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Wideload Wolf

Greg doesn't come back until later that night, walking into the kitchen and serveying the damage. The table is picked clean, the trays apparently spotlessly licked clean. In the corner is a a blob of grey colored fur. "Well, you certainly enjoyed yourself," he says walking over and taking in the increase in mass. You groan, to stuffed to even attept to talk. If you were considered fat before, you'd now be considered whale like in your proportions, laiden with enough flab to put sumo wrestlers to shame. You arms are thicker then Greg's thighs, bloated rings of fat resting on rolls of chest flab so that you can barely bend them. You legs are thinker then tree trunks, forced apart at a 90 degree angle by yout bloated stomach that spreads across the floor. your face seems like your storing an extra pizza or two in them, your neck nonexistant as it is lost in the tire of fat that leads into the twin mounds of pectoral fat laying atop the mountain of a gut. Your shirt exploded off you some time ago, even the sprey on stretch not able to deal with the increase, while your pants have split at the seams. "P-p-p..." you sputter.

"I think you've had enough for today," syas Greg, grinning, "Besides, I need you somewhat coherent tomorrow when the all-you-can-eat special starts. And besides, any bigger and you'll be to big to even move, let alone sell my pizza." he says. He begin's hauling you to your feet, panting and grunting against the weight of you. "Omph, better invest in a sturdier chair. Make that two, heh!" he jokes, "We'll need to name you lardass lupine!"

Your new size makes it impossible for you to get out of the store, and even the stairway is too narrow for you to get to the guest room, instead, Gerg situates you in a spare room downstairs that was meant for storage, using a pile of flour bags as a makeshift bed for your overgrown frame. You collapse onto it, your form wobbling mightily as your groan, messaging your engorged middle, at least what you can reach of it, wishing never to see food again while you moan for another slice.

By the next morning, you've recovered enough to attempt moving without feeling like a stuffed turkey. Unfortunatly your blob-like frame makes it pretty much inmossible to get up on your own, forcing you to wait until Greg decided to come and get you. He comes with a new set of clothing, which he spreys liberally with the spray on stretch before forcing it on you, pulling the uniform shirt over you and down over your middle until it is stretched so far it appears like a family sized tent, complete with his Pizzaria logo across it, which may as well be a billboard across your stomach. "Time to get to work, remember, sell pizza now, and you'll get some later." he promises, tapping into your weakness.

You waddle out to the front area, wobbling with every step, and situate yourself in fron of the register, looking like giant balloon. Pretty soon, it'll be all over, Greg will have enslaved the city to his pizza, and anyone who knows will be too big and to addicted to do anything about it!


Written by an anonymous author

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