The Coming of Fat girl by FA-1 - (Wren-spot Archive) - WG

Midnight in Gotham..

In the shroud of darkness, the criminal element that permeates every nook and cranny of this once-proud city enjoys freedoms not provided for in any known Constitutional Amendment.

For the last time Batgirl checked, "The Freedom to Steal," "The Freedom to Maim" and "The Freedom to Otherwise Cause Harm to" were not listed in any of the texts she encountered in her day job as Barbara Gordon, librarian. However, even Batgirl realized that, just because something wasn't written down in black and white, it didn't mean it wasn't true.

Such were the thoughts running through Batgirl's mind Friday night as she squatted on a rooftop directly across the street from Gothlabs. Gothlabs was second only to Waynetech in the field of advanced scientific research in Gotham. Unlike Waynetech, however, Gothlabs conducted the majority of its business with the utmost secrecy, a secrecy which most citizens believed to border on the paranoid. As usual when secrets abound, so do those types who wish to uncover those secrets, and appropriate them for their own.

Which was why Batgirl was squatting on a rooftop directly across the street from Gothlabs. A wise word from Teddy "the Head," one of her regular informants, tipped Batgirl that "somethin' big, which is to say it is on the order of not legal by way of it being against the law" was going down tonight at Gothlabs.

"But when tonight," she thought to herself. She'd been sitting there for 2 hours now, and even her athletic legs were cramping. Batgirl wanted nothing more than to get up and stretch, to move her lithe, trim form to get her circulation going. But she knew that to do so would be to send up a giant smoke signal, announcing loudly to any would-be prowlers, "Hey, over here! On the roof! Super-chick in tights!" So her surveillance position would have to remain.

CRACK!

The crisp report grabbed her attention, and in almost no time, Batgirl was swinging from a line, and toward a 10th-floor window at Gothlabs. The rapidly fading afterimage of a fired shotgun told her where she needed to be, and she tensed herself as her two feet met with the window pane, reducing it to glass confetti.

Batgirl tucked into a roll as her feet hit the floor, tumbling forward into a fighting stance. She was in a darkened office. Before her stood an incongruous sight: A balding, mustachioed man of at least 40, dressed impeccably in a dark gray Brooks Brothers suit, carrying a shotgun.

"This isn't some kind of weird 'Salute to Watergate,' is it?" she said, as the mustachioed man leveled the shotgun in her direction. To the left, Batgirl noted an opened wall safe that had apparently been the recipient of the mustachioed man's first, and hopefully only, shot.

CRACK!

"So much for hope," Batgirl thought, as she slipped the blast. Years of experience had taught her to use her flowing cape to distract an opponent, to make herself an exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, target. In a second, those years paid off. In the next, a batarang found its way into her gloved hand, and expert aim helped Batgirl hurl the weapon directly at the mustachioed man's left hand.

Only a dull thud was heard as the blunt edge of the batarang hit the mustachioed man, causing him to lose his grip on the shotgun. Seizing the opportunity, Batgirl threw herself forward, knocking the shotgun away completely, sending both combatants out of the room and into the corridor in the process.

"I see no reason for this fight," said the mustachioed man in a clipped voice.

"You're the one who fired the noisemaker at me, and you don't see a reason for us to fight?" answered Batgirl, incredulously. Throwing a punch at the man, Batgirl was surprised how easily the middle-aged suit ducked it. Ducked it, and in a fluid motion, turned and ran down the hallway toward doors marked, "Research and Development."

"I already have what I came for," he called out, as he led her through the doors in a sprint.

"You are not a part of the contract, and as such, you are free to go."

"Are you even from this planet, Mister? Do you hear voices or something?"

The chase continued through the R & D wing of Gothlabs, into and out of laboratories stocked with all manner of strange, bubbling, chemical concoctions. Batgirl only caught fleeting glimpses of these various projects, but even her knowledge of chemistry suggested to her that many of these...experiments...probably weren't legal.

SMASH!

Suddenly, Batgirl found herself covered in a thick, blue chemical sludge. The mustachioed man had somehow managed to knock a rack of chemicals over on her.

"What I get for paying more attention to the scenery than the suspect," she chastised herself.

In the few seconds it took her to extricate herself from the chemical rack, the mustachioed man was gone. And with him, whatever it was he came for. All that was left was a cracked safe, a discarded shotgun, and a super heroine covered in chemicals that smelled like—

"Bacon?!? This is entirely humiliating," said Batgirl, as she slipped open a window in the lab, and swung off into the night.

* * *

"Unbelievable."

Barbara sat on the bed in her apartment, staring dejectedly at the basket of freshly-laundered clothes. Not only did her Batgirl costume still have the strange bacon-like odor ("Ummm...that smells yummy!"), but she doubted if the large blue stains would ever come out.

"Great," she sighed, "I'll be the only super hero in town who looks like she doesn't do her laundry. I'll bet Supergirl doesn't have these kinds of problems."

A quick shower later, and Barbara's mood had improved somewhat. If the smell and the stains weren't coming out of her Batgirl outfit, at least she wouldn't be stuck with them herself. Toweling off, she admired her lean body: Flat, washboard stomach, dancer's legs, muscular arms. Not to mention a great head of silky, red hair and killer good looks.

Her reverie was broken by the ringing of the telephone. Quickly wrapping the towel around her mid-section, Barbara dashed out of the bathroom and grabbed the receiver.

"H--Hey!" Barbara said, slightly out of breath from her run. It seemed odd to her that someone of her endurance should pant like that, but she chalked it up to the workout she received earlier at Gothlabs, and the lack of sleep.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" said the voice on the other end.

"No, Dick, perfect timing as usual," Barbara replied. "Dick" happened to be Dick Grayson, a young man who had certain designs on a certain librarian, who happened to be a certain bat-related super heroine.

"Flatterer. Just calling to see what time I should you pick you up tonight for our, ah, our..." Dick said, searching his vocabulary for the right word.

"The password is, 'date,'" Barbara responded in a hushed voice.

"So it is, so it is," Dick said, laughing. "Forgive me, Babs, I was never very good at that game. I'm more of a 'Jeopardy' man, m'self."

"Well, I suppose there's some lame joke to be made about you being in jeopardy if you're not here at 8:00."

"8:00 it is, mon cher. See you for dinner."

Barbara hung up the receiver, and thought how good dinner sounded. It was then she realized that she hadn't had yet had breakfast. 

Padding into the kitchen, Barbara decided on a bowl of cereal, filled to the brim with milk.

Finishing the cereal, she still wasn't satisfied. "One more bowl," she said, "then I have got to get some sleep."

It wasn't until 30 minutes later that Barbara stood up from the small corner table in her kitchen. Behind her, she left her now empty cereal bowl.

And 2 empty boxes of cereal.

And an empty carton of milk, and another of heavy cream.

As she walked into her bedroom, Barbara removed the towel covering her mid-section, and put on an over-sized t-shirt. Yawning, she turned away from the mirror, failing to notice the swelling that had begun in her tight, flat stomach.

Barbara felt that the t-shirt seemed to be a little too...snug. Letting out a sleepy sigh, she said, "Not only do I let some industrial spy get away from me, but now I have stained super hero togs, and I'm shrinking my clothes in the dryer. What other surprises does today have in store for me?"

Expecting no answer to her question, Barbara walked to her bed, set the laundry basket on the floor, and lay down for some much-needed sleep. It was 10:30 am, and she needed rest if she was going to be ready for her date.

* * *

When she awoke, it was almost 6:00 pm, and time to get ready for her date with Dick. Barbara had long looked forward to this night, and with the help of a few hours' sleep, she was determined that the incident at Gothlabs wouldn't ruin her enjoyment of dinner. In fact, she couldn't wait, she was starving. Really starving.

"Ummm, I have got to have something to nibble before Dick gets here," she said. As she got out of bed, Barbara felt lethargic, despite her renewed spirits. "Oh well," she thought, "a quick snack ought to fix that."

10 minutes later, Barbara had fixed herself a "quick snack" that consisted of most everything she had in her refrigerator and cabinets. And strangely, she didn't even seem to notice or be aware of what she was doing.

At 6:45 pm, Barbara pushed herself away from the kitchen table, which was now covered with empty food boxes, including cookies, crackers, peanut butter, pasta, yogurt, ice cream, butter, whipped cream...the containers sat in a mound on the table.

"Mmmm...that hit the spot," Barbara said, wiping peanut butter from her mouth. "A good appetizer, I can't wait for dinner!"

It was when she went to her bedroom to change into her clothes for the evening that Barbara again realized that her clothes were too tight. Her bra felt too binding, restrictive. Her panties pinched at her waist.

And then, all at once, as if waking from the deepest slumber, it hit her.

"Oh...my...god," she said slowly. "I'm...plump?!" Looking herself from head to toe in the mirror, she appeared nothing like she did just that morning after her shower. Her lean body was no more: her flat, washboard stomach, had become flabby; her dancer's legs now sported thighs that touched, with wider hips and a pronounced rear; even her muscular arms seemed flabbier, with bulges of flesh that hung towards the ground.

A fog seemed to be lifting from her. Running into the bathroom, Barbara stood on the scale she rarely stood on—why did she need to? At her height of 5'11", she had been a steady 126 pounds for years.

No more. As she fretfully looked at the scale, the needle passed 126, and didn't look back.

"167 pounds?!? How is that possible? Did I—did I eat so much?" she asked no one. Even with her huge food intake, it just wasn't logical, didn't seem at all possible, that she could put on 41 pounds in a matter of hours. Not unless something had happened to her. Not unless...

"The chemical," she said quietly. "That sludgy, bacon-smelling goo that I took a bath in at Gothlabs must have done this to me! Some great detective I am!"

Theorizing that her current weight was a result of her accidental chemical exposure, Barbara knew what she had to do. First order of business: Cancel dinner with Dick. It hurt her to do it—their sustained flirtation had culminated in this date, but she didn't want him to see her like this. How could he...how could he possibly love her like this?

A heart-broken phone call later, Barbara concentrated on her second task: Preparing for another raid on Gothlabs, in search of an antidote. Not yet dark, and with people still working late, Barbara wouldn't be able to make her move until a few hours from now. All she could do was get ready...and wait.

Donning her Batgirl outfit caused the newly-full-figured Barbara a few problems. Though the costume was made of spandex, it was made of tight-fitting spandex—making her feel like a sausage. Her stomach stuck out, and hung slightly over her the top of her utility belt. Her breasts, though fuller, had begun to sag, causing the stylized bat emblem on her chest to fall lower, spread wider. Even her mask fit differently, with the start of a...

"--A-a--a double chin?" Barbara said, crestfallen. Looking away from the mirror, she walked to her bed. "This day couldn't possibly get worse. But, no use crying over spilled sludge. I'll go to Gothlabs, find an antidote to this stuff, and then I'll be back to normal. In the meantime, I've got a few hours until I can go out, so I might as well get some sleep."

As she drifted off, she felt her body through her costume. Gone were the trim, athletic curves. Now she had abundant curves, and an out-of-shape look, to boot. Shifting her weight, she finally fell asleep.

* * *

Her alarm blared, and Barbara switched it off, noting the time as 10:50pm. Time to hit Gothlabs. As she tried to sit up, she noticed that something seemed to be blocking her movement.

That something was her stomach.

With a gasp, Barbara opened her eyes widely to take in the changes that had occurred while she was sleeping, in just a few hours. Where before she was just "pleasingly plump," "healthy," "chubby and cute," and other euphemisms, there was no denying it now.

She was fat.

Her stomach swelled out before her. Struggling to sit up in bed, Barbara managed to swing her legs over the side. Her belly fell over her lap, hanging down several inches. Her breasts were now much larger, sagging even more, and actually pushing her fattened arms out to the sides.

"But I didn't even eat anything this time!" she said with despair. "I can't even imagine how much I weigh now!"

With effort, she lifted herself off her bed, and waddled—waddled— toward the bathroom. As she did, she passed the mirror again, and got a good look at her pronounced triple chins, and her rear, which shelved out like a beanbag chair on her backside.

Stepping on the scale once again, she was shocked when she saw the numbers.

"273 pounds! I put on over 100 pounds while I was sleeping," she puffed. Where would it all end, she wondered. How big would she get before it all stopped? Or would it ever stop?

And from somewhere, from the very back of her mind, came a tiny voice: Do I really want it to?

She knew only one thing: She had to get that antidote.

"Well, no matter what size I am now, I won't let it stop me," Barbara said. "I'm Batgirl, and—well, I guess it's Fatgirl now—and I've got a job to do."

* * *

Scaling the wall of Gothlabs proved to be an effort for Fatgirl, but she refused to let her newly-fattened form deter her from the matter at hand. Strangely enough, she felt just as strong as ever, as if her muscles were somehow compensating for her increased weight. The difficulty came mostly from her bulkiness—she just wasn't yet used to moving in this bigger body. But she realized that, with practice, she'd get used to it just fine.

"And let's hope I don't have to get used to it," she thought, as if convincing herself.

Pulling herself up on the rope, Fatgirl finally made her way to the 10th floor. It took her a moment to remove the glass-cutting tool from her utility belt. Before she left her apartment, she had re-worked the belt so it would fit around her thickened waist; even so, she still had to reach under the developing apron of her stomach to find what she needed.

Moments later, Fatgirl had gained entrance into the Research and Development wing of Gothlabs. Hefting herself through the window, she waddled through one laboratory she didn't recognize, and out into the hallway. The coast was clear, so she began looking for the lab that she knew contained the blue chemical sludge that had caused this drastic change in her body.

After several false starts, Fatgirl found the door she was looking for. As opposed to last night, however, the door was sealed tight, with no visible lock. Pausing a moment to think, Fatgirl decided to let her size work for her. Taking a few steps back, she threw her left side into the door, her weight causing it to come ajar.

"Hey, I couldn't do that before! At least, not so easily," she thought, impressed with herself.

Upon entering the lab, she reached under her apron for a miniature penlight. Flashing it around the room, she saw vials, flasks and test tubes filled with the blue chemical sludge. In fact, that was the only chemical in the room. Realizing that there probably was no antidote to be found in this room, Fatgirl fought back a tear...a tear that oddly never came.

As she turned to leave the room, Fatgirl passed a table covered in file folders. Flipping through the files with interest, she came across several pieces of information which grabbed her notice.

"So...whatever this stuff is, the actual chemical composition is a secret...kept on a computer disk in a safe..."

Fatgirl quickly put 2 and 2 together. "The mustachioed man from last night," she thought. "He must have stolen the disk from the safe in that office! And if the composition is on the disk, I'll bet an antidote is as well!"

Grabbing a sample of the blue sludge and placing it in a compartment in her utility belt, Fatgirl waddled over to the window, opened it, and prepared to leave.

"I've got to find that mustachioed, Watergate reject now!" she thought. "He's got my only chance to become Batgirl again!"

As she fastened a line so she could swing away, the tiny voice again filled her mind: Is that what I really want?

END, PART 1

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It was 5:00 am before Fatgirl arrived at her apartment from the evening's venture to Gothlabs. Less tired from swinging her newly-acquired girth around Gotham than she thought she'd be, Barbara changed out of her costume, and readied herself for a well-deserved rest.

Since none of her usual clothes fit her anymore (only her super hero costume, with its stretchable spandex, could contain her abundant curves), Barbara found the biggest, roomiest t-shirt she could. "I used to swim in this thing," she said to herself with—could it have been—a slight chuckle?

Donning the t-shirt, even she was surprised by its tightness, the way it caused her breasts to jut forward like over-inflated balloons. "Well, it'll have to do for now. I'm not going to invest any cash in a new wardrobe when I'm going to have that antidote soon." Barbara turned a slight frown at that thought, but then rationalized that, of course, she would be thin again soon. That was the way she had always been, everyone accepted her like that—especially Dick.

"Hoo boy, Mr. Grayson," Barbara said very quietly, as she waddled over and into bed. "It's a good thing you haven't seen me like this. Just when we were getting closer, BAM! I had to turn into Dolly Dimples," she said, referring to a famous circus fat lady.

And with that thought, Barbara turned out the lights, and dozed off.

* * *

The sound of raindrops gently striking her bedroom window aroused Barbara from her slumber. She slept well, and lay in bed, eyes closed, listening to her breathing. It seemed to be lower, as if coming from a larger vessel. Which, she thought, it indeed was.

A glance at the nearby clock radio told her the time was 9:33 pm on Sunday—she had slept the whole day away, and it was definitely time to get moving. There was much detective work to be done: Finding out the identity and current whereabouts of the mustachioed man; discovering the true nature of the bacon-smelling, chemical sludge to which she had been exposed; and of course, finding an antidote to her present condition.

Swinging her legs to get out of bed, Barbara was struck by how much more difficult it seemed to do the same thing as she did yesterday, at the same weight. "Not surprising," she said out loud, "I'm not totally used to weighing in at 273 pounds. Well, I'm not going to get used to it."

Barbara had no idea how right she was. With a good amount of effort, she pushed herself out from the covers and off her bed, which was when she first realized that she wasn't wearing the over-sized t-shirt anymore. But she hadn't taken the t-shirt off—it lay in the bed in several pieces, shredded by its wearer's sudden expanse.

For Barbara was even bigger now, bigger and fatter than the previous night! Her stomach, prodigious as it was yesterday, pushed out even more, hung down even further, close to her knees! Both breasts had grown heavier with fat, looking like large melons extending from her chest. Even her behind, hips and thighs had filled out further, giving Barbara an extremely exaggerated pear shape.

She gasped in spite of herself. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, Barbara couldn't even fathom how much she now weighed. Her weight shifting from side to side as she walked ponderously, Barbara turned to her bed and reached for the shredded night shirt. Unaccustomed to having such large breasts, it took a try or two to reach around them, to the bed and grasp the shirt. She looked at the t's remains, but lingered instead on the pudgy fingers that held it.

Waddling into the bathroom, Barbara took a deep, echoing breath, and stood on the scale. Her father, Police Commissioner James Gordon, had given her the scale when she moved into her own apartment. It was the sort of gift that a parent gives to a child thinking it to be a necessity, but that the child just sort of thinks is a little strange. Of course, he bought the top-of-the-line model, the one that, god knows why, can weigh objects up to hundreds and hundreds of pounds.

"I guess god knows why now," Barbara said. With great difficulty, she pushed her breasts this way and that, strained to look past her stomach, and saw the numbers.

"418 pounds," she said with an audible gasp. "That's--th-that's just impossible! I gained 145 pounds while I was asleep! I'm--I'm huge!"

* * *

Now more than ever, Barbara knew she had to get the antidote to bring her weight back to its normal 126 pound residence. Deciding that time was of the essence, Barbara had decided to forego her usual Sunday routine, skip food—"Especially at my weight," she thought—and get right down to business. Slipping into her Fatgirl costume, Barbara silently thanked god that the spandex, though tight, could still keep up with her ever-increasing weight.

Looking into the mirror as she struggled to get her cowl on over her fat, multiple-chinned face, Barbara almost laughed at herself. "Barbara Gordon, you are one large lady! Criminals better watch out for you—you've gotta be the biggest crimefighter ever to pound the Gotham pavement!" Once again, she was confronted with the problem of her utility belt not fitting. And once again, she re-worked it to fit around her awesome belly.

"All right, Fatgirl--where are you gonna start? You've got to figure out where that mustachioed creep is, and then you've gotta see about dropping some of these--" she grabbed her globular breasts, hefting each up, shaking them. "--pounds, and that's gonna mean that you have to leave the apartment. But first--"

It was then that her stomach groaned, loudly. Despite her situation, Barbara suddenly realized that she was indeed hungry. Ravenously so. "I can't believe this," she said. "I thought my appetite had gone back to normal, after yesterday. But now--now, I'm hungrier than ever! Well, I guess I can eat a little something if I can keep my appetite in check. But then, I've gotta get a move on!"

She waddled into the kitchen, looking for something to eat. "I did a pretty good job cleaning out the 'fridge and the cabinets yesterday," she thought, "But maybe there's something in the pantry?"

Sure enough, a jar of peanut butter, another of marshmallow fluff, and a family-size loaf of bread were in the pantry. Deciding that a sandwich would hit the spot, Barbara sat in the kitchen in her Fatgirl outfit, made a fluffer nutter, and devoured it in a few large bites.

"Ahhh, that hit the spot. Now, it's time to hit the mean streets and find out the identity of my play pal," she said. "But...uh...um... mmmmm..., that fluffer nutter was good. Maybe just one more, then I'll go."

That "one more" fluffer nutter turned out to be the contents of both jars, and the entire loaf of bread. And she was still hungry. It was just like yesterday, as if she was gripped by some strange, euphoric force that beckoned her to eat more and more.

It was only through a supreme act of will that Barbara was somehow able to push herself away from the kitchen table. Wiping the fluffer nutter from her mouth, she prepared to leave. She felt a strangeness in her stomach, a swelling feeling, but did her best to ignore it. The night called, and Fatgirl listened.

* * *

If moving across Gotham at 273 pounds was difficult, swinging from rooftop to rooftop at 418 pounds was next to impossible. Or so Fatgirl thought, at first. Not used to carrying such weight on her frame, she spent the better part of the first hour of the evening swinging to a rooftop, landing, then sitting down to take a deep breath.

But the funny thing was, she didn't need to catch her breath...despite her increased size, she still seemed to be in the same condition as before, when she weighed 126 pounds.

"This is so strange," Barbara said to herself. "I'm actually getting the hang of moving around at this size! I might be a little slower, and my thighs may rub together a little--okay, a lot--and I jiggle in places I didn't even know I had places, but I'm doing okay!"

Pleased at her progress, Fatgirl swung down to the network of docks that lined Gotham Harbor. She needed information now, and Gotham Harbor, home to the seedier elements in an already seedy city, promised its fair share. Her eagle eyes saw longshoremen standing in the shadows, but one in particular caught her attention—Teddy "the Head," who had tipped her off to the Gothlabs theft in the first place.

Drawing a deep breath, Fatgirl descended to the dock. She was nervous, to be sure—this would be her first encounter with anyone after all the weight she had gained, and it didn't please her that it would have to be with someone as socially questionable as Teddy.

"Teddy 'the Head,' this is your life," she said as she crept from the shadows, giving the pea coat-clad informant near whiplash as he spun around.

"Geez, Batgirl, you scare a fella not unlike myself into early retirement! 

Whaddaya--whoa!" Teddy exclaimed, as his squinty eyes peeped the new version of Batgirl.

"It's been a strange day or two, Teddy, and I'm really not in the mood."

"But geez, what happened to you? I mean, I don't wanna be disrespec'ful or nothin', but you are considerably larger in that there is a lot more of you," Teddy replied.

"Yeah, well, get used to it," Barbara said, and she couldn't believe her own words. "It's not 'Batgirl' anymore, Teddy. After what happened to me at Gothlabs, you can call me, 'Fatgirl.'"

There. She had spoken the words to someone else. And the crazy thing was...they sounded all right to her.

"So tell me, Teddy, what was going on at Gothlabs that night? Why did I run into a G. Gordon Liddy look-alike with a penchant for firearms? Why did I get sprayed with a chemical that smelled like bacon, and made, as you said it before, 'a lot more of me?'" Fatgirl quizzed, and Teddy just stood. "C'mon, Teddy, inquiring minds want to know!"

Teddy stood there on the dock, tight-lipped, but his eyes darted back and forth suspiciously. Noting this, Fatgirl had a thought: If a super heroine is intimidating to the underworld, then a 418-pound super heroine should be even more intimidating. A new confidence filled her, and she started waddling towards Teddy, forcing him into a corner. The look on his face told Fatgirl that her plan was working.

"H-hey, look, Bat--I mean, Fatgirl! I didn't do nothin' to ya, honest! I hear things ya know? I hear things, an' when I do, I feel a special obligation to do the right thing," Teddy said, babbling.

"This fairy tale you're spinning about your civic-mindedness is enchanting, Teddy, but drop it! Tell me what I want to know, or..." Her voice trailed off, and she balled up her right hand, making a big, pudgy fist.

"Awright, awright, awright! Who wants to become punched so much? It was this fella, this bald guy with the mustache you said about earlier. He paid me a little long green to tip you off. Said that he had special plans for you."

Special indeed, she thought.

"Any idea who he is, and where I can find him?" she said, smashing her fist into the open palm of her left glove.

"Who he is? No, he was not loose with the name. But I believe he said somethin' about enjoyin' the view whilst he was in Gotham. That mean anythin' to you?"

"It might, rabbit, it might." Making like she was going to throw a haymaker at Teddy, Fatgirl relented at the last second, instead patting him gently on top of his head. The informant breathed an audible sigh.

"Thanks for the info, Teddy. Oh, and by the way--how did you know he was bald and had a mustache? I never told you that," Fatgirl asked.

"What, you think I don't know who G. Gordon Liddy is?" came her answer. "An' for the record? This new look what has come over you? It is very agreeable to these eyes of mine, Fatgirl."

Not expecting a compliment on her size, certainly not from her informant, Fatgirl nevertheless couldn't resist giving Teddy a wink. Then, with nary a trace, she was off into the night.

* * *

The View was an elegant tower that dominated the Gotham skyline. Atop its 80 stories were luxury apartments owned by the Gotham elite. Movie stars, media moguls, athletes and society bigwigs were the denizens of the View. Tonight, however, they would count one more among their number.

"Uhnnnggg! This belt is too blasted tight!"

Several blocks ago, Fatgirl became aware of her utility belt digging into her sides. Probably from all the swinging around, she thought, and proceeded on to the building right next to the View. Settling on its roof, she reached to adjust the belt, which is when she felt it begin to squeeze her even harder.

"All right then, if that's the way--uhng!--you want it--you're--coming--off--right--this--"

SNAP!

With an incredible release of tension, Fatgirl's utility belt flew apart, shooting from around her middle like a broken rubber band. She realized then what she should have realized all along: That the belt wasn't squeezing her—she was squeezing the belt! Which could only mean one thing: She was getting even bigger.

"I shouldn't have had those fluffer nutters," she said, actually laughing out loud now. "Ummm...I can...this is incredible! I can feel myself getting fatter!"

Placing her hands on her breasts, Fatgirl was amazed to see her hands being pushed further out. And now another wrinkle: Her nipples began to protrude from beneath the spandex, fully erect, each several inches long. Just brushing them caused her an intense feeling of pleasure she had never before experienced. She moved her hands slowly to her belly, and thrilled as it, too, inflated with fat, drooping down even more, touching the top of her knees this time. A tingling sensation in her behind signaled its growth, and Fatgirl moved her meaty hands to feel each cheek swell ever larger.

As strange as it was, she had to admit that she was beginning to—enjoy?—her voluminous shape.

Soon, the growth stopped, and Fatgirl stood atop the building, arms now bulging out to the sides at more than 45-degree angles.

"I wonder how much I weigh now?" she said softly. "And," she added, "I wonder why I don't mind it so much? This is almost--pleasurable." With those words, she continued probing her padded body, gloved hands slipping beneath her enlarged stomach apron. Through her tights, she could feel herself, and her body responded appropriately. An electric jolt caused her to gasp when her hands probed lower, into her crotch. She had never felt anything like that before—never been so sensitive to her own touch.

"Ummmmm...ahhh..." she moaned. With a start, she realized what was going on, however, and quickly removed her hands. "Ummm...that's going to have to wait 'til later," she said.

Moving her bulk to the edge of the roof, Fatgirl removed the binoculars from her now-defunct utility belt. "So our mustachioed friend enjoys the view when he's in Gotham, does he?" she said aloud. "Which means I'd lay even odds that he's residing at the luxurious View even as we speak. Of course, the one tiny flaw in my plan so far...the building has 80 stories! Which floor is he on? What room is he in?"

Scoping row after row of windowed floors, Fatgirl was certainly getting the layout of the View. But she wasn't really getting any closer to solving this mystery. No, the only way she was going to find out where the mustachioed man was, was to go inside the View.

"Going into a ritzy, residential place like this dressed as Fatgirl is going to draw far too many stares," she said. And the thought of those stares gave her pause to smile to herself. "Nope, I'm going to have to slip in there incognito..."

END, PART 2