One Shot - Miku’s Birthday Non-celebration - 02

Teto woke up heavier.

The bikini had lost their battle. The blue triangles that once adorned her chest were just wet scraps now, buried under the new swell of her tits and the thick shelf of belly that had risen overnight. Cake crumbs were still stuck in her cleavage. Her thighs had fused into one warm, spreading mass against the couch cushions. She reached for her phone with a fat-padded hand and froze.

Miku was on stage.

Not the usual slim Miku, but a Fat Miku. A clip from last night’s concert: the teal twin-tails bouncing over a pair of heavy, swaying breasts, a round belly pushing out the sequined top, thick thighs rubbing as she tried to dance. The comments were exploding.

Chubby Miku!! She’s so soft now I can’t— Best era.

Teto’s stomach dropped, then clenched with something uglier.

“She stole it,” she whispered. “She stole what makes me…ME.”

The jealousy from yesterday came back two fold. Miku got the birthday wishes. Miku got all the love. Now Miku even got all the rolls. Teto was just the April Fool who ate a cake alone and passed out in a swimsuit two sizes too small.

She shoved herself upright. The couch groaned. Her tits sloshed and a warm wetness spread across the underside of the left one. She looked down.

Milk.

A thin white line was already running from her nipple, soaking the ruined bikini.

Teto stared at it. Then she laughed, short and bitter.

“Fine. She can be fat. I’ll be the cow.”

She waddled to the fridge. Every step made her belly swing and her breasts bounce hard enough that more milk beaded and dripped. She pulled out everything white: two gallons of whole milk, a carton of heavy cream, a brick of cream cheese, a tub of vanilla ice cream, a sleeve of mozzarella. She didn’t even sit properly when she got back to the couch. She just dropped, legs spread, belly overflowing her lap, and started pouring.

Milk was first. Straight from the jug in a single swift chug. It ran down her chin, over the fat of her chest, into the deep crease under her breasts. She drank until her stomach sloshed, then tore the cream carton open with her teeth and squeezed it into her mouth. Cold fat coated her tongue. Her tits felt tighter already, hotter, heavier.

“Miku’s just chubby,” Teto muttered around a mouthful of cream cheese. “I’m gonna be the one they milk.” She smeared another handful across her nipples and hissed when they leaked harder, two steady white threads now. “They can sing about her. They can draw her fat little concert body. I’ll be the one they hook up to a milking machine...maybe even have it sold in supermarkets nation wide!”

The thought should have humiliated her. Instead, her hips rolled together as a familiar wetness built between them. The bikini bottoms were a soaked string between her thighs. She shoved ice cream in by the fistful, moaning when the cold hit her overfull stomach and her breasts answered by letting down another warm gush.

Bigger. She needed them bigger than Miku’s. Heavier. Useless, except for milk.

She kept eating. Cream, then more milk, then the mozzarella torn into pale greasy strips she stuffed past her lips while her free hand squeezed one leaking tit, aiming the spray onto her own belly so she could watch it run into her navel. Every swallow made her swell. Her chest was already sitting on the upper curve of her gut, nipples fat and dripping, areolas darkened and wide. The “milk cow” picture in her head got clearer and meaner: Teto on all fours because standing was too much work, belly dragging, tits hanging like udders, strangers filling bottles while she moaned and asked for more feed.

“That’s all I’m good for now,” she panted, voice thick. “Not the cute chubby. Not even the fatass vocaloid. Just the cow who got jealous and drank herself stupid.” She laughed again, wet and shaky, and poured the last of the cream over her breasts so it mixed with the milk already sheeting down them. “Good. I want it. I want to be too fat and too full to do anything but leak and eat.”

Her belly was a taut, sloshing drum. Her thighs had spread wider. Milk kept coming, soaking the couch, her rolls, the last pathetic scraps of the swimsuit. Teto’s hand slid between her legs while the other kept feeding, fingers sinking into her own dripping folds as she imagined the comments this time.

Forget Miku. Look at the hot mess on stage. She’s a dairy farm now.

She came like that, messy and loud, milk spraying in thin arcs across her own fat while she shoved another handful of melting ice cream into her mouth. Then she kept eating anyway, eyes glassy, tits still letting down, already planning the next gallon.

Miku could have the stage.

Teto was going to be the one they drank up.