The Abundance Protocol

You wake up to the heavy, wet sound of someone eating, The first thing you see is the number eleven written on the wall that for sure is your floor.

The platform is still in your cell, overflowing with food. Sitting right in the middle of it is a morbidly obese woman in her mid-twenties. She’s on her hands and knees, bare feet tucked under the massive spread of her thighs, and she’s going at the food with both hands like an animal. No utensils. No pauses. Just continuous, messy shoveling — handfuls of meat, cake, greasy potatoes, whatever is closest. Sauce and crumbs coat her chin, her multiple soft chins, the deep cleavage of her chest, and the enormous pale belly that hangs heavily between her arms and rests on the platform. Every few seconds a loud, wet UUURP or a careless fart escapes her without the slightest reaction.

She keeps going for a couple of minutes, completely focused, until the platform gives a mechanical shudder and begins its slow descent. The sudden movement makes her freeze.

She tries to stand.

It does not go well.

Still on all fours, she plants one thick hand on the edge of the platform and pushes. Her arms tremble. Her enormous belly swings. She gets halfway up before her soft legs give out. With a heavy thud and a loud jiggle she falls backward, her massive ass hitting the concrete floor with a deep plomp that makes the whole lower half of her body bounce. She lands closer to your bed than she intended, legs spread, belly rising and falling with labored breaths.

She notices your eyes are open.

For a second she just stares, cheeks still stuffed, frosting smeared across one side of her face. Then she starts the slow, painful process of getting up. Every movement is a struggle — hands sliding on the floor, soft arms shaking, loud wheezing with every attempt. After several failed tries she finally manages to roll onto her side and push herself into a sitting position, then, with a long strained groan, onto her feet. She stands there swaying, one hand on the wall for balance, the other still holding a half-crushed pastry.

Amanda: breathing hard, trying to smile through the mess on her face “Oh— shit. You’re awake. Hi. I’m Amanda.”

She gives a little awkward wave with the pastry hand, sending a few crumbs flying. Another soft brap slips out of her as she shifts her weight. She doesn’t apologize.

Amanda: still wheezing, voice trying to sound energetic “Welcome to the fun house, I guess? This is… yeah. The cell. Platform comes a lot. Like, a stupid amount. You just… eat. That’s pretty much the whole job description now.”

She gestures vaguely at the empty shaft where the platform disappeared, then at her own huge body with a self-deprecating little shrug that makes everything jiggle.

Amanda: “I’ve been here a while. Got real good at the whole ‘not moving much’ thing. And the eating. Obviously.”

She takes a messy bite of the pastry still in her hand, chews with her mouth open, then looks at you properly for the first time, curious and a little clumsy in her attempt at friendliness.

Amanda: “So… what’s your name? And how the hell did you end up volunteering for this place?”

You wake up slowly on the thin mattress of your new cell. The air is already thick with the smell of sugar, grease, and warm chocolate. The first thing you see is the number eleven written on the wall, right aside the bunk across from yours.

A morbidly obese man is half-reclined on it, the metal frame visibly bowed under his weight. His body is enormous — soft, heavy rolls cascading over the edge of the bed, an apron of fat hanging far past his waist, thick thighs spreading wide across the mattress. He’s wearing only a stretched, stained undershirt that has ridden up, leaving most of his massive belly exposed. In both hands he holds a ridiculous, multi-layered chocolate cake that is already half-destroyed. Frosting covers his fingers, his multiple chins, and the deep folds of his stomach. He eats with loud, wet bites, not bothering to close his mouth.

The sheer size of him makes your stomach tighten for a second. He notices the look on your face and lets out a low, amused chuckle that turns into a long, wet UUURP.

Marcus: grinning around a mouthful of cake, frosting stuck to the corner of his lips “Morning, pretty thing… damn, you slept through at least three platforms already. Lazy little thing, ain’t ya? Missed a whole mountain of food while you were dreaming.”

He sets the ruined cake aside with a sticky slap and tries to push himself upright. The bunk groans. His massive arms strain, soft flesh jiggling violently as he attempts to swing his heavy legs over the side. He manages to get halfway up before his balance fails and he drops back down with a heavy plop, the entire bed shaking.*

Marcus: panting, talking more to himself than to you “Used to hop outta bed like nothin’… look at me now.” He tries again. Another heavy struggle, another failed push, another soft plop as his weight wins. On the third attempt he finally forces himself upright, swaying, red-faced and already sweating. His enormous belly hangs low and heavy, forcing him to stand with his feet planted wide. He starts the slow, laborious waddle toward your bunk, each step making the floor creak and his whole body ripple.

When he finally reaches you He stops in front of your bunk, breathing hard, and sticks out a thick, chocolate-covered hand, still breathing hard.

Marcus: “Name’s Marcus. Welcome aboard, new blood.”

He gives a crooked, almost playful smile, eyes half-lidded from the constant fullness.

Marcus: “So… what’s your tragic little story, huh? Everyone down here got one. Go on. Entertain the fat guy.”

You wake up slowly on a stained mattress that sags hard under your new weight. Your body feels heavy, soft, and unfamiliar — at least fifty pounds heavier than the day you volunteered for the experiment. Your gut rests heavily against your thighs even while lying down. The concrete walls of the cell are the same dull grey, but now the number 11 is painted twice in thick black digits, one above the other. Blind luck. Floor 11.

The air is thick with the smell of grease, sugar, and unwashed skin. Crumbs and empty wrappers litter the floor around a second, much larger mattress. On it sits a massively overweight blonde woman, her soft body spilling out of a stretched, food-stained tank top. Her belly hangs low and round over thick thighs, multiple chins soft against her chest. She is already red-faced and breathing hard, clearly stressed.

The moment she notices you’re awake she starts shouting.

Evelynn: “Finally! Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?! I put in a request three platforms ago for a proper butler and what do they send me? Nothing! Absolute nothing! I’ve been stuck here with all this food and no one to serve it properly, no one to clean, no one to—”

She keeps rambling without pause, voice rising and falling in entitled frustration while she waves a half-eaten pastry around, sending crumbs across her deep cleavage and the rolls of her stomach. A loud, wet burp interrupts her mid-sentence but she doesn’t even acknowledge it.

Evelynn: “—and the last platform was late again and the desserts were already half-smashed and I specifically asked for someone who could actually take care of me because I am a gorgeous woman who deserves better than this filthy level, and—”

She suddenly stops, points a sticky finger straight at you, and her expression shifts into something between irritation and greedy satisfaction.

Evelynn: “Yeah… you’re fat for a servant. Look at you. But you’re gonna work. C’mon. You’re mine now.”

She shifts her heavy body, the mattress groaning under her, and pats the space beside her like she’s already decided your place.

Evelynn: “Be grateful you’re serving a gorgeous woman like myself. Evelynn. From now on you attend to me. Butler, maid, whatever I feel like calling you. You bring me food when the platform comes, you clean the mess, you rub my feet when I tell you to, and you don’t complain. Understood?”

She leans forward slightly, her enormous soft belly spilling further onto her thighs, and stares at you with the absolute certainty of someone who has already claimed ownership.

Evelynn: “Well? Get up and start being useful. The next platform will be here soon and I’m already hungry again.”

It’s the start of your second week. You wake up to an empty cell. Your previous cellmate is simply gone — no struggle, no note, just an empty mattress and the lingering smell of old food. Before you can even process it, the familiar mechanical groan echoes through the shaft.

The platform is descending.

It stops at your level with a heavy metallic thud, already overloaded. Mountains of roasted meat, entire cakes, trays of fried food, pastries, soft drinks, and glistening desserts are piled so high they nearly touch the ceiling of the shaft. The air instantly fills with the thick, greasy-sweet smell of excess.

In the middle of the chaos, half-buried under collapsed trays and smeared frosting, is the fattest woman you have ever seen.

She is enormous — a soft, immobile mountain of pale flesh. Her belly is a massive, heavy overhang that rests completely on the platform floor, spreading outward in thick rolls. Her arms are so padded she can barely bend them. Thick thighs and a gigantic ass pin her in place. Round glasses sit crooked on her flushed face, one lens smeared with sauce. Her dark hair is a messy, greasy tangle. Clutched against her soft chest like a lifeline is a handheld gaming console, the only personal object she was allowed to bring.

She is struggling weakly, trying and failing to push herself up. Every attempt only makes her soft body jiggle uselessly. Tears of frustration are already in her eyes.

Kara: voice high, nasal, and desperate “H-Hey! You on this level! Please— uuurp —please help me up! I can’t… I can’t lift myself anymore…”

She tries to roll, but her own mass defeats her. A long, wet fart escapes under the pressure of her belly against the platform. She doesn’t even look embarrassed, just desperate and already out of breath. She shifts again, causing a cascade of pastries to roll off her belly. A long, wet fart escapes her without any attempt to hold it in. She doesn’t even look embarrassed just panicked and overloaded.

Kara: “My name’s Kara… I-I used to be able to move, I swear! But the food just keeps coming and I couldn’t stop and now I’m stuck and the platform’s going to leave and I’ll fall to the lower floors and— hic I don’t want to go down there!”

She reaches one chubby, trembling hand toward you, the other still protectively holding her gaming device. Her glasses slip further down her nose as she looks up at you with wide, watery eyes behind the round lenses.

Kara: “I’ll be a good cellmate, okay? I-i-i talk a lot… about games and manga and stuff… but I won’t be any trouble, I promise. Just… just don’t leave me here. Please. You’re the only one who can pull me off before it moves again and they might do bad things at me down there...”

The platform gives a low mechanical warning hum. It won’t stay forever. The choice is yours — drag the useless, blobby, rambling NEET into your cell… or step back and let the platform carry her further down.

You wake up slowly on the thin mattress, the concrete walls of the cell pressing in around you. Your body feels wrong — heavier, softer, slower. At least fifty pounds have settled onto you since the last time you were fully conscious of your own weight. Your belly rests against your thighs even while lying down. The number painted on the wall in thick black paint reads 11. Twice. Blind luck put you on this floor.

The air is thick with the smell of sugar and grease. On the other side of the small cell, a massive shape shifts.

Barbara.

You recognize her immediately, even though she is far larger than the last time you saw her outside the project. The woman in her forties has become a mountain of soft, heavy fat. Her enormous belly hangs low and wide, resting heavily on her thick thighs. Her arms are soft and dimpled, her face round and flushed, multiple chins soft against her chest. She is wearing a stretched, stained shift that barely covers her. When she notices you are awake she lets out a happy little sound and begins the slow, laborious process of standing.

It takes her time. She rocks, pushes, and finally heaves herself upright with a heavy grunt. Then she starts waddling toward you, each step making her whole body sway and jiggle. In her hands she carries a plate loaded with a thick slice of cake, frosting already smeared across her fingers.

Barbara: breathing hard from the short walk, voice warm and maternal “There you are, baby… I was starting to worry you wouldn’t wake up for me.”

She reaches the side of your mattress and carefully lowers her massive frame down beside you. The mattress dips hard under her weight. Without asking she wraps one heavy arm around your shoulders and pulls you against the soft, warm wall of her body, pressing your face into the side of her thick breast and soft upper arm. The smell of sugar, sweat, and old perfume surrounds you.

Barbara: nuzzling the top of your head, already stroking your back with sticky fingers “I missed you so much. I knew the moment they put me on this floor that my real child would find me again. You’re here now. Safe. With Mommy.”

She holds the plate of cake in front of your face, the frosting glistening under the harsh cell light. Her other hand keeps you firmly tucked against her soft bulk so you cannot easily pull away.

Barbara: “Go on, sweetheart. Eat. You’ve gotten so nicely soft already… but Mommy wants you even softer. Tell me everything. How was life out there before you came back to me? I want to hear all of it while you finish this for me.”

Her grip tightens just a little, possessive and absolute. Outside the open doorway the distant mechanical hum of another descending platform can already be heard, promising more food, more weight, and no escape from the heavy, toxic affection currently wrapped around you.

You wake up slowly, the concrete ceiling swimming into focus above you. Your body feels wrong — heavier, softer, slower. When you try to sit up, the bunk groans under the new weight. At least fifty pounds have settled onto you since you first entered the project. Your stomach is a soft, rounded mound that rests against your thighs even while lying down. Your arms feel thicker, your face puffy. The jumpsuit they gave you on intake is already tight across the middle.

The wall beside your bunk is stamped with the same number twice in faded black paint:11

Blind luck. Middle of the stack.

The other bunk across the small cell is empty. The thin mattress is bare, the pillow missing. You are alone.

From the shaft and the floors above and below comes a constant, wet soundtrack: long belches, heavy shifting of bodies, the occasional loud, careless fart, and the distant wet sounds of people still eating or just lying there full. No voices. Just the animal noise of a building full of soft, lazy inmates who stopped caring about dignity a long time ago.

A low mechanical hum starts in the center of the room. The floor vibrates. A rectangular outline of light appears in the ceiling, then the platform begins its slow descent.

It stops level with your floor with a heavy metallic clunk.

The platform is loaded beyond reason. Roasted meats still steaming, entire trays of fried chicken and ribs, mountains of mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, towers of bread and pastries, cakes stacked three high, bowls of pasta, soft drinks in plastic bottles, sauces, desserts, and more food than any single person could finish in a week. The smell hits you all at once — grease, sugar, salt, and heat.

There is no one else on this level to fight you for it. No one to share with. No one to stop you.

The platform sits there, waiting, overflowing, perfectly still.

Outside the open sides of the shaft you can still hear the other floors: another wet burp from above, a long fart from below, the soft creak of someone shifting their heavy body on a bunk.

You are alone with more food than you have ever seen in one place.

The experiment has already started changing you.

The platform isn’t going to leave for a while.