The Coalition Of Communist Catgirls

"remind me again why we're doing this?"

Shyla dropped the crowbar with a noisy clank on the concrete floor, the sound echoing through the empty, cathedral like space.

"For the thousandth time, what organisation do we belong to?"

"the Coalition of Communist Catgirls." Shyla replied.

"And what is our biggest enemy?"

"The capitalist machine."

"And what's the biggest racket in town, the biggest example of the soul crushing, proletariat abusing corporate fat cats?"

"Mama-Trixies All Butter Cakes, they're the biggest business in ten, but we aren't exactly skinny cats-"

Her companion turned to her and scowled. Amelia had chosen theirs outfits for this evening, but unfortunately had picked them both in the same sizes: too small.

Black catsuits were meant to be figure hugging, but not to this degree. Amelia's breasts bulged ridiculously in a riot of cleavage that protruded from the partly undone zipper, the curve of her ample, plump body plainly visible thanks to the material so tight it appeared sprayed on.

"Mama-Trixies. Correct. And where do they derive their profit from?"

Shyla was keenly aware she could see the outline of Amelia's unflatteringly large panties through her catsuit. "Aside from crushing the proletariat? I guess from selling cakes..."

"Bingo. So if we remove the cakes from the equation, what happens to their profits?"

Amelia flicked back her mane of brilliant dark red hair, her green eyes sparkling as she sashayed her wide hipped walk over to a large red lever labelled "Automated production master ON/OFF", giving Shyla an eyeful of her plump, rotund backside as she walked.

"They disappear too... But how are you going to get rid of all their cakes?"

"You leave that to me." Amelia purred, and pulled the lever.

*****

The rest of the nights events were captured, for posterity and warning, on the almost entirely automated factory's security camera.

Employing so few people meant that Mama Trixie could afford to pay very high wages, despite the recent economic slowdown.

The pair had no way of knowing they were being watched, or that the alarm was triggered the moment Amelia pulled the lever.

Unfortunately for the security team the local police force was chronically underfunded and understaffed, and their response time was legendarily slow.

*****

Amelia let go of the lever, now jammed onto ON and skipped passed the row upon row of gleaming silver machines. Slowly, one by one, they hummed to life. Her was the butter melter, there the flour sifter. Next to that stood the mixer, the milk adder, the sugar pourer and the additive adder. The roller, the cutter, the add-that-little-bit-left-over-back-to-the-mixture machine (patent ending), the oven, the checker, and finally the packer.

"help me with this." Amelia yelled as she and Shyla manhandled the packer out of the way, leaving the end of the conveyor belt empty.

They replaced the machine, as it happened, with Amelia.

"This was your plan?!" Shyla moaned as she saw the first of the fresh, hot from the oven cakes roll out on the end of the conveyor and straight into Amelia's mouth.

"Smash the system, sister!" Amelia purred as she greedily stuffed in a second and then third cake.

*****

"Sma- UUURRRRRPPPP! - smash the -ugh!- system..."


GROAN!

"Crush the-"

GURGLE!

"god... I'm so stuffed!"

The conveyer belt slid on, cakes plopping off the end to land with a splat on the floor, to the side of her head.

Her mouth was surrounded by crumbs, her red hair fanned out around her like a halo.

"Guh... There's too many... Too many cakes..."

Her zipper was pulled all the way down. The twin mounds of her breasts, clad in a purple bra, did their best to hide the damage from her view, but there was only so much that can be done with B cups.

Her belly bloomed forth. She'd managed, in an hour, to eat one hundred and forty two cakes, or roughly one every twenty five seconds.

Her waistline bore the brunt of the damage. She'd outgrown the catsuit in a matter of minutes, straining the zipper until it had undone itself, the toggle whirring over the tiny plastic teeth as it creased the swell of her burgeoning gut, all the way down to the crotch of her purple panties, the tiny looking scrap of triangular elastic aged fabric bearing a proud hammer and sickle icon.

"Amelia, are you okay?"

"no... Im enormous!"

The bloated Catgirl motioned to the vast fecundity that pinned her to the ground like a lake pink mountain. At its apex, marked by the shallow, distorted dip of her belly button, stretch marks had developed in great feathering ripples, her belly stretched to its absolute limit.

Over the groans and complaints of her belly, they heard it.

A siren.

"Police!" Shyla jumped up and down, biting her nails. "ohshitohshitohshitohshit."

"gotta... Ufff... Gotta get up and OOOF!" the massively over engorged Catgirl tried to sit up a little too fast and felt for an awful second like her gut would simply explode, the sudden pressure almost enough to rupture it. She flopped down onto her back. "Uuuuuugh! I nearly... Nearly burst!" she whimpered, cradling the struggling sphere, her hands tiny as those of a child against the ocean of heaving, grumbling belly's she cradled. "Shush, tummy, my precious darling, mummy's sorry..."

"gotta get out, gotta leave!" Shyla gibbered, her eyes filled with the flash of blue outside. They were here! There was no leaving through the doors!

Her eyes caught on the manhole embedded into the floor by her feet. The sewer! Perfect! Grabbing her crowbar she levered the cover off and dropped down into the wide, dark pipe beneath.

"Amelia, quick!"

The hugely bloated Catgirl rolled herself ponderously over to the hole, swivelling herself feet first. Shyla watched as delicate toes emerged first, followed by chunky calves, then thick thighs, then...

"Amelia? Why've you stopped?"

"I'm stuck! Help!"

True to form, the huge circumference of her waistline meant that, couple with the slight give of the near spherical diameter of her bulging stomach, her belly formed a perfect seal around the manhole.

"help! Pull me through!" she squealed, hearing the boots and shouts of the police as they tried the door."

Shyla did the only thing she could think to, and grabbed Amelia's ankles.

"you ready?"

"Do it!"

"one..."

"two..."

"FOR GODS SAKE PULL, I DON'T WANT TO GET ARRESTED!"

Shyla hauled with all her weight on the trapped cat's legs, and there was a mighty pop.

She was free.

Down she came like an obese raindrop, the red headed Catgirl in the obscenely unfastened suit. For a second she seemed to hang, suspended in the air, a great bloated planet born anew in the dark sewer.

It's true all cats land on their feet. It doesn't mention what happens next through.

Amelia landed gracefully on her tiny feet. Her stomach. An agent of gravity's whim, followed after, sloshing and bounding, carried downward by its own weight.

"oh heck! Too fat!" the Catgirl whimpered."

Her belly hit the bottom of its downward trajectory, her centre of balance shifted wildly as she was pulled forcibly off balance by her gargantuan tummy.

"no no no no!" she wailed, arms windmilling as she tried to regain her lost balance.

Forward she toppled, like a massive tree, a mighty oak felled. The ground rushed up to meet her, embracing the soft face of her overtaxed tummy with the unyielding solidarity of brick. Her stomach bulged out to the sides as she landed heavily, right on her belly!

"Ngah!" she squeaked, eyes wide, mouth flapping like a landed fish as her stomach squeezing outward as all the pressure within was directed sideways. Her hands clutched the ballooning flanks, unable to press in at all and therefore hold off the inevitable.

The skin of her belly tore with an ear splitting boom and her belly detonated, firing Shyla out along the length of the sewer as a colossal shock wave roared through the ancient pipes.