Psycho-Morph
by Mammoth

I stood backstage at the Globe Arts Center taking picture for the Daily Digest. What a boring assignment. No one but the highbrows cared that Natasha Volnikov was making her American debut.

I hoped to scope out a few good looking ballet chicks, but they were much too lean for my tastes. Volnikov was no exception. I watched as she hurled her stringy frame across the stage. She had that air of aristocratic superiority that I really hate. You could tell it in her facial expression and the way she moved. I am no ballet expert, but the ballerina seemed more commanding than graceful in her movements.

Absolutely bored, I decided to bail out on the finale. However, as I began to put away my things, something strange began to happen. The dancer was stomping around on her flat feet, apparently unable to maintain her balance on her toes. I could see what was affecting her.

She was getting fat! At this point Natasha looked downright chubby. A solid layer of fat had adhered itself to her struggling arms and legs. Her breasts and ass formed provocative bulges and baby fat appeared on her finely sculptured face. She spun around one last time, then stopped. Natasha looked down in panic at the swelling flesh of her bloating tits and stomach.

Her ballerina outfit began to give up the ghost as her fat rippled body reached obese proportions. Natasha's excited eyes peered out from her multi-chinned countenance in shock. She had to weigh at lest 300 pounds by now. Her boobs were in the 60" range and rested on the cliff of her monumental, drooping belly. Her hips had billowed out significantly and were only overshadowed by the sheer enormity of her now huge rear. I could have almost sat on that fat shelved, bulging ass.

Just before she was almost naked, Natasha finally quit expanding. She babbled in Russian as two other dancers threw a cloak over her and lead her offstage. What a scoop! I could see the headline now, "Baltic Ballerina Balloons Onstage."

As the next few days passed, every specialist in the country was on some television program trying to explain Natasha's spontaneous expansion. They proposed everything from an allergic reaction, steroid side effects, even Chernobyl fallout. It made no sense to me, besides I liked her better fat.

Word soon came down that network reporter Lonni Hung would be interviewing Volnikov for a live newscast. I had no assignment, so I figured I might get a few shots of Lonni. You never knew when a celebrity photo might come in handy.

I couldn't get a cab and got to the interview late. Lonni was wrapping up her report outside the hospital. She looked like the reporter who'd caught the golden story.

"And now there is citywide concern that Natasha Volnikov's possibly contagious syndrome will spread," Lonni stated.

"What a ratings hungry bitch," I thought to myself. How could you make blanket statements based on the almost non-existent evidence and unsupported opinions by baffled doctors. Hell, if the "syndrome" was really contagious, you could bet Volnikov's now fat ass that Lonni wouldn't have gotten near her. I thought it would serve her right if she caught "the syndrome" after spreading such rumors.

It was as if someone heard me. Lonni was about to get the highest ratings of her career. It started with her hips, which rapidly widened into prominent love handles. Her petite Asian mams grew melon-like, pushing against her designer jacket until the buttons popped off. Her face grew very round, and despite her obvious agitation, the effect gave her face a serene quality.

"Cut! Cut!" she screamed, but the cameraman was smart enough not to comply. Lonni grew rounder as she gained poundage. The impressive circumference of her paunch, hips, and rear gave her the look of a female Buddha. Her belly and breasts surged out of her clothing, leaving her in a state of semi-undress. Lonni's bra was valiantly restraining her cleavage, but her rotund rear was mercilessly splitting her skirt.

Just before the network censors had to pull the plug, she quit growing. The now flabby female held her stomach as if to push the copious mound of fat back to its former size. I looked on, somewhat satisfied at the newscaster's mysterious accumulation of some 200 plus pounds. She appeared to have gained more than Volnikov. Lonni was much shorter, though, putting the weight gain on a smaller frame.

After large and lovely Lonni was admitted to the hospital, I turned in my photos to the Digest. I watched Stan Lather on the newsroom monitor detail his colleague's "unfortunate circumstance" and praised her for risking her body to pursue a story. I almost laughed. She had made a totally unsubstantiated claim and had been unlucky enough to have it prove true.

With this second incidence of the now infamous "Volnikov Syndrome," everyone in the city was concerned. A near panic had started, and there was even talk of shutting down the fashion and entertainment districts. Mayor Nancy Stone declared a press conference to help soothe the fears of her anxious constituency.

Mayor Stone showed up in her snazziest power suit, armed with the sharp tongue that had gotten her elected. With the state Director of Public Safety and federal agents from the Center for Disease Control sitting uncomfortably near by, Ms. Mayor began her speech. She caustically rebuked the media, and assured all in attendance that Volnikov Syndrome was a creation of run-away television coverage based on isolated events.

Mayor Stone was in top form as she prolonged her speech in order to take advantage of the national exposure she was getting. She even used the opportunity to hint at her bid for the governor's seat. What a self-serving windbag. She had no regard for public safety; the Mayor was just exploiting a serious situation just to get a few votes.

The Mayor was suddenly forced to eat her words as Volnikov Syndrome became undeniably real to her. Her telegenic face puffed up into meaty jowls and several chins. The Mayor's whole body thickened up, stressing seams and buttons. Her belt snapped off as her belly bulged outward, winning the race against the rest of her inflating anatomy.

Nancy Stone was rapidly developing into an ultra-curvaceous matron of flesh. Her boobs jutted forward like EEE cup torpedoes, until her restraining bra snapped. The now huge pillows of titflesh dropped to each side of her fat swaddled gut. Her ass had developed into a titanic display of bulging, cushiony flab. Rolls of corpulence appeared along her limbs as one layer seemed to overlap another. She tried to hide her enormous breasts with her pudgy hands, but their 70" mass was too much to hide. Fortunately, her monumental middle had succumbed to gravity and covered her pubic area.

There was no height discrepancy this time. The Major was absolutely huge. She now sported a set of 80" hips that eclipsed her other anatomically exaggerated measurements. She had to weight at least 500 pounds. The over-inflated politician was uncharacteristically speechless as men in lab coats led her away.

What a week! This had to be the luckiest streak of my career. Every newspaper and magazine in the country was bidding on photos of the newly fattened femmes. The exclusive photo rights to Natasha Volnikov's pneumatic inflation were enough to consider early retirement.

I decided to honor an agreement with the paper to do one last shoot. I was going to cover the Miss America pageant in Las Vegas. Most guys would drool at the thought of seeing 52 babes in swimsuits, but skinny Barbie dolls are not my thing. I was actually more excited about hitting the slot machines.

I didn't end up with any free time, though, thanks to an unexpected layover. I barely had time to check into the hotel and assemble my equipment before the preliminary judging began. Traffic was a nightmare, so I finally ditched the cab and ran the last five blocks to the event.

I had missed the early interviews, the evening gown portion, and the lame production numbers. The swimsuit competition was just underway. I frantically tried to isolate, then shoot from multiple angles, each of the 52 contestants. After the televised judging was over, the beauty queens repeated the runway walk several times to give all the photojournalists ample time to photograph them in detail.

The Miss America hopefuls were all beautiful ladies, but much too thin for my robust tastes. It was a shame these women were forced to go to unimaginable lengths to portray a body that God never intended them to. They were all in the 36-24-36 range, plus or minus an inch or two. Video goddesses trapped by a perpetuated media mythology. Every girl there looked like she needed a few good meals in her.

You can surmise what happened next. All 52 women began to expand inside their too tight swimwear. Arms, legs, tits, butts and bellies swelled with the fat I loved so much. This was the greatest turn-on I had ever had. Watching all those lithe ladies blossom into pudgy plumpers was the most erotic sensation I had ever experienced. I singled out an attractive redhead and focused my camera on her.

This time I was prepared. I wanted to get a series of photos depicting Ms. Missouri slowly changing. While most of the women had plateaued at a few hundred pounds of flab, Ms. Missouri was continuing to pack on the weight. Her swimsuit ruptured as she neared 300 pounds; the shredded remnants fell from her body.

I had to switch cameras as each one became depleted of film. The now rotund redhead was growing at a much greater speed. Her measurements were quickly reaching gigantic proportions. Her hips and rear were simply colossal, at least 80 plus inches of cushiony flab. It jutted out behind her, the shelved rows of corpulence finally beginning to succumb to gravity. Her breasts were the circumference of air-bags at their peak, producing a titanic display of overdeveloped cleavage. The 70" monsters rested atop the steep crest of her mammoth middle, which drooped to her shins and surged ahead of her by a substantial margin.

By the time I ran out of film the dismayed damsel had topped out at around 1,000 pounds or so. Her phenomenal ass had doubled its previous size and receded downwards, obscuring a good deal of her legs from view. Her mams were world record holders, having bloated to the massive 90" mark. The young lady's hangers were only outdone by her now planetary paunch, which grazed the floor. Her facial beauty had been transformed by several bulky chins, swollen cheeks and ripened lips.

The audience was dead quiet as the disbelieving debutante perused her adipose enhanced physique. More photos were being taken of the corpulent cutie as she tried to cover her naked frame. The other contestants stood in semi-shock, dismayed by their sudden obesity yet thankful they were not Ms. Missouri.

Pageant officials helped the leviathan lovely waddle offstage. I watched in rapt awe of her jiggling, excess of fat. Her ass seesawed in massive curving movements as the supporting layers and rolls of fat rippled like unchained fault lines. Then my vision of perfection was gone.

"Well done, Mr. Turkoe!" A voice I didn't recognize congratulated me.

"Pardon me?" I was confused.

"You mean you don't know." He seemed surprised by my ignorance.

"Know what?" I asked, annoyed.

"You are a psycho-morph," he tried to explain. "A rare paranormal individual who can by the power of his mind alter the physical characteristics of another person."

"Bullshit!" I told this loon.

"Since you are unaware of your talent, it must be in the infancy stage," he talked to himself. "It must still be buried in your subconscious mind."

"Listen, I don't know who you are," I warned, "but I suggest you leave me alone."

"Humor me," the man suggested. "Pick any woman on the street and take some photos of her."

I didn't see the point, but if it would get this guy to scram I would do it. We went outside and I focused on a blond wedged into a much too tight pair of jeans and tank top. I took about 20 pictures, then asked the stranger again to leave.

"Just a moment," he crooned. "If my theory is correct, we will know it shortly."

We followed the woman as she window shopped. My patience was about to run out when she began to change. She ripened up quite nicely, sporting a plump face, melon-like breasts, broad hip and a rotund rear. Her jeans had shamelessly ripped up the leg seams and her top appeared taut to the bursting point.

"Son of a bitch!" I freaked out. "I really did that?"

"Impressive isn't it?" He handed me a card that read "Body Dynamics Inc." "I think you are going to enjoy working for us."