Part 1: Clara
The Factory came to the town in the year of ’47. The talk started immediately, "A big factory in this tiny town? And built by the most rich man in the state, nonetheless." The excitement stirred in the air. New jobs, new goods, maybe even a department store, like Sears had done in many towns as trade for having their factories there. The thing was hideous. Huge and dominating the small town’s skyline, it belched out smoke, and no one ever did get a job there. After ten years, it was apparent that there wouldn’t even be a department store. Through the years, the people of Crafton tired of the eyesore, and it’s popularity diminished greatly. No one knew what it made; just that it produced great amounts of noise and ugliness.
The missing unmarried pregnancies that so disgraced families at the time weren’t really noticed, because no one wanted to notice them (social taboo). And no one noticed the occasional schoolgirl that "ran away", or the missing prostitutes that came to escape from their previous lives where they had heard they would be accepted.
In ’97, the town had become a Mecca of industry, and had grown to outlandish proportions. A suburb on one of the Unions "Top-Ten", and other factories moving in after the Factory, made the sleepy little town into a flourishing city. Not quite as dirty as LA, and not quite as clean as Houston, it nestled into a regularity that seemed to be a custom of the once tiny town. The crime rate was normal, the fire department was good, and the people were average. Still, they had their share of "run aways", "missing sluts", and embarrassing "unwed mothers". And now, they also had kidnappings. Some popular with the press some not, but it seemed in Crafton City that no one ever was found. As many copiers that went into the flyers, as many people who "saw her the night before" every mother knew that if her teenaged daughter came up missing in Crafton City, that she should start getting rid of the teeny-bopper’s clothing. It never failed.
One girl was Clara. Clara was a pretty much a typical teenaged girl. Not too popular, though decently pretty. She wouldn’t make it as Prom Queen or any other nonsense. But she wouldn’t be voted "most likely to get a face-lift" either. She did a little drinking, kept her room clean, had a steady job, and would be getting her license a little late, at 17, when she got her car. She was three months away from getting the freedom of the keys when she turned up missing. It was a shame really; she had a lot of potential. She was also very out-of-the-closet. Often called Lez, happily.
The last one to se her was her friend Josie, at school. Josie was a serious crackpot. She did anything that would allow her to escape the reality of her collapsing homelife, and abusive father. Pot, speed, meth, you name it. Her grades were awful, her attendance terrible, but for some reason, she and Clara always got together a lot, and well. Josie didn’t criticize every move that Clara made, and Clara understood more of Josie than anyone thought there was. Josie, because of her choice of "diet", had always been exceedingly thin, while Clara was nice and normal, a size 8 or so. Josie said she had last seen Clara when they parted from school. Clara had gotten on her bike, and she disappeared from site around the corner of Maple and Main.
Clara lived on the other side of the main shopping district; out by that weird Factory that everyone said was such a crappy place to live. But she liked her house. She didn’t mind the Factory, at least until that day.
She was riding by the noisy factory, when a dog, maybe a terrier of some kind, ran out under her tires. Before she could stop, she heard a yelp, and the poor pooch was hit. She stopped and picked the cute thing up, and it was still alive, though obviously in pain. She looked at the tag she discovered and read, "Plato, the Factory Dog. 115 Main St. Crafton" She looked up at the Factory, and sure enough, there was the address, 115 Main, engraved into the side of the building. She decided togo and return the wounded beast, since it probably was the Factory’s equivalent of a firedog. She left her bike, and entered the gate. As she came closer to the main building, she swore she smelled what smelled like a bar b que. But who would have a bar b que at work? It must be somewhere in the neighborhood, she brushed it off.
At the door, she knocked. Unlike the factories made in the late 70’s and later, this one still had wooden doors. "It must be pretty old," She thought, and the plaque next to the door confirmed her suspicions: "Founded in 1947".
She stood there for quite awhile, before the door opened, and before she could even see who was standing there, she was hit over the head and fell into unconsciousness.
Clara awoke to the sound of a door closing. She immediately felt cold, but it seemed to be something like an overactive air conditioner. She was free to move around this place, which she looked around and saw was a large white walled room. Nothing distinguishing other than a door. She was clothed, lying on the floor. But they weren’t her clothes. She was wearing tight, tight jeans, that she had a hard time bending over in, and a midriff, exposing her cute little tummy, that she had never been uncomfortable with before.
"Clara Smith, you at the age of 17, are hereby charged with trespassing." A loud voice coming from Where? Boomed at her. Unable to think of anything else to say, she called, "I was only returning your dog." She looked around for the source, but found none.
There was no more conversation. Then the door opened, and a man in a white almost radioactive protection suit came in. In one hand, he held a bottle, in the other, a syringe. Clara gaped at him, "What are you doing? You can’t do this, it’s illegal!" But it had no effect as the man held her arm, and stuck her without bothering to calm her struggles. Then he moved into the corner of the room, while she screamed curses at him.
Clara hated needles, and was outraged at the man’s seeming insensitivity. She fumed silently for a few minutes, but her thoughts turned elsewhere when she felt something akin to gassy bloatedness start to rumble in her stomach. Almost painful because of the tight pants, but she chose to ignore it outwardly. A few more minutes went by with the "gas" increasing in pressure until it made it uncomfortable to sit or stand, so Clara laid herself down. The man in corner said nothing, and Clara started to become suspicious of what she had been injected with. She unbuttoned her jeans, and more of her stomach came out than should have. She gasped more at having the pressure released than because she was bloated. She didn’t even notice at first, until she looked down because the unbuttoned pants were now cutting into her. Giving a small shriek, she sat up, but they only cut in more, so she laid-back down. By this time, the pain was intense enough so that she wanted to take the darn things off, but felt that she shouldn’t because of this weirdo in the corner. She felt tears coming to her eyes.
Over the same device that was used earlier, she heard, "Put the scale under her now, I don’t think she’ll move much after a few minutes…" The man came over, and put a thin piece of plastic under her…. "Clara, dear, you’re going to undergo some changes within the next few minutes. Just be patient, and it’ll all be over soon enough. Think of it as your punishment for coming onto my property."
Clara could only groan at this point, her "gas’ so painful now that it caused her to whimper a little as she cried. She could feel her underwear crawling their way up her butt, "They used to fit before", she should only think. She could feel her skin tightened and growing against her zipper on her pants, and then the growth started to push the zipper down, notch by notch, slowly, exposing her bloated girth to the air. The tight midriff was hugging her now bulbous tits; her nipples protruding through the fabric as it rubbed up against them. Her stomach overflowed onto her ribs, and made her breasts grow up into her face. The tight pants were horridly painful, and she couldn’t seem to get them off. For some reason, the filling in her skin was heavy, and she could feel her boobs drooping towards the floor. Even the skin in her butt and back was being filled, but not her arms and legs. Her groans of discomfort grew louder with her body. Confusion filled her mind, as she tried to figure out desperately how to stop the pain.
Her belly hung ungracefully through her now open zipper, and the flesh was digging into it painfully. Before she knew what happened, the pressure became too great, and her jeans split from the bottom of her zipper to her crotch, letting even more stomach out. Her underwear rolled up and slid to the bottom of her belly, which now rested just above her pussy lips, tucked in right above where the fatty tissue sank into the cloth of her jeans’ crotch. A few dangling pubic hairs floated out. Clara sighed from relief, but not for long; as the filling continued, so did her loud moans and groans of pain. Now, from her crotch all the way to her jiggling breasts there was a great ball of fleshy stomach. By this time, she had gone from her size 8 to probably a 56, and her breasts had gone from a petite 32B to a seemingly monstrous 42DD (for all you guys writing these stories, Letters are the CUP, numbers the trunk size as if she had no breasts.) They hung into her armpits towards the floor. Also, Clara had started hearing sloshing sounds everytime she moved. When her jeans ripped again in the pockets, she heard a slosh as her tummy surged into the now vacant space.
And still, to her painful disbelief, she kept growing. Her stomach swelled to huge proportions, and ended up ripping her jeans again, this time from the butt to the crotch, so that she had a cloth knot digging into her expansive pussy lips. They were starting to become one with the flesh of her rising belly. Her underwear continued to bury themselves into her, creating a disgusting display of folded flesh. Her bra band snapped shortly after that, Clara didn’t mind, as it had caused a lot of discomfort as it dug into her tender boob skin as she grew. Her breasts sloshed to her sides, pinning her arms down, and she cried out, frightened. She could feel herself raising up on her ballooning butt, as it also grew more. More and more she was becoming just some sort of round thing. All gushy and squishy. It wasn’t long until the skimpy shirt followed suit, and she lay on her puffy butt, with nothing on in the front, almost completely naked. She could still feel the pressure, even after the clothes were gone, it seemed to build in her. Her cries became more desperate pleas for help from the man in the corner.
"She’s at 300, do you wish to continue, sir?" She heard the man in the suit say. Over the "intercom" came the same voice saying "No, I want this one really big, we have buyers, remember, and they want these girls as big as they can get, at all costs."
Clara felt a sinking feeling if she had gone from 115 to 300 pounds in just few minutes, and they wanted to keep going, how large would she get? She started to cry in despair.
After a while longer, the man came over to her, and rolled her onto her feet, her clothes (or what remained) came off her at this time, and she found her self facing a mirror. She grunted as she was moved, and everything shifted, so that now she sagged towards her feet, and in that way, she saw herself as a huge tear drop shaped thing, all bloated and sagging. Her breasts even drooped towards her crotch, as if to comfort it with sympathy. She started screaming not from just the pain anymore, but from the knowledge that she was nothing but a huge water balloon!
As she continued to blimp out, her form stopped taking on droopy sag, and started to become more spherical. At the same time, her arms and legs were being overtaken, as their skin was filled out by the increasing liquid and becoming one with her expanding stomach. She was losing air for her screams as her lungs became squished. The building of pressure increased as her body struggled to find places to fill. It was running out of skin, but the liquid was still being pumped into her at the same pace. She could feel her crotch touch the cold ground, filling as well as part of her stomach, as her legs were forced to the sides. By now she was 4 feet across at the widest point, her breast skin was being sucked in for her stomach by this time, so that all that could distinguish them from the rest of her were two huge nipples; she sat not on her butt, but on her crotch, her lips now totally gone into her stomach. Her underwear had long since disintegrated. All that was left of her legs were two little feet, still wearing shoes, that poked out from the sphere that was her body now. Her hands thunked frantically against her filling flesh as they became the only thing left from her arms. She started to stop screaming, and started gasping for breath. Tight as a drum, she started to hear things other than sloshing now… a horrible stretching sound, and a tense vibration, like rubber gloves being put on, but she knew with a sickening realization that it was her skin, not able to hold anymore. She tried to scream because the pain was anguishing now, but her organs and lungs were so squeezed by liquid, that she could barely breath, let alone scream, or talk. She felt herself begin to throb in time to her heart, as she came to her limit, gasping in pain. She wasn’t filling anymore, or at least she wasn’t becoming any bigger, but she felt the agony as her skin tried to stretch farther than it could. She could feel the lacing pain of stretch marks running across her skin, the pressure in her moving to even her fingers now. She couldn’t even make a fist; she felt her shoes explode off of her ball shaped feet; her mouth was engulfed with flesh as her cheeks filled, and she could feel her eyebrows grow heavy as even the skin on her forehead filled. All she could do was throb, she couldn’t stretch any longer, and throb she did; she pulsated, vibrated, her skin tight and shiny, covered with red jagged stretch marks. She closed her eyes; thinking at anytime, she’d explode, and tried to grit her teeth, but couldn’t, because her cheeks got in the way. Tears of agony streamed down her baseball sized cheeks.
She’s at 800 pounds folks, let’s take a peek, shall we?" She heard the voice say.
Faintly, because she was so full she could mostly only hear her own heartbeat, she heard the sound of metal grating, and she looked up in time to see the mirror slide away. Instead, it was replaced with glass, and on the other side stood men, obviously not from the US, gaping at her in horny pleasure, some even went as far as to stroke themselves in front of her. Against her crotch, she felt something move as the ground was altered somehow. Still the liquid filled her. Though she thought she could get no bigger, no more bloated, could give no more room, it still came, wave after excruciating wave. In her reflection in the glass, she saw her angry stretch marks all over her tensed, drum tight white skin, in places that she didn’t think stretch marks could go. Her gut protruded from her grossly, but it was a proportioned ball when it was compared with her hips and butt. Her tits no longer existed, just nipples at the top of her belly. She could see where her clit was exposed to the cold floor because her lips were not lips anymore, but just more of her stomach. Her hands bobbed, not able to wave for being so fat, and her feet were simple balls with toenails. Her belly button seemed tiny, a speck lost among all the flesh. Her head was all cheeks and eyebrows, so fat, she looked like she had her eyes closed, though she didn’t. And under her, on the floor, through the mirror, she saw what had moved. It looked as though she was sitting on a sieve; the tiny holes in the floor were to purify something. Her realization came to her just as her body reached its limits. She was consumed in searing pain as she blew apart.
The crowd on the other side of the glass watched the American Beauty finally succumb to the water being pumped into her, and began pulling out money from their pockets to buy some of the water that ran into the grate below. There was no blood, only water, and it collected into the bottles on the Factory floor below, which the foreigners hungrily bought up.
Crafton Gazette:
"Crafton girl still not found, authorities say. After tomorrow,
Police Chief Strickland will discontinue the search for Clara
Smith. Clara was last seen at school on Friday, April 18, 1997."