The click of the lock echoed in the dead quiet of your apartment building. Stepping inside, the familiar scent of stale pizza and something vaguely sweet hit you, but something was off. All the lights were out. You fumbled for the switch by the door, pressing it uselessly; no comforting glow appeared. A low, rhythmic hum drifted from deeper within the apartment.

You navigated the pitch-black hallway, arms outstretched, until the living room opened up into a soft, flickering blue light. It was the television, casting the only illumination in the otherwise cavernous darkness. And right in front of it, on the worn rug, was… a mound.

Your brow furrowed. Was it a pile of blankets? No, too organic. You took a tentative step closer, your eyes struggling to adjust. What you saw next made your stomach churn: smooth, pale skin, stretching and rippling gently. You peered into the side room, catching a glimpse of something chalked on the floor – a pentagram, its lines crude but unmistakable, with a symbol you vaguely recognized as the sign of Gluttony.

A shiver ran down your spine. You turned back to the living room, your heart thumping, and focused on the mound of flesh. As your eyes dilated further in the gloom, you noticed it: a small indentation, a bellybutton. Then, with a jolt, you recognized the whole thing. It was a belly. Not just any belly, but Sasha’s, impossibly expanded, rising and falling with deep, rumbling snores.

It wasn’t just large; it was wrong. Her skin stretched taut, contorting in ways that weren’t human, rippling like waves across a vast, pale landscape. The low hum of the TV was punctuated by the wet gurgle from within her. You remembered the feeling of her hand in yours, the familiar weight of her head on your shoulder. This was Sasha, but… more.

Your gaze drifted to the kitchen, and through the shadows, you saw the fridge door hanging open at an odd angle, shelves dislodged, packaging strewn across the floor like a small, isolated tornado had ripped through it. Cookies, half-eaten tubs of ice cream, a greasy pizza box – all evidence of a frantic feast.

Then it hit you. Sasha wasn't just overate; she was possessed. The devil of gluttony, the pentagram in the other room, the inhuman expansion… She wasn’t going to stop consuming.

Sasha let out a deep, resonating belch that vibrated through the floorboards, followed by a low groan that sounded less like a human and more like a monstrous, contented beast. You instinctively recoiled, a cold wave of fear washing over you.

But then, as the fear subsided, something else surfaced. A strange, undeniable warmth bloomed in your chest, blossoming into an unshakeable need. A need to help her grow. Was it a fetish? You didn’t care. All you knew was that she was Sasha, and a part of you, a deep, primal part, wanted to see how much further she could go.