You noticed your hands looked a bit swollen under the translucent distortion of your sweet treat, and tips of your fingernails have turned black and triangular. You paid no mind to these minor changes until you started cleaning up the scraps that drooped onto your no taut shirt. Your belly bowed out from under your t-shirt, showing a preview of your deep navel that was now surrounded by a blonde fuzz. You curiously stroked and prodded your button which felt soft and felt-like but what was most peculiar is the thin bump of what felt like a stitch line, fading out with the lemon-like snail trail. It was becoming obvious what was happening but, almost on cue, your belly rumbled and wobbled with a deep groan. A deep pain of hunger echoed inside like you hadn’t eaten in days which quickly distracted you from the growing changes. You pulled a chair under your rump and proceeded to carry on with this honey binge. The honey pot seemed to never empty. It was always filled up to the brim with that addictive substance much to the delight of your aching stomach. After a few more syrupy swallows, your belly had spread out widely into your lap, your stitched up navel on full show with your t-shirt riding the roll out of your tire-sized middle. Your neck and chin-line seemed to blur to the developing pillow of fat that hugged your gullet and jawline. You let your left-hand travel to your rear, feeling a taut piece of fabric bunching between a pair of growing, velvety pair of beanbags that seemed to pour like magma over your seat. Above your struggling undies as a growing nub with thin layer of peach fuzz. Your thighs had widened significantly, choking under the armrests of your shrinking chair and, looking down at your disappearing feet, you see similar changes that had affected your hands (or should I say paws) which had swollen up into two puffy, padded palms and eight fat, sausage digits with sharp, ebony tips.