Jason woke up in the darkness, blinking blearily in confusion at the surrounding blackness.

"Urgh..." he said, with feeling, as he tried to get up. Gone was the immediate, wretched feeling of incredible swollen weight in his gut, but rather now it had dispersed, become easier to manage. He still had to push, too sleepy to notice, hard on the table to get his growing beer belly moving before managing to stand up, rolling up from the seat more than standing.

Scratching his wide, bubble butt, which jiggled softly in his cargo pants (and these were slipping further and further south these days, leaving him with a cool but as yet unnoticed draft over his builder's crack), he lumbered into the kitchen in his socks, murmuring incoherently to himself in the sleepwalker's tongue common to all late night snackers.

The carton of full fat milk at his lips was half emptied before he woke up a little more and his brain sluggishly began to work.
Hunger.
He was hungry.
His gut was empty.
He was eating.
Again.

Milk dribbled a little over his lips as this struck him; his stomach protested loudly at the stop of flow and unthinkingly he began to swallow again whilst his brain struggled to shake off the last vestiges of his sleep.

How the hell could he be hungry again after that stuffing? Absentmindedly his hand spread down his t-shirt to wipe off milk and reaching down to wipe it on his cargos. His wet hand met skin before it met waistband - his t-shirt was being pushed up by a pronounced but softening ball gut. Stupidly, Jason stared down at himself, and then jumped as he realised he was licking his milky fingers clean.

"I need help!"