Jane was outside, for once. And for this, her father was grateful. He would have been just as grateful as well if she had stayed inside and was helping clean the cookery now, but that came with the risk she’d grab bites from the lunch he’d just prepared as she didn’t quite scrub the pans hard enough.
And it was spring. A 19-year old – her birthday had been less than a month ago – it really wasn’t a good thing to be cooped up in her room as much as she was with her online classes, hunched over a computer screen or thudding around as she did – still supposedly studying. All her time seemed to be taken up with that or cooking – which he always seemed to get a shopping list for, but never the results. Outside. Even if she wasn’t going to go out and socialize, at least he was happy to see her get out on a dry day.
It would probably help if she had grown up in a subdivision with more people. Any people. The only time this placs saw any activity was when the fleet of lawnmowers came by to trim around empty houses.
At the same time, her father knew HE was the one that would be out of place today. Just like this gigantic house wasn’t built for him, but he dealt with it on a daily basis – he’d deal with today.
Gramgrams was coming to visit.
Poppop and Grammy had come for her birthday. It had been great, even if it’d been hell to get ahead on her assigned reading beforehand. And. Even if it might be the last time she saw them. But he was old enough every year was that chance. Oh, Grammy might come to visit once Poppop passed – she was a lot younger – but Poppop – he had barely been getting around for a long time. Of course he couldn’t miss his 105th birthday party, though. Even if Jane was the one with the energy to crack all the jokes.
Gramgrams hadn’t been able to make it that day.
Jane wondered how old she was. But she didn’t even know her birthday, so it was impossible to guess, right?
It was cold out. Colder than inside, at least. But it wasn’t raining, even if the sun wasn’t out. Really – what was she supposed to do out here? Being between terms actually left Jane without any goals to dig into – not that she had time to make them before the Summer term started up. But it wasn’t time to “get fit” – like her shape would ever change. It wasn’t tanning weather. The fence was fixed from last week – well, it hadn’t been repainted, but Dad hadn’t gotten the paint yet. She really didn’t know why it needed to be fixed, since the house next door was empty – the only person ever there was the groundskeepers. Tiny men on their riding mowers, even smaller than Dad. They probably weren’t supposed to attract attention?
Idly she wandered around the yard. She’d hear Gramgrams coming, obviously. The roads were empty.
Gad-f-in-zooks. Jane was struck with the thought that she could have been 13, or 15. or 17, and she’d still be doing the exact same thing right now. She should had just gone straight to work on the line at the local Crocker Corp factory. Worked her way up. Or get a job in the taste labs. But that – education, still. Culinary arts, or Business, some degree to not risk running the family name into the ground before taking over. Was that Gramgrams insisting? The Management board? No. Stop thinking about college, stop thinking about future jobs and legacies. Just think about the present.
Ah, yes, the Slimer pogo ride. Right here. In the Present. One stupid thing 13-year old Jane might have been embarrassed to ride, but 19 year old Jane was starting to get thoughts might not be there forever.
Eh, why not.
She sat daintily on it’s back and- well, there really was no ‘and’. As soon as the tried to tuck her legs underneath her, the spring bent back and her ass was pressed firmly against the ground.
No huge loss – It was a kids toy, and she was big enough to have been mistaken for an adult for years before she actually was.
She considered for a moment. This thing would still spring back and forth and thwap her good if she just tried to get off. This necessitated an appropriate dismount – dare she ponder, even a cool one – one that wouldn’t brake the fence again. Yeah. And with her only her butt on the ground….
Jane thrust her gut forward – not that this looked too horribly impressive on it’s own – as far as she could, feeling the dew or rain or whatever moisture as Slimer’s head bump pressed into her shirt and abdomen. This would merely be ‘leaning forward’ if she weren’t already sitting on the ground; but she followed by arching her spine backwards, raising her chin until it arched back as well, her neck curving until the folds of fat on her back started to register the top of her skull running down them.
And. Well. Apparently her ass was large enough that her chin could not reach down to brush the grass as it continued to curl back – she could try and push further, but for the fear of bending her glasses’ frames or breaking her glasses’ lenses while sitting on her head – a very real one, in Jane’s experience. This would not be a graceful transition to a head-sit pose – rather falling into it – but it was still better than getting thwapped.
Her hands let go – and nothing moved. Safe, at least for one more moment. She raised them into the air, her shoulders taking a moment to snap back into a normal alignment, and tried to decide what was the best balance pose of those she had seen on YouTub, before deciding that none really matched. So there was nothing to do but release the little demon between her thighs.
Jane had been right about one thing; the released pogo, springing back and forth, did not reach her legs to thwap them. However, the short fall onto her chin and collarbones was rather devastating, and her chubby legs pitched to the side rather than balancing over her bent back. Her rack, which she had hopes would swing back enough to pad the fall, completely failed to.
She lay on the ground for a long moment, slowly uncurling, as Slimer’s pendulum swing calmed and he resumed his constant vigil.
Was there enough time for a shower? Was she grass-stained?
That was the sound of a motor. A big one. Nope, no time – Gramgrams was here.
The last time she had seen her great grandmother, Jane had seen Betty Crocker come out of the back of a 20-foot long box truck. This – this was a camper, by styling. But by general shape, it was a converted 40 foot semi truck. As soon as the engine stopped, a whir of electric motors started – and the box’s roof – and ceiling – started raising by another few feet as a pair of metal stairs extended from the side.
Dad was out of the house, and gave Jane a quick side-hug as they waited.
“Roughhousing around again?” He eyed the grass stain on her collar. It wasn’t the Jersey – A San Jose Sharks one – and capris she usually wore, she had at least gone a little nicer – If a hoodie and full-length fleece was nicer.
“Not really – what, do you want me to go change now?”
He laughed, “No, no, I won’t force you to wear one of the skirts I spent good money on,” He sighed, “Of all people, I think she’ll understand a little incidental dirt.”
For all it’s size, the camper had one obvious shortcoming – of the two side exits, the larger was secured by a long pipe latch from the outside. And Old Betty wasn’t waiting for her driver to come around and open it.
As the tiny door swung open, all that was visible though it was a single ashen leg, the hem of some shorts, and what one might guess to be a size 20 sandal. Through an unknowable process – because there was no way to see past the leg to see what she was doing – the leg twisted sideways through the door until the pair were faced by a pair of toned thighs and an ass that could not belong to a proper great grandmother without the use of scandalous time travel. The pair of legs continued their Piqué tour, a large, swath of fabric managing to contain a singular breast popped into view above a otherwise un-torsoed pair of shorts, a final half twist and it’s mate swung into view through the door. The figure eventually stood tall – as tall as the trailer was, she would have just barely had the room to stand in it. She turned to the pair, taking a moment to arrange her hair before extending her arms.
“Jane! How’s my little gurl?” crossing the sidewalk into their yard with barely a step, she took up the teen with ease and hugged her tightly. Jane would have been suffocated in her great grandmother bosom if she hadn’t allowed herself to flop back as soon as she felt her touch – not that she would have been seen over Gramgrams’ bustline in either state, but she now hung like a towel over her arms, looking all the more like it covered in fleece.
Her grandson did not respond quite the same way – as Jane was released, he managed to leap up to hug his Grammy’s neck, avoiding suffocation while temporarily pretending to be her necklace. Thankfully, surrounding on both sides by bosom, her hug wasn’t quite as vice-like on him as it had been on Jane, who had a moment to recover her breath as her father regained his footing.
“Really? A Camper?” Out of habit, his hands went to straighten his tie, but no, it was a weekend, he had forgone it this morning, “You drove all the way here?”
“It’s the deregulation, dear,” Betty smoothed out her halter top – sandals, shorts, top, sunglasses that they only noticed now – her whole outfit looked like it came from a 70s camping ad, besides the fact the models preferred for those ads were usually half the height of their campers. And could find a bra their size, “The skies are so full, it simply wasn’t worth waiting for runway time. Besides, I’m not driving.”
A clink from the trailer behind her caught their attention for a moment – The driver had unlatched the pipe lock on the big door, much more suitable for the exceptional lines of the Crocker matron. Which disappointed Jane a bit, as she had hoped for more of an opportunity to figure out just how Gramgram had made that exit – even if Jane doubted she could do the same through that door with her waistline, it looked like a handy trick. The girl didn’t notice how tired the driver looked as he sat on the extended steps, awaiting further instruction.
“How long are you planning on staying?” Jane did not want to seem too excited – but someone she could still literally look up to was… actually a nice thought.
“Until work eventually calls me away, as always. But-” she turned her attention back to Dad, “You still are free to help with the next video, right?” Her voice took on an edge.
“Our kitchen is at your disposal. And our lunch is ready, if you’d like to join us.”
Betty pondered for a moment, “At least for one night, then – I’ve got my own bed,” and turned back to the driver, “Take the rest of day. But check in tomorrow morning,” She held up a pair of outstretched fingers to her face in a phone gesture.
And Betty proceeded to push the two into their own house without a further word.
Jane’s phone buzzed, and she quickly excused herself – Gramgrams was pumping Dad for information, so it was mostly stuff she’d heard before anyways.
> janie
> My great grandmother is here. Are you actually going to say something or do I have to put this thing in airplane mode?
> great. did you get the crossword i sendt
> Yes. And I did it this morning. None to subtle in trying to prove my grandmother is an alien.
> fusck
> you were suppoesd to whait til she was there to see what the psiionics blocked.
> And what good would that do, even if it were the case. How many times have you tried to convince me she was about to do her world takeover by now?
> Somthing somthing timelines, I know.
> janie. you kno im only a concerned citizen of waterworl
> And can see today, again. Apparently.
> yea thanks iv got eyes today. parallel er perpendickular dimentions theys there. ell if i know if thats good or bad
> so whats hapennin
> If you were from the future as you claim, you’d know we’re about to film some cooking spots for YouTub. She’s going to be on camera. Isn’t that all the proof you need?
> ccorp edits them vides out the wazoo
> hey wait you got a tok
> kattik
> tikstok
> Are these things I should know about?
> vineyard
> Yes? I haven’t used it much. There’s less throwing printers out windows than I was led to believe.
> thats because u havnt done anything with it. behind the scenes gil
> Because you want me to show my grandmother is an alien via uncut video.
> well ya but have fun w it
It was useless to try and extract promises of from Roxy that’s she’d give up her cause if the video proved otherwise.
> You already know if I did it, right?
> *▯_▯*
> That is just creepy
> Why can’t you just “”””wonk”””” anymore
> Lunch, over and out.
The first video is of a white ceiling, flat. No crown molding where it meets the wall – relatively recent construction. There is a whir of ceiling fan blades, messing with video compression.
“Oh, no the chair is fine”, the accent is… Eastern European, perhaps? Or just from Wisconsin, maybe, Mezzo, “The trailer keeps me off by feet.”
There is a loud crunch, followed by a dozen smaller pops as bones and tendons correct outside the video’s frame.
“Oh? I’ve been pacing around waiting all day,” Jane’s voice was decidedly in the alto range, but one could hardly tell if it dipped deeper than Betty’s due to nature or effort.
The table under the phone shook a bit, then a second set of pops – a little quieter then the first – followed by another shake, and three or four more of the same pitch.
“Are you trying to show off, gil? Before I’m even done?”
The table shifts again before the video stops.
“-thankful for this kitchen.” Betty’s tone is accusatory. She’s standing in front of what appears to be a short kitchen counter, her striped green halter top, and pastel blue shorts swaying regularly in opposite directions as she hand-mixed one of many large bowls prepared in front of her – though it was questionable she could do anything more than feeling for the bowls as she switched – she could hardly see them past her rack.
“Plenty of room to move, high ceilings, ” she reached up and tapped the ceiling with the base of her whisk, “A few sites they booked for me, Off that coon and crust website, I could barely get into the door, much less have room to raise my arms in the kitchen” she took a wider stance – and her feet just kept slipping further apart, “Two of them, I had to sit on the floor to make it look like I was standing behind the counter,” her legs straddled wide to either side, as her inner thighs soundlessly met the floor – while still keeping up her whisking of batter.
The camera tilts forward and down to get a better view – and Betty’s hips twist fluidly to put her in a front split, her torso turns 90 degrees to match, and she’s starting right at the camera, “So you are-“
There is an audible clicking from the oven in the background, as the heat turns on, but the more obvious sound is heavy breathing.
The girl in frame is much less mature? Chubbier, definitely. It appears the hoodie she previously wore is now being used to pull her arms up over her head, out of frame – and her two layers of oversized sports bra are left to do their best to contain most of what is in the video’s frame. As she shifts back and forth, one can see she’s not just lying on her belly; one can get a glimpse to the side, to see a chair one of her feet is suspended from – raised form the floor in a over-extended stradle split – though there are merely glimpses of this past the heaving of her breasts.
“One more time,” form where Betty peeks around her arm, she can only be on the girl’s back, hundreds of kilos pressing the girl’s crotch and abdomen to the floor – there’s no other place to hide her ass then behind the girl’s heaving bosom.
“I won’t take photos of video without getting permission,” Jane seems to have plenty of breath for for the apology – but Betty isn’t sitting on her ribcage.
“Hun, make yourself useful and get some shots of stuff cooking. B-roll or whatevs.” It’s a stained wood floor, and it looks like the phone’s camera is propped up in the corner. Now it’s Betty laying chest down on the floor, but arched backward; breasts filling the frame of the video, eyes looking intently into the phone screen below camera. She reaches back, and her legs rise up behind her, high enough that her ample ass starts to peek over her shoulders. The light hits the gap between her ribs and wood floor just right, so it seems the breasts themselves are the only thing supporting her . She frowns in response to the image.
“Jane? I’m going to need a good hug over here.”
The camera is slightly higher up off the ground. Jane has changed a more tailored, button-down shirt on now – Crocker red – even if Betty is still in her traveling clothes. Betty’s spine is already folded, pointing her legs toward the ceiling, her butt much more visible, almost pillow-like, with the change of camera angle, her elbows raised and hands clasped behind her head – and the gap just happen to be filled with her thighs.
Jane is there to give her great grandmother what would be just a side hug – if the recipient weren’t folded in half backwards. As it was, with Jane’s hug, Betty hair and head sink deeper an deeper into the plushness of her rump. Her practiced smile stayed firmly in place. Her eyes, though, seem to show her mind was going places.
“Tell them, not me.”
The counter is lined with baked sheet cakes, a pair partially decorated, others cooling in their pans.
“Ok, Pillsbury. Crocker doesn’t have a mascot – they don’t need one, they have Me. But what the shell are all y’all doing over there. You have your little dough-boy, and all you ever do is poke him in the belly. It’s been decades. Your mascot is the definition of stale.”
“Go”
“He is useless in the kitchen every single commercial. He helps less than the beast hunting for scraps under the table does. But It’s not like you have to krill the Lil guy by flattering him with a rolling pin and sending him to cookie heaven. My late husband could have figured out a million gags, but this one is free from the Crockers.”
There was a pair of large ovens in the background, out of focus, a man in standing in front of them, arms crossed as if he was a bouncer in front of a club – all looking even more suburban chic than the previous shots.
Jane, was the one in focus, sitting – or rather laying, on the counter while still wearing the Crocker brand all over. Well, her apron was still mostly white. Some signs of past grease stains cleaned, at least, and with the lower edge pulled tight between her white-legging’d ass. Her legs themselves are raised up, passing over her shoulders, toes and ankles poking out, with the girl’s feet gingerly hooked behind her head. Her chubby arms in long red sleeves reach back down, spread across an aluminum cookie tray too small to support a fraction of her bulk, but just large enough to give an impression that she could be resting on it.
“You know what the Crocker version of Popping Fresh is?” The camera pulled a bit closer to Jane, a greyed hand with one extended finger with a yellowed nail edged in, pressing deep into the middle of the mostly taught plane of the apron.
“Hoo Hooo!” Jane’s laugh was more sultry than silly, and shortly accompanied by the tear of fabric – the apron’s neck strap freeing itself – as Jane straightened her back, gut and bust blossoming outward in Crocker red as the poor apron gave way. Her shoulders caved back as her crossed feet found a tighter hold further down her back. A tarp-covered boat had been converted to a bowl overflowing with belly and boobs, jiggling harder as the girl started to crack up despite herself.
“‘It’s not on brand’, like I don’t know I’ve but on some weight over the years. Ugh,” Betty Crocker was out of her travel clothes and looking – slightly – more like Betty Crocker in the old advertisements. The long, tight Red skirt, a bit of ruffle above the ankles. The white button-up blouse, the red bolero jacket, the cravat waiting to be tied, the hint of gold earring peeing out from under thick hair, the unnaturally red lipstick.
Not that she could actually button up the blouse. The shirt wasn’t made to fit around the blubber of her bust, or even one half Betty’s size. Instead, what almost looked like a suitcase was around her midsection – either to be seen as a clamshell interpretation on the corsets of yesteryear, or an incompetent clothing designer’s surely failed take in an attempt to do a nigh impossible task. Or, perhaps somebody had seen the formed plastic chest-piece in some science fiction movie, and assumed that could work.
Fat. Blubber? Why would you think that. Fat.
The right side, the more ordered one, had a many meter long, seatbelt-sized strap trailing, pulled through to the point it could be latched shut.
The left side was busted wise open, grey bust trying to bust it’s way past it own woven seatbelt, far from being secured against the flesh rumbling underneath.
And Betty had an entirely wrong number of hands available to both force her curves into their expected profile, pull the left side closed with that length of seatbelt, and latch them into their temporary confinement.
She looked, a hint of pleading, at the camera after some fussing, “Jane, get off that thing and help me. I usually get my driver to clam me up.”
“It’s just statistic. the taller you are, the longer your legs are in comparison to arms.” Jane hands were both visible, so it could not be her holding the phone. She was, in fact, inverted in a handstand, a length of previously seen seatbelt grasped between her toes.
“Rollin.”
Jane pushed her legs wide in a front split, one foot bracing against what mush have been Betty’s thigh under her red skirt, the other pulling the length of belt as far as she span of her legs would take it – which ended up being slightly shorter than the length of Jane’s legs. The sound of plastic latching together could be heard.
“See? I got split to spare,” Jane’s legs bounced a bit, and the girl’s wide hips popped through the loop of seatbelt, pushing a rolling hill of flesh up into the air as Jane tried to put as much force as she could into the belt that braced her to Betty’s hip.
“Not bad, not bad.” There was the snapping of some latches – just out of frame, busts busted no more.
“Oh, wait, lemme try-” The camera shook the slightest bit as Jane adjusted her footing, and the girl’s hands rose up off the floor, the tension of the belt on Jane’s extended leg span held her suspended mid-air.
The was a not of joy in Jane’s voice, “I haven’t found a set of walls the right distance to try this since-“
“I’m not your jungle gym,” Betty bent her knee and Jane smacked into the floor face-first.
The shot is now of a Betty Crocker, transformed, now actually fitting into her blouse. In classic profile – mostly. The corset might compress flesh into bone to a ridiculous degree, but nothing contains her wide hips – she is merely behind a high enough counter to hide them.
The bouncer in white, alias Dad, is trying move the camera to just the right position – searching for the right framing, or angle, or light. He finally gives a thumbs up.
Betty Crocker takes a deep breath, and massages her neck for a moment, letting her chin rest on her chest. “Jane, you ready?” The video cuts out in an odd blur of orange as the phone is dropped to who knows what.
Eighteen. Jane’s arms bent, slowly, lowering her chest to the floor. And straightened back up, letting muscles work until they wanted to twitch. It wasn’t her arms on fire. It was all the little adjacent muscles. The balance control was still awful. Nineteen. Jane always got mad at herself this exact moment. Push-ups were supposed to be exhausting – and Jane had always made sure they were that. Straight-legged pushups? Passé. Handstand pushups? Better, because the only thing heavier in this house than her (normally) was her bed, and Dad hated her messing with that, and one needed some resistance weight.
Jane adjusted her feet, they were tucked into her armpits, and if she wasn’t careful her ‘glow’ would be enough lubrication for them to slip out form their catch. And the last time that had happened – well, her back bent, her butt to the back of her head, her knees jutting in front of her face and wrapping around her shoulders – well, she shouldn’t have had the bedroom door open for circulation that day. Because the snap she had tried to make that day had sent her rolling, end over end, into the hall and down the stairs.
At least the furniture had been hurt more than she had been. As padded as she was.
The phone buzzed. She was stalling. Bend the elbows, slowly. Down. Straighten them up. Twenty. Carefully unhook her feet and lower them to the floor – safe. She stood up, and checked her phone.
> THERE. right ther.
Jane had received a screenshot of a black blur of hair with two orange curves over it. Pixelated red arrows were drawn on it, suitable for a conspiratorial internet post.
> just how the frik you shot all that and did not manage to get one good lookie a tha top of her dome i dunno
> And what is that supposed to be?
Jane took a moment to massage her back while waiting for a response. Theoretically, she should do a frontbend to counter her previous backbend right now, but – nah. Curls. She flopped to the floor, to rest on her stomach. Dad, maybe downstairs, banged the wall in response. She didn’t know why he complained. At least she wasn’t bowling over fences built by the lowest bidder here. But at least Roxy had waited until she was almost done.
Jane raised her arms over her head, and started lifting them form the floor, bit by bit, trying to keep them straight with her upper back, letting the lower back do the lifting. She used to do these quickly, going for a high number of repetitions, but had decided smoothness was preferable.
The phone buzzed when her chest had raised to a right angle to her legs and the floor, arms outstretched. Jane sighed, and allowed herself to sag backwards as she grabbed the phone, settling her shoulders into her thighs, she crossed her legs for a bit more of a headrest than the carpet provided – and just relaxed. Her belly was a large enough of a stop to keep her body from trying to straighten out unintentionally in this case.
> its her horns. hao can u not remeber her horns.
> Horns? I think I would remember if she had horns. Besides, those look more like Cheetos. And I’m pretty sure Crocker Corp would have jumped on that brand if that were the case.
> janie. don’t take this the wrong way. but can yu really be paying attention if you got your head all ass-ways all the time?
Jane took a moment to think of a response. And adjust herself a bit, her shorts were starting to ride up a bit as she lay there, on herself.
> As apposed to what? Cunt-ways?
> *GASP*
> Roxy. Hun. Grow up.
___
So the prompt was The Condesce doing a cooking show with a bunch of contortion (either as betty crocker or the empress)
Condy is very tall and curvy
Jane is tall and chubby-curvy
Dad is Also there
For FoeHammer
https://archiveofourown.org/works/30625289
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