Feast of Desire

The helicopter blades chop the air into a rhythm I can feel in my teeth. Below us, the island rises out of the turquoise Caribbean like a fever dream, all jagged black volcanic rock and impossible green. A mansion squats at its center, white stucco and glass, the kind of place that costs more per night than my entire apartment building is worth.

I'm squeezed between Marisol and Tasha on a leather bench seat that probably costs more than my car. Marisol's knee bounces against mine, a nervous tic she's had since college. Tasha hasn't stopped grinning since we lifted off from San Juan.

"Look at that," Tasha says, pressing her face to the window. "That's ours for six weeks."

"Ours to share with eight other women and a camera crew," I remind her.

"Details." She waves her hand. "Details, details."

The pilot's voice crackles through our headsets. "Five minutes out. Buckle up, ladies."

I check my harness for the third time. Through the window, the mansion's infinity pool catches the afternoon sun like a blade. I can see the terraced gardens, the outdoor kitchen with its stone pizza oven, the cabanas draped in white linen. Everything about this place screams excess. That's the point, I guess.

*Feast or Famine*. That's the show. The premise is simple enough: ten thin women, one luxury island, six weeks to see who can gain the most weight. The winner takes home half a million dollars. The losers get nothing but whatever they gained and whatever they learned about themselves.

When I first saw the casting call, I thought it was a joke. Some kind of fetish thing disguised as reality TV. But then I read the fine print. The medical supervision, the nutritional support, the psychological counseling. The fact that they'd pay us ten grand just for showing up, win or lose. And the more I thought about it, the more the idea burrowed under my skin.

I'm twenty-five years old. I've been thin my whole life. Not skinny, exactly, but the kind of thin that comes from a fast metabolism and a mother who counted every calorie that passed my lips until I moved out at eighteen. I've never weighed more than a hundred and fifteen pounds. I've never had to think about my body except as something to maintain, something to keep small.

The idea of letting go. Of eating whatever I want, whenever I want, as much as I want. Of watching my body change in ways I've never allowed. It terrifies me.

It also makes me wet.

I shift on the seat, pressing my thighs together. Marisol glances at me, and I force my face into something neutral. She's been my best friend since freshman year of college, and she knows me too well. She'd see right through any lie I tried to tell.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Fine. Just nervous."

"Me too." She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I still can't believe we're doing this."

"Whose idea was it again?" Tasha asks, leaning forward.

"Mine," I say. "And you both agreed."

"Because you're persuasive." Tasha's grin widens. "And because ten grand is ten grand."

"And because we're all curious," Marisol adds. "Admit it."

Tasha shrugs. "I'm curious about a lot of things. This is just the first one that involves a private island and unlimited room service."

The helicopter banks left, and I get a better view of the mansion. It's even bigger than I thought. Three stories, wings stretching out on either side, a central tower with a glass observation deck at the top. The grounds are manicured within an inch of their lives. I count four pools, a tennis court, a maze made of hedges, and what looks like a private beach with white sand imported from somewhere that isn't here.

"Welcome to Eden," the pilot says. "You're the last group to arrive."

*The last group*. That means six other women are already down there. Six other contestants. Six other bodies I'll be competing against.

The helicopter touches down on a concrete pad behind the mansion. The blades slow, and the noise fades, replaced by the sound of waves and birds and the distant hum of generators. A crew member in khaki shorts opens the door and helps us out one by one.

The heat hits me like a wall. Humid, heavy, scented with frangipani and salt. My sundress sticks to my back immediately. I should have worn something lighter.

"Right this way," the crew member says. "Production wants you in the main hall for orientation."

We follow him along a stone path lined with palm trees. The mansion looms ahead, its windows reflecting the sky. I can hear voices inside, women laughing, the clink of glasses. My stomach tightens.

The main hall is cavernous. Cathedral ceilings, marble floors, a chandelier that looks like it was stolen from a European palace. Long tables are arranged in a U-shape, covered in white cloth and loaded with food. I mean loaded. Platters of fruit, wheels of cheese, baskets of bread, bowls of olives, plates of pastries, pitchers of juice and cream. My mouth waters just looking at it.

Eight women are already seated at the tables. They're all thin. All beautiful. All wearing the same nervous, excited expression I'm trying to hide. I scan their faces, trying to get a read on the competition.

There's a tall blonde with legs for days, a petite Asian woman with a dancer's posture, a redhead with freckles across her nose, a Black woman with close-cropped hair and arms that look strong enough to lift me over her head. The others blur together, but I'll learn their names soon enough.

A woman in a sharp blazer stands at the head of the table. She's not thin. She's not fat either. She's something in between, soft and curved and confident, the kind of body that makes you think of comfort and indulgence. Her name tag says *Dr. Reyes*.

"Welcome," she says, her voice warm. "Please, sit. Eat. We have a lot to cover."

I take a seat between Marisol and Tasha, directly across from the tall blonde. She gives me a small smile. I return it.

Dr. Reyes waits until we're all settled, then continues. "You've all read the contract. You know what you're signing up for. But I want to be clear about what this experience will involve. This isn't a crash diet in reverse. This isn't about bingeing and purging or eating until you feel sick. This is about sustainable, intentional weight gain. About learning to listen to your body's hunger cues and respond to them without guilt or restriction."

She pauses, letting that sink in.

"Over the next six weeks, you'll be weighed daily. You'll meet with nutritionists and therapists. You'll participate in challenges designed to help you explore your relationship with food, with your body, and with pleasure. The goal is for each of you to gain as much weight as you can, as healthily as you can, while supporting each other through the process."

*Supporting each other*. Right. Because nothing says sisterhood like competing to see who can get the fattest.

"The winner will be determined by percentage of body weight gained," Dr. Reyes continues. "So the woman who starts at a hundred pounds and gains fifty will beat the woman who starts at a hundred and fifty and gains fifty. This is about transformation, not absolute numbers."

I do the math in my head. I'm a hundred and twelve pounds. If I gain fifty, that's a forty-five percent increase. That would put me at a hundred and sixty-two. I try to picture myself at that weight. Rounder. Softer. My thighs touching when I walk. My belly spilling over the waistband of my jeans.

The thought makes my chest tight. It also makes something else tight, lower down.

"The challenges will vary," Dr. Reyes says. "Some will be individual. Some will be team-based. Some will be public, filmed for the show. Others will be private, just for you and your assigned counselor. All of them are designed to push you out of your comfort zone and help you discover what you're capable of."

A woman across the table raises her hand. "What kind of challenges?"

Dr. Reyes smiles. "You'll find out soon enough. For now, I want you to eat. Get comfortable. Get to know each other. The first weigh-in is tomorrow morning at seven."

She gestures to the tables, and the crew members step forward to pour drinks and serve food. I reach for a croissant before I can think about it, tearing off a piece and popping it into my mouth. The butter melts on my tongue. It's the best thing I've ever tasted.

"Okay," Tasha murmurs, loading her plate with fruit and cheese. "I could get used to this."

Marisol is more hesitant. She takes a small portion of scrambled eggs and a single slice of toast. I watch her cut the toast into tiny squares, the way she always does when she's anxious.

"Eat," I tell her. "You're going to need your strength."

She gives me a look. "I'm not going to stuff myself at orientation. That's weird."

"It's not weird. It's the whole point."

"I know. I just..." She trails off, shrugging.

I don't push. Marisol has her own reasons for being here. We all do. I just hope hers don't get in the way of what she wants.

The tall blonde across from me leans forward. "I'm Sloane," she says. "From Dallas."

"Riley," I say. "New York. These are my friends Marisol and Tasha."

"Nice to meet you." Sloane's eyes flick over my body, quick and assessing. "You're tiny. You'll have an advantage."

"Maybe. Or maybe I'll just get fat faster."

She laughs. "That's the spirit."

The meal continues. I eat more than I should, more than I normally would, but it feels good. The food is incredible. The company is easy. The wine is cold and crisp and goes straight to my head.

By the time Dr. Reyes dismisses us, I'm pleasantly full and slightly drunk. A crew member leads us to our rooms, which are spread across the mansion's second floor. I get a corner suite with a king-sized bed, a walk-in closet, and a bathroom with a tub big enough to swim in.

The bed is covered in silk sheets. On the nightstand, there's a basket of chocolates and a note that says *Welcome to Eden. Eat well. Rest well. Tomorrow, we begin.*

I kick off my sandals and fall onto the bed. The silk is cool against my skin. I stare at the ceiling, trying to process everything that's happened in the last twelve hours.

I'm on a private island. I'm a contestant on a game show. I'm going to gain weight. A lot of it. On purpose.

And I'm excited.

That's the part I can't quite wrap my head around. I should be scared. I should be second-guessing this whole thing. Instead, I'm lying here with a full belly and a racing heart, thinking about tomorrow's weigh-in, about the challenges to come, about what it will feel like to watch my body change.

My phone buzzes. A text from Marisol: *You awake?*

*Yeah*, I type back.

*Can I come over?*

*Door's unlocked.*

A minute later, she slips into my room. She's wearing an oversized t-shirt and no makeup, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looks young. Vulnerable.

"I can't sleep," she says.

"Me neither."

She sits on the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread on the duvet. "Are you really okay with this? Like, actually okay?"

I sit up, crossing my legs. "I think so. Are you?"

"I don't know." She won't look at me. "I've spent my whole life trying to be small. Trying to take up as little space as possible. And now I'm supposed to do the opposite? It feels wrong."

"It's not wrong. It's just different."

"Different how?"

I think about it. "Different because for once, we're not doing it for anyone else. We're not trying to fit into someone's idea of what we should be. We're just... eating. Growing. Becoming."

Marisol finally meets my eyes. "Becoming what?"

"Whatever we want."

She's quiet for a long moment. Then she says, "I'm scared I'll like it too much."

The words hang in the air between us. I know exactly what she means. I've felt it too, that flicker of something dark and hungry every time I've let myself eat past full, every time I've imagined what it would be like to just stop caring.

"Maybe that's okay," I say. "Maybe liking it isn't the worst thing in the world."

She shakes her head. "You don't get it. I've been fighting this my whole life. The urge to eat. The urge to just... let go. If I stop fighting, I don't know who I'll be."

"You'll be you. Just a different version."

"That's what scares me."

I reach out and take her hand. Her fingers are cold. "You don't have to do this alone. We're in it together. You, me, Tasha. Whatever happens."

She squeezes my hand. "Promise?"

"Promise."

She stays for another hour, and we talk about nothing and everything. College memories. Old boyfriends. The time we got drunk on cheap wine and tried to bake a cake from scratch and ended up ordering pizza instead. By the time she leaves, I'm exhausted but calmer.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, and crawl under the covers. The sheets smell like lavender. Outside, the ocean murmurs against the shore. I close my eyes and let myself drift.

Tomorrow, I'll step on a scale. Tomorrow, I'll eat breakfast with nine other women who are just as scared and excited as I am. Tomorrow, this whole strange, terrifying, thrilling experiment begins.

Tonight, I sleep.

The weigh-in is at seven sharp. We gather in a room that looks like a spa and a doctor's office had a baby: white tile, soft lighting, a digital scale that looks like it belongs in a science lab. Dr. Reyes is there, along with a nurse and a camera crew that films everything from three different angles.

We line up in alphabetical order. I'm near the end, which gives me time to watch the others. Sloane goes first. She steps on the scale with the confidence of someone who's never been ashamed of her body. The digital display flashes: 128.4. She smiles and steps off.

The petite dancer is next. 103.2. Then the redhead. 119.8. Then the Black woman with the strong arms. 134.6. The numbers tick by, each one a starting point, a baseline for whatever transformation is to come.

When it's my turn, I feel like I'm walking to my own execution. My heart hammers against my ribs. My palms are sweaty. I step on the scale and force myself to look at the display.

112.6.

Dr. Reyes writes it down. "Thank you, Riley. You can step down."

I do. My legs are shaking. I don't know why. It's just a number. It doesn't mean anything yet.

After the weigh-in, we're sent to breakfast. The dining room is set up like a buffet, and this time there's no pretense of moderation. Pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, pastries, fruit, yogurt, granola, juice, coffee, tea. Everything you could possibly want, and more.

I load my plate. Then I load it again.

Tasha sits across from me, already halfway through a stack of pancakes. "This is insane," she says, her mouth full. "I've never seen this much food in my life."

"Eat up," I tell her. "We've got six weeks."

She grins. "Don't have to tell me twice."

Marisol is more hesitant, but she's eating. Small bites, but steady. I catch her eye and give her an encouraging nod. She nods back.

After breakfast, we're divided into groups for our first challenge. I'm with Sloane, the dancer, and two other women I haven't met yet: a quiet brunette named Elena and a bubbly blonde named Chloe. We're led to the outdoor kitchen, where a chef is waiting for us.

"Welcome to your first challenge," Dr. Reyes says. "Today, you'll be working together to create the most decadent, calorie-dense dessert you can. You'll have access to every ingredient in this kitchen, plus a few special additions. The team whose dessert has the highest calorie count wins a private spa day. The losing team has to clean the entire kitchen."

Sloane cracks her knuckles. "I've got this."

We huddle up. The chef shows us the ingredients: butter, cream, chocolate, sugar, eggs, flour, nuts, caramel, marshmallows, peanut butter, bacon, and a dozen other things I can't identify. There's also a locked cabinet that the chef opens to reveal jars of something called "calorie paste," which looks like peanut butter but is apparently designed to add hundreds of calories per spoonful.

"We could make a cake," Elena suggests.

"Too basic," Sloane says. "We need something dense. Something that packs a punch."

"What about a cheesecake?" Chloe offers. "With a brownie crust and caramel drizzle?"

"Better." Sloane nods. "But we can do more."

I think about it. "What if we make a trifle? Layers of brownie, cheesecake filling, pudding, whipped cream, and caramel. We can add the calorie paste to the pudding and the filling. It'll be heavy but it'll taste good."

Sloane's eyes light up. "I like it. Let's do it."

We get to work. It's chaotic and messy and fun. Sloane is a natural leader, barking orders and keeping us on track. Elena is precise, measuring everything to the gram. Chloe is creative, adding swirls of chocolate and sprinkles of sea salt. I focus on the pudding, stirring in the calorie paste until it's smooth and thick.

By the time we're done, we've created a monster. A trifle in a bowl the size of a birdbath, towering with layers of brownie, cream, pudding, and caramel. The chef weighs it, then calculates the calories.

"Fourteen thousand, two hundred," he announces.

We cheer. The other teams look at us with a mix of admiration and dread.

Dr. Reyes steps forward. "Congratulations. You've won the spa day. But before you celebrate, I want each of you to eat a serving of your creation. Consider it a preview of what's to come."

A serving. She hands us bowls and spoons. The trifle is rich and sweet and almost overwhelming. I take a bite, then another. The calorie paste makes it taste slightly nutty, but mostly it just tastes like indulgence. I finish my bowl and go back for seconds.

By the time we're done, I'm so full I can barely move. My stomach is distended, pressing against the waistband of my shorts. I feel heavy. Sluggish. And strangely, deeply satisfied.

Sloane catches my eye and smiles. "Not bad for day one."

"Not bad at all."

That night, I lie in bed with my hands on my belly. It's still full, still round, still processing the massive amount of food I've consumed. I press down gently, feeling the firmness beneath the softness. There's more there than there was yesterday. Not much. But something.

I think about the scale. 112.6. Tomorrow it'll be higher. The day after that, higher still. I think about my thighs, my hips, my breasts. I think about what they'll look like in a week, in a month, in six weeks.

The thought should scare me. Instead, it makes me ache.

I slide my hand lower, under the waistband of my underwear. I'm wet. I've been wet all day, I realize, a low hum of arousal that's been building since breakfast. I touch myself, slow and deliberate, thinking about the weight of my belly, the fullness of my stomach, the way my body is already starting to change.

I come harder than I have in months.

Afterward, I lie there, breathless and trembling. The ceiling fan spins above me. The ocean whispers outside. And somewhere deep in my chest, a voice that sounds like mine but isn't says: *More*.

The first week passes in a blur of food and challenges and weigh-ins. Every morning, we step on the scale. Every morning, the numbers creep up. Sloane gains two pounds. Elena gains three. Chloe gains one. I gain four.

Four pounds in seven days. It doesn't sound like much, but I can feel it. My shorts are tighter. My bra leaves red marks on my ribs. My belly, which has always been flat, now has a soft curve to it, a gentle swell that I can't stop touching.

Marisol gains two pounds. Tasha gains three. We celebrate with a midnight feast, ordering room service and eating until we can't move. Tasha falls asleep on my floor. Marisol curls up on my bed. I lie between them, too full to sleep, too happy to care.

The challenges get harder. There's a pie-eating contest that leaves me sticky and triumphant. There's a milkshake challenge where we have to drink as many as we can in an hour. There's a cooking competition where we're judged on both taste and calorie content. I win two out of three.

By the end of the second week, I've gained eight pounds. My body is different now. Softer. Rounder. My breasts are fuller, my hips wider, my belly a constant presence that presses against my waistband and peeks out from under my shirts. I catch myself looking in the mirror, turning this way and that, marveling at the changes.

I'm not thin anymore. I'm not fat either. I'm something in between, something new, something that feels more like me than the old version ever did.

The other women are changing too. Sloane's thighs have thickened, her ass filling out her jeans in a way that makes me stare. Elena's face has gotten rounder, her cheeks fuller, her smile wider. Chloe's belly has started to pooch, a soft little paunch that she shows off with crop tops. Even Marisol, who's been the most hesitant, has gained five pounds. Her arms are softer. Her waist is thicker. She looks healthier. Happier.

Tasha, meanwhile, is thriving. She's gained ten pounds, more than anyone else, and she wears her new weight like a badge of honor. Her breasts are huge now, spilling out of her tops. Her hips sway when she walks. She's always hungry, always eating, always laughing.

"I love this," she tells me one night, her mouth full of cheesecake. "I love everything about this. Why did we ever try to be thin?"

"Because we were taught to," I say.

"Well, I'm unlearning it." She takes another bite. "Fuck being small. I want to be huge."

The words send a shiver through me. I want that too. I want to be huge. I want to eat and grow and never stop.

The third week brings a new challenge: a feeding contest. Each of us is paired with a partner, and the goal is to feed our partner as much as possible in thirty minutes. The partner who eats the most wins.

I'm paired with Sloane. We sit across from each other at a table loaded with food: burgers, fries, pizza, pasta, milkshakes, cake. The timer starts, and Sloane begins to feed me.

She's good at it. She knows just how to pace me, how to alternate between savory and sweet, how to encourage me when I slow down. "Come on," she murmurs, holding a burger to my lips. "You can do it. Just a few more bites."

I eat. And eat. And eat. The food is warm and rich and endless. My stomach stretches, protests, then stretches again. I feel like I'm going to burst, but I keep going, because Sloane is watching me with those hungry eyes, and I want to impress her.

When the timer stops, I've eaten four burgers, two slices of pizza, a plate of pasta, a milkshake, and three slices of cake. I've won.

Sloane leans across the table and kisses me. It's not a friendly kiss. It's deep and searching and full of something I can't name. When she pulls back, her lips are smeared with grease, and she's smiling.

"Congratulations," she says.

I'm too full to speak. I just nod.

That night, I can't sleep. My stomach is still distended, still processing the mountain of food I've consumed. I lie in bed, one hand on my belly, and think about Sloane's kiss. About the way she looked at me. About the way I felt when she fed me, helpless and full and wanted.

I've never been with a woman before. I've never wanted to be. But something about Sloane makes me curious. Something about the way she takes charge, the way she pushes me past my limits, the way she looks at my growing body like it's a work of art.

I think about her hands on my belly. Her lips on my neck. Her voice in my ear, telling me to eat, telling me to grow, telling me I'm beautiful.

I fall asleep with my hand between my legs and her name on my lips.

The fourth week is when things get real. The weight is piling on now, faster than I expected. I'm up fifteen pounds, which puts me at 127.6. My body is completely different. My belly is round and soft, a proper paunch that hangs over my waistband. My thighs touch when I walk. My arms jiggle when I wave. My face is fuller, my cheeks rounder, my chin softer.

I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. But I like what I see. I like the curves. I like the softness. I like the way my body moves now, heavy and deliberate and sensual.

The others are changing too. Sloane has gained twelve pounds, her athletic frame now lush and full. Elena has gained fourteen, her dancer's body now soft and womanly. Chloe has gained thirteen, her belly a round little ball that she cradles like a pregnancy. Marisol has gained eleven, and she's finally stopped fighting it. She eats with gusto now, cleaning her plate and going back for seconds. She's happier than I've ever seen her.

Tasha has gained twenty pounds. She's the biggest of us all, her body transformed from thin and sexy to plump and sexy. Her breasts are enormous, her belly round and heavy, her ass wide and soft. She moves slowly now, deliberately, like every step is an effort. But she's never been more confident.

"I'm going to win," she tells me one afternoon, as we lounge by the pool. "I'm going to gain the most weight and take home the money and then I'm going to keep going. I'm going to get huge."

"How huge?"

She grins. "As huge as I want. I'm done with limits."

I think about that. About what it would mean to have no limits. To eat and grow and never stop. To let my body become whatever it wants to become.

The thought is terrifying. And thrilling.

That night, Sloane comes to my room. She doesn't knock. She just walks in, closes the door, and stands there looking at me.

"I want you," she says.

I don't pretend to be surprised. I've known this was coming. I've been waiting for it.

"I want you too," I say.

She crosses the room in three strides and pulls me into her arms. Her kiss is hungry, demanding, exactly what I've been craving. We fall onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and lips and hands. She undresses me slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of my new body.

"You're so beautiful," she murmurs, her lips against my belly. "So soft. So full."

I arch into her touch. "More," I whisper. "Please."

She gives me more. Her hands, her mouth, her tongue. She worships my body like it's a temple, like it's the most precious thing in the world. And when I come, it's with her name on my lips and her hands on my hips and the weight of my own body pressing me into the mattress.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied. She traces circles on my belly, which is still full from dinner.

"I want to feed you," she says.

"You just did."

"No. I mean, I want to feed you. Like, really feed you. I want to watch you eat until you can't eat anymore. I want to see your belly stretch and grow. I want to make you bigger."

The words send a jolt of arousal through me. "Why?"

"Because it turns me on. Because you're beautiful when you eat. Because I want to be the one who makes you fat."

I should be offended. I should be scared. Instead, I'm turned on beyond belief.

"Okay," I say. "Feed me."

She does. She orders room service, a feast of pasta and bread and cheese and dessert. She feeds me bite by bite, praising me, encouraging me, telling me how good I look, how big I'm getting, how much she loves watching me grow.

By the time I'm done, I'm so full I can barely breathe. My belly is distended, tight and round, pressing against Sloane's hands. She rubs it gently, soothingly, and I moan with pleasure.

"Good girl," she whispers. "You did so well."

I fall asleep in her arms, my belly full, my heart fuller.

The fifth week brings the final challenge: a twenty-four-hour eating marathon. We're each given a private room, a personal chef, and a camera crew to document everything. The goal is simple: eat as much as you can in twenty-four hours. The woman who consumes the most calories wins.

I start at midnight. The chef prepares a feast: pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, pastries, fruit, yogurt, granola. I eat until I can't eat anymore, then I rest, then I eat again. The hours blur together. I lose track of time. I lose track of everything except the food and the growing weight in my belly.

By the time the twenty-four hours are up, I've consumed over thirty thousand calories. I've gained five pounds in a single day. I'm so full I can barely move, my belly stretched tight and round, my body heavy and sluggish.

Tasha wins the marathon with thirty-five thousand calories. She's gained seven pounds in a day. She's enormous now, her body a monument to excess. She can barely walk, but she's grinning from ear to ear.

"I told you," she says, her voice thick with exhaustion and triumph. "I told you I'd win."

The final weigh-in is the next morning. We gather in the spa room, nervous and excited. Dr. Reyes reads the numbers one by one.

Chloe: 142.8. Total gain: 23 pounds.

Elena: 138.2. Total gain: 26 pounds.

Sloane: 145.6. Total gain: 29 pounds.

Marisol: 134.4. Total gain: 22 pounds.

Me: 147.2. Total gain: 34.6 pounds.

And then Tasha: 158.4. Total gain: 46 pounds.

She wins. She wins by a landslide. She wins the half a million dollars and the title of the fattest woman on the island.

But here's the thing: none of us feel like losers. We've all gained weight. We've all transformed. We've all discovered something about ourselves that we didn't know before.

That night, we celebrate. We order a feast and eat until we can't move. We toast to Tasha, to the show, to ourselves. We laugh and cry and hold each other. We talk about what comes next.

"I'm not going back," Tasha says. "I'm going to keep gaining. I'm going to get as big as I can."

"Me too," Sloane says.

"Me too," Elena and Chloe echo.

Marisol looks at me. "What about you?"

I think about my body. About the weight I've gained. About the way I feel when I eat, when I grow, when I let myself be exactly what I am.

"I'm not going back either," I say. "I'm going to keep going. I'm going to see how big I can get."

Marisol smiles. "Then I guess we're all in this together."

The show ends. The cameras stop rolling. The crew packs up and leaves. But we stay. We stay on the island, in the mansion, eating and growing and loving every minute of it.

Sloane and I become lovers. We feed each other, encourage each other, celebrate every pound. She gains twenty more pounds in the month after the show ends. I gain twenty-five. We're both over two hundred now, our bodies soft and round and heavy.

Tasha gains thirty. She's over two hundred and fifty, her body a testament to her determination. She's beautiful. She's huge. She's exactly what she wants to be.

Marisol gains fifteen. She's found her peace, her purpose, her pleasure. She's not as big as the rest of us, but she's happy. That's what matters.

We stay on the island for another six months. We eat and grow and explore our bodies and our desires. We learn what it means to be truly free, truly satisfied, truly ourselves.

And when we finally leave, when we finally return to the real world, we do so as different women. Bigger women. Happier women. Women who know exactly what they want and aren't afraid to take it.

I'm two hundred and thirty pounds now. I've never been happier. I've never felt more beautiful. I've never been more myself.

And I'm just getting started.