyla had reacted to the message with a thumbs up and gone about her day, neither she nor her partner big texters who felt the need to stay in touch 24/7, and hadn't thought much of May’s final message until she awoke the next morning to discover May’s side of the bed cold and untouched. 

Lyla pressed her eyes tightly shut, trying to calm her mind enough to consider her options. Calling the police felt almost out of the question, despite the fact that it was likely the most logical course of action. Lyla couldn't imagine telling a 911 operator that her fiance was missing, couldn't imagine the weighty gravity of realizing that if not found soon, May would officially be classified as a missing person. It made the whole thing seem too real, too permanent. Lyla was a true crime junkie like many women in her age range, and a missing persons case in the world of the infotainment podcasts that Lyla favored never ended in a miracle return to home. She almost felt as if telling the police that May was missing would make it so and she couldn't deal with the possibility of speaking something like that into existence, even if that pattern of thinking was entirely illogical. 

She was racking her brain for someone else to call, for anywhere else May might've gone without telling her first when her eyes flew open, inspiration striking. The pita wrap. There was only one Mediterranean restaurant in town that Lyla frequented, the proximity to her studio being one of the main enticements, and yesterday her plan had been to go pick one up. She’d sent that text at exactly 5:16pm, but knowing May as well as she did, Lyla was certain that she had forgone lunch in favor of her workflow, meaning that she likely didn't go out for her meal until 8. 

Lyla started her car, this time far less concerned with the rules of the road. She had to go to the restaurant and ask if May had been in. That would tell her what time May had last been engaged in her normal activities, and therefore give her a hint as to what could've happened. Panic still clawed at her with clammy fingers, the knowledge that she should likely be calling the police instead of playing detective lingering in the back of her mind, and she all but raced the short route to Kalos Cafe, her stomach tensing as the restaurant came into view on her left. 

She cursed under her breath, caught at a red light just a few blocks from her destination, and absently turned her head to the right, her fingers still drumming the steering wheel with a worn urgency. 

Lyla blinked, disbelieving. There it was. In a parking lot less than a minute from the restaurant she’d planned to grab dinner from yesterday was May’s forest green Toyota, easily identifiable by the dents in the front bumper that May refused to fix until she became more adept at parking without bumping into anything. 

Lyla swung the car into the right lane in a wide, certainly unsafe multi-lane change, then made the sharp turn into the complex’s parking lot, already scanning the building to determine which store her May would’ve most likely been visiting. 

She paused, frowning. The building, long as it was in the traditional style typically utilized for strip malls, appeared to only contain a single establishment; a restaurant called Buffet Slut. She wrinkled her brow in further confusion, perplexed as to both the nature of the restaurant's overly and needlessly sexualized name and how she herself had never heard of an eatery so close to her home and May’s studio. They lived in a somewhat quiet city, and while there were certainly a myriad of places the two of them had yet to try on their weekly date nights, Lyla had at least believed they were aware of all their options. Apparently not. 

She parked next to May's car and got out, cupping her hands over May’s driver seat window to peer inside in hopes of obtaining any more clues to her overnight disappearance. Finding nothing but the army of empty Red Bull cans that frankly had more right to ownership of May's car than she did, Lyla jogged to the front door, the befuddlement within her growing strong enough to stand toe to toe with her anxiety. What was this place? And why was May here?

The parking lot was full of other cars, and as Lyla jogged to the front door, May's car left inexplicably far from the entrance, she watched as a burnt umber Sienna pulled into an upfront spot. A man adorned in dark sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a baggy red hoodie hopped out as if in a hurry, and hustled into the restaurant at the same pace as Lyla, his urgency clearly borne of a different source than hers. 

Realization dawned on Lyla, flooding her first with momentary relief and then with blinding rage. The concealed man was clearly trying not to be spotted entering the establishment, the restaurant had never come up on any of her constant searches for the area's hidden gems, and the name was quite literally Buffet Sluts. May had obviously spent all night at a strip club. 

It was so unlike her that Lyla almost had trouble believing it, but given that no other explanation was possible, there was little that could be said that would lessen Lyla's suspicions. The evidence was laid out plain to see, right in Lyla's face. May was cheating on her with some stripper, and even worse, hadn't even bothered to take the time to properly cover her tracks. Lyla's light jog became an angry stomp as she worked herself up further and further with each footfall, her blood boiling by the time she reached the double-door entrance. She flung open the door with a bit too much force, scowling, and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. 

A bored-looking woman in a skimpy dress stood in wait at the hostess table, just as Lyla had expected, but in defiance of her expectations, the woman was absolutely enormous. She wore a barely there black dress with deep cutouts on each side, surely a stripper's typical garb, but the woman had to be at least triple the average stripper's typical weight. She was clearly testing the limits of the straining dress with the plush, thick rolls of fat stacked on her side and oozing out against the dress's confines, immediately revealing just how soft the layers of fat covering her blubbery body really were. 

Each massive breast appeared to be attempting to escape the confining garment from every angle, and the meaty, firm balls of pure fat pushed through the dress's side slits and spilled over the low neckline. Her love handles were clearly placing the most burden on her overtaxed outfit, and Lyla swore she could discern snapped threads about the woman's waist even from where she stood in the dim light. The man who had entered just moments before Lyla was gone entirely, and Lyla took a determined step forward, ready for a confrontation. 

“Hey,” she all but barked, the woman at the hostess stand looking up in mild surprise. “What is this-”

Before Lyla could finish her sentence she was cut off by two alarmingly tall, barrel-chested bouncers outfitted in all black that she’d failed to see, the monotone color scheme of their uniforms acting as a sort of camouflage in the corners of the darkened, closed off entryway. 

Lyla swallowed, taken aback, and the woman at the desk flashed her a coy, knowing smile. 

“Let her through,” she called almost musically, the lilt of her voice nearly visible as it floated to Lyla's ears. 

The woman fixed her with a look as if swiftly and accurately assessing her worth in some category that Lyla was ignorant to, then gestured her forward with a single manicured finger. 

“Have you come to eat?” the woman asked, her heavily lined eyes eerily catlike in the recessed lighting. 

“No, I-,” Lyla began hesitantly, thrown off her game by both the hostess’s unexpected size and the intrusion of the two previously unseen bodyguards. “No. No, I’m not here to ‘eat’,” she mimicked, disgusted at the euphemism the woman was using to describe watching naked girls gyrate on a pole. “I’m looking for my fiancé. I’m sure you saw her, she’s been here all night.”

The woman was silent for a moment, another unreadable expression crossing her plump face before she pressed her lips together firmly. 

“I might’ve”, she finally responded. “What did your fiancée look like when she came in?”

Lyla twisted her mouth at the obvious jab, surely a reference to how long May had been in the strip club so enamored by whomever she’d fallen for that she’d stopped caring about her relationship, completely forgone her engagement. 

“She’s got long brown hair,” Lyla began to list. “Freckles. Was probably wearing a hoodie with paint on it. A green one, I think.”

“How big was she?” the hostess asked, and the scowl adorning Lyla's face only deepened, her assumptions now running wilder. 

“How big- like her tits?” Are you asking me how big my fiancee's tits are, what the fuck is-”

“No, how big is she?” the hostess corrected, a hint of annoyance entering her tone. 

“You alright Mama Vale?” one of the startlingly deep voices belonging to the front door's bouncers boomed. “You need me to get her out of here?”

“No, no,” replied Mama Vale, still staring Lyla down. “I can handle her.” 

“Handle me?” Lyla repeated, beginning to grow irate. “Can you stop playing games? Her name is May, May Pearson. Her car is parked outside. Is she here or not?” 

“We get a lot of patrons,” Mama Vale repeated casually, lifting a hand to inspect her spackled red nails. “We’re a very popular establishment. Like I asked, how big was she?”

“What does that even mean?” Lyla cried in frustration. “What exactly are you trying to-”

“Her weight,” Mama Vale interrupted once more. “How much did she weigh?”

Lyla wrinkled her nose, far too confused to control her expressions. 

“How much did she weigh? Why is that even-”

This time Lyla cut herself off, stopped short by the intimidatingly steely look that Mama Vale fixed her with. She shifted uncomfortably for a moment, unsure as to why this clearly overfed woman had such an intense, hypnotic gaze and exactly why it was impacting her the way it did, then swallowed hard, determined not to back down.

“Like, 130,” she finally answered. “Maybe 135 max. Why?”

Mama Vale paused, her red lips pursed in consideration. 

“She may have been here,” she finally answered slowly, a smile spreading across her face. “I can't quite remember. Our staff is mostly occupied at the moment but you could look for her. If you'd like, of course.”

Lyla frowned, wondering why the hostess’s tone felt so foreboding. 

“Fine,” she spat worriedly, lifting a hand subconsciously to bite at the edge of her cuticles. “Fine. I'll just go see if she's in there. Do I need to pay a cover, or…”

“No cover,” Mama Vale answered simply. “Everything here is free of charge.”

“Free?” Lyla scoffed. “What, do the dancers just rely on tips?”

Our staff is gratified by our customers through other means,” Mama Vale answered, her coy smile growing into a grin. “I’ll call someone to escort you back. But first,” she said, pulling a slim display case akin to a jewelry store’s from beneath the stand. “First, you choose a collar.” 

Lyla peered inside, morbidly curious.

“Dog collars?” she reported. “Seriously? What is this, some kind of niche fetish group or something?”

Her brashness was borne of the heartbreak she felt blooming within her as she imagined her sweet innocent May doing depraved things with strangers, all while outfitted in humiliating BDSM gear. The more distressing the situation became, the more determined Lyla was to catch her partner red-handed. Even if that meant playing along with this place's disgusting little roleplay, she was willing to participate. 

Mama Vale only smiled and pushed the options towards her in response, the angle at which she was leaning over the hostess stand making her massive tits appear even larger as they rested upon its wooden top. 

Lyla tossed up her hands in frustration. 

“Blue, blue I guess,” she said, reaching for the baby blue collar with every intention of snatching it and getting this uncomfortable process over with. 

“Ah,” chided Mama Vale, pulling back the case with surprising quickness considering her size. “First, sign your name here,” she said, producing a packet and flipping to its final page. “Just a few matters of liability.”

“Sign a contract to get into a strip club?” Lyla blurted. “Are you kidding me? What kind of bullshit is this, I’m not signing anything.”

Mama Vale shrugged, looking at her almost pityingly. 

“Well, no signature, no entry,” she informed her, moving to retract the contract. 

“Alright, alright,” Lyla immediately relented, desperate to find May and put an end to all this. “All right. Just lemme read it.”

She began the dense, heavily jargoned contract from the first page but found herself lost amidst the intentionally mystifying legalese, beginning to skim instead of digest as she flipped through the pages. Seeing nothing about a down payment, a deposit, or a card on file made her feel much better about the contract’s intentions, until she finally reached the third to last page, stopping in her tracks. 

“Bovine hormones?” she read, looking up at Mama vale. “What's bovine?”

“Just a supplement dear,” Mama Vale promised. “It helps our customers achieve their daily nutritional goals.”

Lyla’s brow wrinkled in confusion as she continued to read, now committed to working her way through the entire page in an effort to understand why exactly a strip club was adding vitamins to their menu. She paused, her eyes widening. 

“Immobility clause?” she asked, looking up at Mama Vale for confirmation. “What is this? What is this place, this isn't a strip club.”

Mama Vale shrugged again, her smile growing more alluring. 

“Not quite.”

Lyla's eyes were flying across the page now, her hands started to sweat as she attempted to intake the overload of information. 

“What is this place?” she all but whispered, suddenly a bit frightened. 

“We’re in the business of giving people what they want,” Mama Vale replied. “We’re in the business of unlocking your true desire.”

“So, what you’re like…you’re like fattening people up in there? You’re feeding them?”

Mama Vale tilted her head slightly, the edges of her mouth revealing the answer to Lyla's question without requiring Mama Vale to say a single word. 

“But May’s not into that kind of thing, she would never…” Lyla squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her finger back into the bridge of her nose, trying to steady herself. 

She’d already been on such an emotional roller coaster of a day that she truly believed nothing could throw her at this point, and more than anything, she wanted all this to be over. All the fear, all the anxiety, all the confusion, and all the hurt, she wanted it over with. 

“Look,” she finally breathed, opening her eyes wearily. “I’m not into whatever weird fat fetish shit this is, ok? I just need to go in there and find my fiancee. So I'll sign whatever, I'll wear the stupid collar but just know I'm not playing whatever little game this is.”

“Alright,” Mama Vale acknowledged lightly. “You’re not playing the little game.”

“Exactly,” Lyla confirmed. “So just…” 

She glanced back down at the contract list of collar options, arranged, as they seemed to be, by the user's interest in gaining weight. 

“I’ll take the lightest one,” Lyla said with the point. “The purple. I won't be eating anything regardless.”

Mama Wale nodded wordlessly and handed her the collar, her pudgy hand brushing Lyla’s

Lyla took a step towards the curtain she assumed led back to the restaurant's main room but nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a large hand on her shoulder. She turned to see that one of the large, interchangeably identical bouncers had someone crossed the small room in silence and caught up to her in less than a few steps, further discussing her spirit. Something was off about this place, and it was more than the odd sexual proclivities of its customers. 

“You’ll need a staff escort inside,” Mama Vale informed her without turning. “Just one moment. I’m getting you our very best weightress.”

Lyla turned her head, confused by Mama Vales's odd initial emphasis on the word but saying nothing, and within seconds the curtain opened, revealing another scantily clad, bulgingly obese woman, this one dressed even more scandalously than the last. Her breasts, somehow outweighing Mama Vales, were covered only by two x’s of black nipple tape, and the lower half of her outfit seemed to involve a shibari-style arrangement of ropes that left the fat on her thick, wobbling thigh bulging through. She wore a pair of ripped fishnets beneath them, the fishnets also clearly tight enough to create an indentation in her puffy legs and ample ass, and Lyla blushed, that much woman on display far more than she was used to.

She wasn't into fat women, May was her type to a T, but it was undeniable just how eye-catching the waitress's heavy wobbling tits were, especially when they were right in Lyla's face.

“Sable,” Mama Vale greeted, and Sable’s face lit up with a smile that mirrored the coyly seductive host’s exactly. 

“Hi Mama V,” Sable cooed. “Who do we have here?” 

“This is Lyla,” Mama Vale responded, gesturing towards her at large.

Lyla blinked, uncertain once more. Had she told Mama Vale her first name?

“Lyla isn't into all this fat fetish shit,” Mama Vale went on, echoing Lyla’s earlier words in that simultaneously light yet steely and deeply confusing tone. “She’s not playing the little game. You’ll take good care of her, won't you Sable?”

“Of course I will,” the porky, busty woman promised. “C’mon love.”

She reached up and grabbed Lyla by the collar much to her shock, fiddling with the already secured back clasp. 

“What are you doing?” Lyla rushed, concerned. 

“Oh nothing love, nothing,” Sable promised, working her chubby fingers against Lyla’s quickly warming neck. “I'm just making sure you’re all taken care of.”

Lyla stepped back, feeling not quite woozy, but similarly unsteady on her feet. She reached a hand up and touched her forehead, discombobulated. 

“Ready?” Sable asked with a smile, and suddenly Lyla found herself on the other side of the curtain, the scene before her unlike anything she’d ever witnessed.