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“Question 3: The Graphic Novel ‘Watchmen’ was penned by which comic book artist?”
    I frowned. After the previous two questions this one seemed comically easy. I opened my mouth to answer but stopped short. The monitor displayed the question in white block text, but above it, space had been allocated for a live feed of my chest, The buttons on the front of my blouse were strained tight and the words “Wardrobe Malfunction Imminent” flashed in time with the rise and fall of my chest pulling at the fabric and creating widows between the buttons to see the soft pink flesh below.

    “H-hey!” I yelped, covering my chest with my hands. “You can’t just--”

    “Fifteen seconds, Tiffany.”

    For a moment I couldn’t remember what the question was. I looked up to the monitor but now the image of my chest filled the entire screen. If I couldn’t remember the question I’d blow up again and this time there’s be no chance for my blouse to survive. My tits would spill out for all the world to see, including Ellie who was likely panicking backstage. The audience began counting down, conducted by the teleprompter.

    “Ten…” Something about comic books. “...Nine…Eight...Seven...” Right, Watchmen. Who wrote Watchmen? The counting made it impossible to concentrate. “...Six... Five... Four…” The audience was practically salivating over the chance to watch my public humiliation.

    “Alan Moore!” I finally yelled. Immediately the studio went quiet. Chris always waited a moment before confirming whether or not a contestant had answered correctly, but it was obvious by the reaction of the crowd that most of them already knew I wouldn’t be growing.

    “Oh… Bad luck Tiffany. That is incorrect.”

    “What!” I shout, but my indignation is quickly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. I’m still yelling when Chris waves a hand to silence the audience.

    “Sorry about that, Tiff. What were you saying?”

    “Alan Moore wrote Watchmen!” I insisted. I was sure of my answer, I was halfway convinced that the show was so eager to make an example of me that they’re willing to cheat to do it.

    “Correct. Alan Moore did write Watchmen, but the question was: ‘Which comic book artist penned watchman.The art for the series was penned by Dave Gibbons and colored by John Higgins. I’m afraid that’s another fifty pounds.

    The unilluminated yellow stripe behind me lit up a bright red to match the one below it and the buzzer sounded again. Before I could protest I was frozen by the same sensation of warmth in my chest as the tingling feeling spread across my body, like ants marching along my arms
    I couldn’t have told you what my exact weight had been before the show, but It couldn’t have been more than thirty pounds below 150. This growth was more significant as I felt myself swell up like dough rising in an oven.

    My blouse hung on. The spaces between buttons growing wider even as the tails of my shirt were pulled out from my skirt as they began to migrate upward over my steadily expanding middle. I was getting fatter at a constant rate, and I could only watch, eyes darting between my growing bust and the full-body view of myself on the monitor.

    There was a tearing sound and the camera shifted to show a rip forming down the back of my skirt to accomodate my expanding behind. It peeled down a few inches before stopping, like a zipper being let out despite the fact the skirt had previously been one piece of fabric. The tear allowed the skirt to slip lower on my hips which in turn made room for my belly which was mercifully still covered by my shirt-tails, though I could feel it swelling larger.

     The pressure on my chest was excruciating, but just as I thought my shirt would finally burst, there was a loud pop, and one of the dark round buttons from my vest flew outward and fell into the darkness surrounding my tiny island. With the top button of my vest gone my tits spilled outward, taking the blouse with them, tugging it up from under the vest, but mercifully keeping my breasts covered. My belly wasn’t so lucky. With most of my shirt tucked under my boobs my stomach was free to poke out from the bottom of the vest. Round and gravity defying with a slight crease at the bottom, the first sign of how much more flesh I was carrying was now visible to the audience and they roared and jeered in approval.

    The tingling faded and I staggered forward, widening my stance on my wider thighs in order to make up for my altered center of gravity. I tried to gasp, but was cut short by the tightness of my clothes. The buttons of my vest and blouse were so strained that any wrong move might burst them. There was no way that they would have fit had I not grown into them and inches of soft flab had been compressed by the taut fabric.

    “Oh my, that top is hanging on by a seam. Don’t make any sudden movements.”

    I didn’t answer. I was too busy trying to process my feelings to handle banter. I glanced at the screen in the corner and winced at how ridiculous I looked. bulging out of a suit that barely covered my tits, with love handles hanging over my skirt. I felt like a sausage roll. Millions of people were watching me get fat on live TV and rooting for me to get even bigger. By all accounts I should be livid. This was usually the part where the contestant had a meltdown. Chris was expecting me to lash out or beg for him to turn the cameras off.

    “Tiff?” He asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I’m sure the people at home would love to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

    I opened my mouth to speak but was instead greeted by an audible rumble from my tummy. I blushed, hands dropping to the exposed flesh of my stomach in confusion.

    “Side effect of the process I’m afraid.” Chris said, with mock sympathy. “I’m sure someone like you is familiar with ‘the munchies.’”

    I tensed but didn’t respond. I wanted to scream, but I knew that that would just be giving him what he wanted. Instead I simply looked up at him before asking:

    “What’s the next question?”

    His smile faltered, but only for a moment. He shrugged, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before reading:
“Question 4: Who was the first Female space traveler?”

Description

- Next >
Title Page

“Question 3: The Graphic Novel ‘Watchmen’ was penned by which comic book artist?”
    I frowned. After the previous two questions this one seemed comically easy. I opened my mouth to answer but stopped short. The monitor displayed the question in white block text, but above it, space had been allocated for a live feed of my chest, The buttons on the front of my blouse were strained tight and the words “Wardrobe Malfunction Imminent” flashed in time with the rise and fall of my chest pulling at the fabric and creating widows between the buttons to see the soft pink flesh below.

    “H-hey!” I yelped, covering my chest with my hands. “You can’t just--”

    “Fifteen seconds, Tiffany.”

    For a moment I couldn’t remember what the question was. I looked up to the monitor but now the image of my chest filled the entire screen. If I couldn’t remember the question I’d blow up again and this time there’s be no chance for my blouse to survive. My tits would spill out for all the world to see, including Ellie who was likely panicking backstage. The audience began counting down, conducted by the teleprompter.

    “Ten…” Something about comic books. “...Nine…Eight...Seven...” Right, Watchmen. Who wrote Watchmen? The counting made it impossible to concentrate. “...Six... Five... Four…” The audience was practically salivating over the chance to watch my public humiliation.

    “Alan Moore!” I finally yelled. Immediately the studio went quiet. Chris always waited a moment before confirming whether or not a contestant had answered correctly, but it was obvious by the reaction of the crowd that most of them already knew I wouldn’t be growing.

    “Oh… Bad luck Tiffany. That is incorrect.”

    “What!” I shout, but my indignation is quickly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. I’m still yelling when Chris waves a hand to silence the audience.

    “Sorry about that, Tiff. What were you saying?”

    “Alan Moore wrote Watchmen!” I insisted. I was sure of my answer, I was halfway convinced that the show was so eager to make an example of me that they’re willing to cheat to do it.

    “Correct. Alan Moore did write Watchmen, but the question was: ‘Which comic book artist penned watchman.The art for the series was penned by Dave Gibbons and colored by John Higgins. I’m afraid that’s another fifty pounds.

    The unilluminated yellow stripe behind me lit up a bright red to match the one below it and the buzzer sounded again. Before I could protest I was frozen by the same sensation of warmth in my chest as the tingling feeling spread across my body, like ants marching along my arms
    I couldn’t have told you what my exact weight had been before the show, but It couldn’t have been more than thirty pounds below 150. This growth was more significant as I felt myself swell up like dough rising in an oven.

    My blouse hung on. The spaces between buttons growing wider even as the tails of my shirt were pulled out from my skirt as they began to migrate upward over my steadily expanding middle. I was getting fatter at a constant rate, and I could only watch, eyes darting between my growing bust and the full-body view of myself on the monitor.

    There was a tearing sound and the camera shifted to show a rip forming down the back of my skirt to accomodate my expanding behind. It peeled down a few inches before stopping, like a zipper being let out despite the fact the skirt had previously been one piece of fabric. The tear allowed the skirt to slip lower on my hips which in turn made room for my belly which was mercifully still covered by my shirt-tails, though I could feel it swelling larger.

     The pressure on my chest was excruciating, but just as I thought my shirt would finally burst, there was a loud pop, and one of the dark round buttons from my vest flew outward and fell into the darkness surrounding my tiny island. With the top button of my vest gone my tits spilled outward, taking the blouse with them, tugging it up from under the vest, but mercifully keeping my breasts covered. My belly wasn’t so lucky. With most of my shirt tucked under my boobs my stomach was free to poke out from the bottom of the vest. Round and gravity defying with a slight crease at the bottom, the first sign of how much more flesh I was carrying was now visible to the audience and they roared and jeered in approval.

    The tingling faded and I staggered forward, widening my stance on my wider thighs in order to make up for my altered center of gravity. I tried to gasp, but was cut short by the tightness of my clothes. The buttons of my vest and blouse were so strained that any wrong move might burst them. There was no way that they would have fit had I not grown into them and inches of soft flab had been compressed by the taut fabric.

    “Oh my, that top is hanging on by a seam. Don’t make any sudden movements.”

    I didn’t answer. I was too busy trying to process my feelings to handle banter. I glanced at the screen in the corner and winced at how ridiculous I looked. bulging out of a suit that barely covered my tits, with love handles hanging over my skirt. I felt like a sausage roll. Millions of people were watching me get fat on live TV and rooting for me to get even bigger. By all accounts I should be livid. This was usually the part where the contestant had a meltdown. Chris was expecting me to lash out or beg for him to turn the cameras off.

    “Tiff?” He asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I’m sure the people at home would love to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

    I opened my mouth to speak but was instead greeted by an audible rumble from my tummy. I blushed, hands dropping to the exposed flesh of my stomach in confusion.

    “Side effect of the process I’m afraid.” Chris said, with mock sympathy. “I’m sure someone like you is familiar with ‘the munchies.’”

    I tensed but didn’t respond. I wanted to scream, but I knew that that would just be giving him what he wanted. Instead I simply looked up at him before asking:

    “What’s the next question?”

    His smile faltered, but only for a moment. He shrugged, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before reading:
“Question 4: Who was the first Female space traveler?”