Jon Arbuckle lumbered into his tile-floored kitchen, rubbing his head. His fingers tousled his curly, brown hair, and his heavy eyes looked to the off-white fridge.
He had just gotten chewed out by his editor. Doubts and worries swirled in his head. He needed something to take the edge off. Cheesy, tomato-y pasta would do the trick.
Jon opened the top half of the fridge, its freezer. His hands pushed aside frigid bags of frozen vegetables and stiff packs of raw meat. Not a single box of lasagna remained, even though he had just stocked up on four of them.
A deep, damp belch rumbled behind him.
He shut the freezer and turned around.
The lazy, fatass tabby, Gothfield, lounged in a tan recliner in the living room. Her fuzzy, orange hindpaws had long, sharp claws, painted black. Her chubby calves, slashed with stripes of black fur, bulged through her fishnet stockings. She slacked in the chair, pushing her knees out from the seat's edge. Thick, pillowy thighs melted over the edge of the chair, oozing out below her loose, leather skirt. She sank into a wide crater mashed down by her flabby ass. Her increasing weight had squashed a deep divot over her months of lounging on her behind.
Her broad, bloated gut gurgled across her blubbery lap. The lower roll of her stomach splayed wide, swallowing most of her skirt under orange lard. Her upper stomach pushed a firm dome into her black, distressed halter top. That upper tummy jutted sharply upward from her meaty lower roll, and it billowed wider than her curvy waist folds. Two hefty tits slumped on top of it. The twin orbs of fat plumped up over her arcing gut and rolled over to either side. Their sloppy girth pulled her neckline low, showing a peek of her puffy areolas. And, to the sides, they hung mere centimeters above her lower stomach. A stack of emptied cardboard trays occupied her rack.
Her plump arms laid over the arms of the chair. A ballooned chin padded her mandible, while several whiskers poked out from her chubby muzzle. Black eyeshadow drenched her drooping eyelids. She was always drowsy, whether from her bored temperament or from her predilection for binges. Long, orange bangs draped between her triangular ears and over her right eye. Over the back of her head, her hair fell short of her shoulders.
She cracked a burp into her fist, rippling her cheeks and wobbling her tits. "Ah, fuck... I overdid it on the lasagna again."
Jon's blood boiled. "Did you binge all of my TV dinners in a single night?!
She thumbed to the end table by the chair, where one, solitary lasagna remained untouched. "There's still one left."
"That's beside the point! For Chrissakes, the amount of my food that you eat is more than your share of the rent!"
Gothfield blinked, disinterested. "It's not my fault the record store pays like shit. Anyway, I need a belly rub."
Jon hesitated. "What was that?"
She set the lasagna trays aside on the table. "Don't make it weird. It's just my stomach." She patted her stiff tummy, jiggling it.
Jon shook his head. "You rub it yourself. I need dinner."
Gothfield chortled. "Alright, Jon. Do the same thing you do every night. Eat dinner in front of the TV. Sit there while it buries you in images and sounds. Then drag yourself to your bed and sob yourself to sleep."
"Better than you! You just sit and eat and get fat!"
"Whatever. You just don't get it." Gothfield scritched her lower stomach, kneading its doughy girth. Her fingers toyed enticingly at its thick, plush heft.
Jon gulped. He knelt by Gothfield and put his hands on her hard, upper gut.
It held tight under his fingertips. Its bulbous exterior burbled busily.
His fingers trembled nervously at the tender feeling of her taut stomach. Carefully, he stroked it. "You sound like you're actually happy with this!" He felt the urge to grope it, but he restrained himself.
