Becoming Blue (Chubby Chasers, Inc. #1)

by Angie M. Brashears

  “Hurting you is like the sun going and never coming back. I want to tie you up with ropes and maybe even chemicals just so I can take care of you, feed you, and have your very life depend on me for all of your needs. Even the most basic ones. It makes me feel needed. But more than anything, it makes me feel powerful. I crave that feeling. Sometimes my wants become needs. I don’t know how it happens, but one minute I’m making waffles for you, and the next I’m crushing roofies into your breakfast foods.” He’s quiet as I take in all he’s told me. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I don’t know why I do these things, and most times I can’t stop myself, but for you Blue, I try.” His cheek rubs the top of my hand. “Things in my world are skewed, distorted. Love is pain. And from the second I saw you, I wanted nothing more than to hurt you.”

  His words sink in. Who did this to him?

  He stands, our time together coming to an end. “I’ve overstayed my welcome. I don’t expect you to forgive me, I don’t deserve it. The bosses are right, Blue. I need to get my head on straight where you’re concerned. I’m not giving you a fair chance to be the person you’re meant to be. And if I stay and don’t do this—at least try to get better—things may go from bad to worse.” He pins me with those eyes that make my dark places clench. “You need to eat, Bonita.” Straightening his clothes, he bends to lace his work boots. “And drink lots of water. I’ll have something sent in.” He pats my head. “Rest, Blue.” Only when he’s gone, out the door, do I realize he didn’t offer to feed me.

  His leaving is a dagger to my soul. Why did I ever think we’d be able to sit and hash out our problems?

  Chapter 25

  I doze a bit, waking when Sasha comes in wearing a Cat woman costume—with carefully placed cutouts—to check on me. “Do you wanna talk?” I just shake my head. What can I say? I’m obsessed with my Stalker? And worried that if he gets better he’ll realize I’m just another silly fat girl? Not worthy of his time or attention?

  I make myself get up, take a much-needed shower, and give myself a pep talk. He’s out there getting it together. Alone. I’m here with friends. I can, too. A heavy feeling, similar to a scratchy blanket, settles over my heart. Javi’s really gone. I don’t know what’s worse, being roofied into submission or the feeling of abandonment when my stalker lost interest in me.

  The day is well underway for my housemates when I sidle up to the empty table, spying a tray of homemade mini muffins. Yum with a capital Y. Between the heavenly smell and my recent convalescence, I feel ravenous. Before I know it, I’ve got two in my mouth. I’m so hungry. Spitting out paper cupcake holders, I turn to the spotless fridge, leaving prints and crumbs everywhere. There’s OJ on the shelf. I rip the lid off and throw it in the vicinity of the spotless counter while I drink straight from the carton. It’s been awhile since I’ve had sugar, and my whole body zings with the carbs. I take the carton to the counter—eff the glass—and start devouring muffins, feeding my feelings and my face. The house is eerily quiet. All I hear are the sounds of my gulps and munching. Soundproofing will do that.

  I might get sick, I’m eating so much. I polish off the juice, looking around the kitchen. “Where’s the friggin’ trashcan?” I need to hide the evidence of my binge.

  The remaining muffins don’t look so pretty with half of them gone. I make a quick adjustment to the stack—trying to cover the dent I made in them—before making coffee, finding a trashcan, and getting myself under control.

  Making a pig of myself was nowhere in my personal pep talk.

  With coffee in hand, heavy on the cream but no whipped cream, I grab a final muffin—all that I allow myself—and head into the dining room, away from the food. I’m barely a bite in before a red light flashes off to my right, catching my attention.

  Fuck! ‘13’ flashes big and loud on the screen. I’d been sitting here, braless and sweaty, trying to break a muffin-eating contest, and the whole time I had an audience!

  Trying for dainty now, I close my mouth to chew. But the muffin paste stuck to the roof of my mouth isn’t making it easy.

  The ‘13’ keeps flashing. I’m sure by now it’s flashing on my bosses’ screens, alerting them to the fact that I’m ignoring customers. After a week on my back, no less. Sasha did say she thought I was ready for some easy shit. I guess I think so, too, because I stand, dropping crumbs from my lap and head to the lacquer table to find the remote. Javi who? I lie to myself as I click the ‘13’ on the screen.

  His name, or at least the name he gives me, is Chase.

  I hit sound on the remote in my room, just like Sasha showed me. I make myself comfortable in front of my own huge TV to ‘have a chat.’ He said that’s all he wanted, and I figured, what the hell? At least there won’t be any date rape drugs involved with this chaser.

  His voice sounds like any other guy I’ve met. Almost telemarketer-like in its plainness. “What can I do for you, Chase?” Thinking back to the sessions of the other girls I’ve observed, I think this will be the best place to start.

  “I’m not sure you have what I need,” he purrs. Really purrs.

  Careful, girl, I think to myself, eye rolling is definitely frowned upon in here.

  “And what is it that you need?” My attempt at a purr back falls short, but fuck it, when in Rome, right? I lean back on my elbows, my breasts rolling to the sides of my chest. I try to squeeze them in. My attempt to create cleavage only makes me look cold and in need of a blanket. My bare legs hang over the bed, knees facing the TV.

  “Well, it’s not just what I need but what we need.” Before I can protest, a svelte, auburn-haired woman comes into view, sitting down right in his lap. She smiles while blowing me a kiss, snuggling in deeper. Feeling like I’ve been slapped, I sit right up, hugging my chest, trying to hide all my big parts from view. I will never look that good on my best day. Factor in the overdose and the recent binge, well, I feel like a pile of oatmeal left out next to a juicy steak.

  “No, don’t do that!” she exclaims, a look of horror crossing her face. “Lean back again, like you were.” But my purry mood has flown south. All I want to do is end this…whatever this is.

  “Sorry, I’m not ready for this,” I mumble while trying to figure out which button will shut this down and let me continue my wallowing.

  “Please don’t. Just listen. We’ll pay you!”

  “There’s not enough money in the world.” I only meant to say it to myself, but the perfect couple hear it.

  “Wait. Blue, is it? Two hundred and fifty dollars, right now, paid into your account, just to listen. That’s it. And if you’re still not into it, we’ll leave you alone.” Just to talk? I have to say I’m intrigued. Why does this Ken and Barbie couple need a Chubby Chaser Favor session? I’ll never find out until I dive right in.

  “Please,” she begs, and something about her, maybe the hungry look that clings to her features, or the way she’s gripping her man so tight to her, reminds me of a certain dark MIA Spaniard. “Can I have a minute?” I ask, not making eye contact with either of them.

  “Sure, sure, take your time.” They wave me away, smiling too bright.

  Grabbing the cordless house phone, I jog into my pee closet, stopping to pee before pushing ‘9.’ “Hey, you okay?” Sasha, breathless and wary, comes through on the first ring.

  “I’ve got a couple on my screen…” Before I can even finish, she screams, “You what?” so loudly, I physically move the phone away from my ear. “A couple,” I repeat in a much lower tone, feeling their presence right through the door.

  “How did this happen?” Still yelling. Not taking my indoor voice as a hint.

  “I answered when they rang.” Feeling the clock speeding around I say, “I don’t have time for this. They’re waiting.” My fingers start drumming against my thigh, anxious to be back in the next room now.

  “Who is it?” Finally a normal voice.

  “It’s two, actually. His name is, uh, Chip, Chet, Chase…That’s it! They want a Fa
vor and will pay two hundred and fifty bucks just to talk to me about it!”

  “I know them. They’re vanilla. You sure you’re up for this?”

  I don’t wanna get into all that now. “Up as I’ll ever be, besides, I need a distraction.”

  “I’ll be right there!” The phone goes dead as I cower in the pee closet, clutching the cordless to my chest. I hear her stumble in, slam my door, and start talking. About me!

  Flushing, I fling the door wide, wanting to know what she’s getting me into.

  Sasha, all business, despite the ass-less chaps, leather bustier, and cowgirl hat she now dons, stands in front of my TV, bartering for my services as I enter my room. “We’ll see. As I said, you’ll be her very first, and I don’t have to stress what’ll happen if you overwhelm her, what with the two of you and all.”

  My eyes, wide as saucers, move from her face to the faces on the TV. I feel about five years old again, watching my parents decide my future.

  At the mention of being my first, the couple become even more animated, if that’s possible. Talking over each other, trying to close the deal that involves me.

  “Yes, yes all right!” he says, leaning closer to the webcam, almost spilling the woman off his lap in the process. Not missing a beat, she rights herself, and looks directly at me. “We promise, Blue. We’ll go easy on you.” She winks. I have no reply to this. My eyes go back to Sasha, needing to see her expression, wanting to know what she thinks of all this.

  Waving to the screen, the lady of the manor takes over. “Blue, meet Chase and Belinda, our feeder couple.” Both smile widely, really selling it. He even nods towards me, but I just stare back.

  “They watched you eat breakfast.” A stern look passes between us. “In the kitchen and the dining room,” she stresses the last, areas I shouldn’t be in during live hours and I know I’m in trouble. “They were, uh, impressed with your voracious appetite. They’d like to continue breakfast with you. They have a list. Foods for you to find in the pantry and return with. Here to this room.” My brow goes up at the pointed look she gives me. “Belinda’s no longer able to fulfill her role as a feedee…”

  “Ulcer,” Belinda says with a pout, and I notice Chase’s hand stroke her shoulder.

  Sasha gives them their moment and continues, “So they’d like you to act as a surrogate.” I nod, sounds simple enough. “They will stay in face contact with you.” At this, she looks directly at the screen. A nod of both their heads seems to satisfy her before she looks back to me. “Until the moment of penetration.” She waves between them. “When they will switch to viewer only, at which point they’d like you to continue feeding.” Her eyes plead with me to keep it together. “And oink like a pig.”

  Wait. My mouth opens, only to realize there’s nothing to be said about this, and closes.

  “And…” he says, all business himself.

  “And he wants to hear it. Your oink, I mean, to see if you have what they need.”

  I’m into it now. More than willing to oink my ass off, but first… “Do they have what I need?” Proud mama Sasha approves, reaching out to pull me close. “Negotiation time,” she whispers into my ear. “Go for it.” She slides into the background to sit on the end of my bed, pretending to examine her nails, essentially giving me the floor.

  Squaring my shoulders. “First.” I hold up one finger. “The two fifty we discussed.” They both nod, anxious to get on with it. “That’s non-negotiable. I need to know what you want me to, uh, consume.” I snort, give ’em a little taste.

  This gets their blood boiling. He looks at her, nods, and she fires off a friggin’ list! “Oreos, a whole pack if you’ve got them, ice cream, caramel sauce—the Hershey kind—whipped cream, two cans if you have it, it has to be cans!” She’s on a roll now. “A pack of hot dogs, and…” She looks up at her ceiling, which I can’t see from my view, tapping a finger to her chin with a smile so wide I can’t help but feel the excitement through the TV. “Oh!” With an embarrassed little giggle, she adds, “I almost forgot, a thing of butter.” What, like a tub? I’m mystified. She laughs again and holds her hands to face each other. “The rectangle kind, ya know?”

  Whew, I’m supposed to eat all that? How is that even possible? Before I can speak, he pipes in, “Do you have a pair of white panties, like the granny kind? And a white gym bra?” Where are these people from? I’m racking my brain, just trying to organize my scrambled thoughts.

  “The kind without an underwire.” She leans forward, enjoying herself. “He means a gym bra like the kind a grandma would wear—the bigger, the better.” She pulls her sweater up, revealing a hideous, gargantuan, 18-Hour bra.

  Before I can even comment, smirk, or flick the TV off, Sasha’s up off the bed, grabbing me, and hustling us out of the room. “One minute!” she calls to the horny couple as we make our way out to the dark hall.

  Both of us laugh at the absurdity of it all. She clutches her stomach, bends over, and picks up the cowgirl hat she just lost, attaching it back on top of her red head with a spank, which gets us going again.

  “How much?” I ask, not having a clue where to start the tally on this clusterfuck.

  “Two grand.” She says, without batting an artificial lash.

  My eyebrows go up. “I can’t, there’s no way, that’s too much…”

  She shushes me with a pointed finger pressed to my lips.

  “They want at least $100 of food, plus the $250 consultation, which you’ll tell them you’re throwing in for free. Now the oinking.” I laugh again as she mimics a pig for me, big and overly dramatic, really drawing it out. “That’s how I want you to do it, nice and slow. You demonstrate it, then tell them it’s either a hundred an oink or a nice round flat rate of $1,000 for carte blanche oinks.” I shake my head, smirking. Really? Are we really here—her in ass-less chaps and me in pajamas—discussing this?

  “Do we even have all of that food?” I ask, anxious to get started.

  “Honey, this is a chubby house.” Her eyebrow rises, wondering if I’ve lost my marbles. “We’ve got everything but the caramel, nobody likes that shit. But we’ve got Hershey’s chocolate syrup!”

  I nod. “That’s good. I can’t stand caramel.”

  “See? Okay, this Feast will tie you up for around two hours, so add $500 per hour and we’re at…” She does a quick tally in her head, “…over by about $350.” There, happy? You’re giving them a discount.” She’s beaming at me now. “Oh, and tell them just like I told you. When you’re in there,” she gestures towards my closed door, “you’re the boss. Not them. You. Remember that. If you feel sick, or think you just can’t possibly eat another bite, let it dribble out the side of your mouth. Or better yet, improvise. The chocolate sauce, pour it all over your tummy.” She mimes rubbing in suntan lotion, nice and slow. “Get it all up in there. That’ll drive them freakin’ wild! I’ll get the stuff!” Thrumming with excitement, she’s off.

  I nod, squaring my shoulders to break the bad news. Wait! But she’s already heading down the hallway to the kitchen in search of my food torture. “Sasha!” I whisper-shout at her back. “The bra and granny panties!” They’re a key selling point.

  “Oh shit,” she giggles, and holds up her arms, miming marching forward. “On it. Buy me five minutes.”

  Deep breathing to relax the flutters in my belly, I realize I’m having fun and head into negotiations.

  “Two thousand bucks?” He roars, making a show of shaking his head no and looking around for his own remote. Loud and blustery. This, I figure, is his way of bargaining. With a preacher for a stepdad, I’ve blustered with the best of them. Unfazed, I reach for my own remote. “Sorry to have wasted your time,” I say to him, but I’m looking at her. Driving the nail in deeper, “And I’m truly sorry you can’t participate in feedings any longer.” A pause to let my words sink in. “They seem like such fun.” I aim the remote at her regretful eyes, smack in the middle, returning my own sad eyes in the process. “I’m sorry I won�
��t get to play with you.” Okay, that was a little thick, I think to myself, and just when I think they’re calling my bluff, she says, “Chase, your Amex please.” She holds a hand out, palm up, right under his nose.

  He swipes something, there’s a click, and a piggy bank icon flashes on my screen with $2,000 displayed inside of it. Fitting, I smirk, but only on the inside. I know without a doubt I’m in charge.

  Quickly, not wanting to do this in front of Sasha who will be back any minute, I do it. Without a hint of sex or coyness, two rapid-fire oinks leave my mouth, my nose snarling up, mimicking a pig. Or at least what I think is a pig.

  His head falls back and he moans. The look on her face at her man’s obvious pleasure is one of pure bliss. “Get ready and be quick,” he murmurs, before pulling her head back and deep throating his tongue into her mouth.

  Sasha comes in, arms loaded down with props-is that a tarp?-I think, and a wicker basket full of junk food. She eyes the couple making out and nods approvingly to me when she sees my full piggy bank on the screen. She sets to work.

  I catch a bra-and-panty set she chucks my way, a set only someone from the Vaudeville era would find sexy, and head into the bathroom. No time for a shower, I change and groan at the sight of my grandmother looking back at me from the mirror. I shake my hair, flipping it for volume, apply my gloss and try to avoid the fish-pale bloated belly looking back at me. The deep breathing starts again. I close my eyes and think of the offbeat couple waiting for me. Unlimited oinks and two hours of my time. That’s all they get. Not my soul, not me. Just a play version of me.

  When I feel like I can do this, am ready to face it, a knock on the door gets my stomach turning again. Sasha peeks her head in, eyeing me up and down, definitely no-eye fucking going on now. “They want you in pigtails.” Then ducks back out, slamming the door, giving me privacy to fall apart with hysterical laughter.

  When she’s sure my meltdown is over, she enters quickly, carrying a bag of tricks, and closes the door behind her. “The prep work in there is holding them over. Don’t worry, we’ve got time. Just not much.” She motions for me to sit and parts my hair while she talks, handing me a mascara applicator.