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2nd-person short story originally posted as a thread on my Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/adholepose...../3ls6izwtbqc2c
A little bit of worldbuilding for my fatfur sci-fi setting, "Fatstral Skies"
Lifers. That's what they call those unfortunate dregs born on board a station or ship rather than planetside. While artificial gravity is standard in habitation modules, these people, universally poor, are exposed to zero-g far more often than others. Many can't support themselves under Earth gravity. It is exceptionally rare for lifers to successfully transplant to a surface. They are easily recognized: wide, wobbly, weak.
It is for that exact reason you are confident that you, born planetside into the strong gravity field of Mus VI, a world therefore inhabited by hulking, super-anthropic strongmen, will encounter no difficulties during your short indebted servitude to PaunchyInc. They offered a plea deal for minor antisocial behavior that nevertheless threatened prison time. You know not to trust the MegaCorps- but you read this fine print and know this is a good deal for you. It entails only 6 months indebted to PaunchyInc's asteroid mining operations, a job usually left to the weak lifers so as to not waste planetsider strength, and so a job that will be a breeze for your bulk and sinew. Not to mention free housing and amenities (including food) - a generosity unheard of for these megacorps!
Your first day begins. Getting used to the zero gravity of the non-habitation sections of the mobile mining station takes a lot of time and practice - especially with the teasing fatties that surround you. "Nice moves, hunk!" and other playful jabs are common between greasy, offputting burps. Worse still is the NEAR zero gravity of the small asteroids themselves. You constantly trip and tumble after throwing your power too hard one way or the other. You have some close calls with your spacesuit - though your jiggling, obese coworkers are always close by to help you out.
Before long you do improve at the balanced, slow, methodical movements needed for this environment. Between the enormous, filling meal portions you are provided, and the feeling of your suit getting tighter, you start to think all these balancing acts may be paying off and growing your muscles even further.
That is until the day arrives when your skintight uniform splits open down your front at the cafeteria. You look down to find, in place of your toned abs, a soft, chubby belly poking out and perching itself atop your lap. You gasp - come to think of it, did you always have a jiggle in your cheeks? - and blush hard...
That was only two weeks into your sentence. You realise to prevent any permanent damage to your figure you will need to work out - but almost as if deliberately and maliciously, your shift supervisors expand your hours leaving you no realistic time to get some reps in. You try to refuse to finish your portions but find the value of your wasted high-tec nutrient paste added on as time to your indentured servitude. Doing so would only increase your overall sentence - and ultimately your BMI. You have no choice but to see your time out efficiently and pray, hope...
...You let out a minute long burp and groan awake in a deep, unhealthy rasp. As usual, you wait with your gurgling, needy belly for the mobility assistance crew to arrive to your quarters. The quadruple-wide sliding doors open with a hiss, and the hazmat-clad crew enters the stuffy room and begin their work.
As your countless elephantine, stretch-marked rolls are lifted out of bed with hover-assists, you hear your name called out by a company representative, also hazmat suit clad, holding a data pad in his hand.
"Congratulations, you have completed your work debt and are a free citizen once again!" You groggily burp in acknowledgement. "PaunchyInc would like to thank you for your diligent and lard- sorry- HARD work!" The crew begins pulling your work overalls onto you, though you are unsure why given you will need help taking them off (for the final time!) very soon.
"...We are also obligated to inform you that, well, the effects of your stay at our safety standards-passing work environment are such that you have been deemed medically unable to return within the gravity well of a planetary body..."
You instinctively attempt to protest. "WHA-OOOOUURrrrppp!?" Your second and third chin slap against your shoulder-rolls and saggy breasts.
"In particular, your lost bone mass and morbid obesity. Thankfully, as stated in your contract, PaunchyInc is compelled to provide you the quarters, nutrition, and job opportunities suitable to your new medical status, under the same conditions as your previous employment, of course."
Your mind races. Will you ever see your friends or your family again? If you do, what would they think? Would they even recognize you? How would you explain to them that you're now a flabby, soft, wobbling space whale!?
Your stomach rumbles again, and you feel the pain of hunger. Only one thought remains in your mind. You accept, and waddle toward the cafeteria for breakfast...
A little bit of worldbuilding for my fatfur sci-fi setting, "Fatstral Skies"
Lifers. That's what they call those unfortunate dregs born on board a station or ship rather than planetside. While artificial gravity is standard in habitation modules, these people, universally poor, are exposed to zero-g far more often than others. Many can't support themselves under Earth gravity. It is exceptionally rare for lifers to successfully transplant to a surface. They are easily recognized: wide, wobbly, weak.
It is for that exact reason you are confident that you, born planetside into the strong gravity field of Mus VI, a world therefore inhabited by hulking, super-anthropic strongmen, will encounter no difficulties during your short indebted servitude to PaunchyInc. They offered a plea deal for minor antisocial behavior that nevertheless threatened prison time. You know not to trust the MegaCorps- but you read this fine print and know this is a good deal for you. It entails only 6 months indebted to PaunchyInc's asteroid mining operations, a job usually left to the weak lifers so as to not waste planetsider strength, and so a job that will be a breeze for your bulk and sinew. Not to mention free housing and amenities (including food) - a generosity unheard of for these megacorps!
Your first day begins. Getting used to the zero gravity of the non-habitation sections of the mobile mining station takes a lot of time and practice - especially with the teasing fatties that surround you. "Nice moves, hunk!" and other playful jabs are common between greasy, offputting burps. Worse still is the NEAR zero gravity of the small asteroids themselves. You constantly trip and tumble after throwing your power too hard one way or the other. You have some close calls with your spacesuit - though your jiggling, obese coworkers are always close by to help you out.
Before long you do improve at the balanced, slow, methodical movements needed for this environment. Between the enormous, filling meal portions you are provided, and the feeling of your suit getting tighter, you start to think all these balancing acts may be paying off and growing your muscles even further.
That is until the day arrives when your skintight uniform splits open down your front at the cafeteria. You look down to find, in place of your toned abs, a soft, chubby belly poking out and perching itself atop your lap. You gasp - come to think of it, did you always have a jiggle in your cheeks? - and blush hard...
That was only two weeks into your sentence. You realise to prevent any permanent damage to your figure you will need to work out - but almost as if deliberately and maliciously, your shift supervisors expand your hours leaving you no realistic time to get some reps in. You try to refuse to finish your portions but find the value of your wasted high-tec nutrient paste added on as time to your indentured servitude. Doing so would only increase your overall sentence - and ultimately your BMI. You have no choice but to see your time out efficiently and pray, hope...
...You let out a minute long burp and groan awake in a deep, unhealthy rasp. As usual, you wait with your gurgling, needy belly for the mobility assistance crew to arrive to your quarters. The quadruple-wide sliding doors open with a hiss, and the hazmat-clad crew enters the stuffy room and begin their work.
As your countless elephantine, stretch-marked rolls are lifted out of bed with hover-assists, you hear your name called out by a company representative, also hazmat suit clad, holding a data pad in his hand.
"Congratulations, you have completed your work debt and are a free citizen once again!" You groggily burp in acknowledgement. "PaunchyInc would like to thank you for your diligent and lard- sorry- HARD work!" The crew begins pulling your work overalls onto you, though you are unsure why given you will need help taking them off (for the final time!) very soon.
"...We are also obligated to inform you that, well, the effects of your stay at our safety standards-passing work environment are such that you have been deemed medically unable to return within the gravity well of a planetary body..."
You instinctively attempt to protest. "WHA-OOOOUURrrrppp!?" Your second and third chin slap against your shoulder-rolls and saggy breasts.
"In particular, your lost bone mass and morbid obesity. Thankfully, as stated in your contract, PaunchyInc is compelled to provide you the quarters, nutrition, and job opportunities suitable to your new medical status, under the same conditions as your previous employment, of course."
Your mind races. Will you ever see your friends or your family again? If you do, what would they think? Would they even recognize you? How would you explain to them that you're now a flabby, soft, wobbling space whale!?
Your stomach rumbles again, and you feel the pain of hunger. Only one thought remains in your mind. You accept, and waddle toward the cafeteria for breakfast...
Category Story / Fat Furs
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 50 x 50px
File Size 63.2 kB
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