Prose That Blows

Rage Read

She could not stop reading.

Without a doubt, it was the worst book she had ever read.  Its characters were stupid and juvenile in their execution.  The sentence structure and wording bore all the refinement of crude oil: black, monotonous, and stinky.  An erotic novel of pervasive popularity, yet containing not a single line that brought her carnal pleasure.  Rather than forge a white hot yearning in her loins that was the author’s overtly obvious intent, it only forged a white hot rage that sat heavily within her entire being.

She turned the pages of the softcover tome in as ungentle a manner as she dared.  Her contempt for the “literature” within her hands was palpable: a passive aggressive rage within her fingertips wishing to destroy the pages before they destroyed her psyche.  Still, she pressed on, absorbing every word, every sentence and paragraph, allowing the cathartic hate to build and build…

So enthralled by the train wreck set in print in her hands, she barely noticed as her bust shifted within her t-shirt.  With each turn of the page, with each word read and analyzed, her chest broadened.  With every poorly worded line of dialog, her cleavage deepened.  Had she bothered to wear a bra this evening, it would have surely pinched something horrible before being rendered scrap.  However, the reader was well versed in the effects of poor prose upon her body.  This was not her first hate read.  Not even half way through the text, and the seams of her purple shirt groaned and snapped, pushed to their very limit in containing her ire-swelled mammaries; the hem of her garment pulled free from the waistband of her stretchy grey slacks.

…and build…

The skin of her belly began to stretch to accommodate the boiling hate.  The internal monolog of the vapid heroine served as the catalyst for the swelling.  It defied logic and reason.  It defied sanity.  The airy bubbleheadedness of the protagonist brought airy, bubbly distress to the reader’s waistline.  Unconsciously, she spread her legs to make room for her not-so-gravid swell, her piercing green eyes never once leaving the page.

…and build…

Faster and faster she read.  Bigger and bigger she grew.  Thighs and bottom grew in unison, filling the seat of her couch with gaseous choler.  The legs of her trousers grew taught with hate-filled flesh, while her black cotton undies were rent at the seams by the swell of her waistline.  Threads screamed in torture as she screamed internally at the many times dammed book.  It was just so bad, but it just felt so good!  To rage at this piece of literary garbage, to look at the ill dialog of its unlikeable characters with daggers so well deserved, was cathartic.  She hated the book, but she loved to hate it; the extent of her hate made clear by her ever-increasing girth.

…and build…

Seams ripped open like zippers, the tatters of her shirt now hanging from her neck.  Were she so inclined to peel her eyes away from her book, she would have seen an expanse of cleavage so vast she could have easily hid an entire library of poorly-written erotica within it.  The button on her slacks finally gave up its valiant effort to keep her gut contained, and was sent hurtling across the room as its stitches snapped.  Her pants peeled away from her, forced down her legs by her expanding bottom.


It was only when her swollen fingers fumbled with the pages did she notice how far gone she was.  Everything below her neck had swollen with rage.  Her breasts had grown well beyond head-sized.  Her torso had completely rounded like a small weather balloon, so tight with pressure that her bellybutton had turned from an innie to an outie.  Her bottom and thighs had become so immense that the love seat she sat upon was more an armchair to her.  It was when she was forced to nestle the tome within her cleavage that she heard the ominous noises from her body for the first time: the low, enraged hiss of inflation, the deep, fierce bubbling of emotion, and the angry creaking of overtaxed flesh.  She was angry, and in her anger she felt great!  She felt powerful and sure in her rage.  She felt a pleasant taughtness and pressure within her body, like the buildup to a great, satisfying ending (something she was sure her book would fail to deliver).  Although, if she were completely honest with herself, she also felt perhaps just a little too…



Before she could even contemplate what those angry noises could mean, her belly split open with a thunderous pop.

Her flat form rested upon the couch as the tatters of her shirt and pants fell from the air.  Naked and empty, splayed out very much like the remains of a burst balloon.  Indeed, with the great tear in her torso and the loss of her rage-manifested gas, that was what she was at that moment: a burst balloon.  It would take hours for the tear to mend and her form to flesh back out.  It would be hours before she could pick back up the delightfully horrible book that laid on the deflated remains of her thighs and continue her rage read.  Until then, her unconscious mind busied itself with a delightful dream; a dream borne of bad prose and rage.

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