Ozempic Obsession
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Part 1: The Shortcut
Incest Sex Story: Part 1: The Shortcut - He promised her a thigh gap once, and a BBL after the baby, and both times she told herself the price was worth it. This time he doesn't have to promise anything at all, and she still comes down to the basement long after the reason to has run out. The whole world's suddenly thin on the same miracle everyone calls discipline, and her father is the one man who can get it, no questions asked. Pitch-black satire. Read the tags.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie Pregnancy AI Generated
Madison got on the scale before she let herself look in the mirror. That was the order now. Number first, then the damage.
The display settled and held. She stepped off, waited for it to blank out, stepped back on. Same number. It hadn’t moved in eleven days.
In the crib against the wall Lily was awake but not crying yet, working up to it, making the small warning sounds that gave her maybe four minutes.
She turned sideways to the mirror.
Her stomach hadn’t gone back this time. After Emma it had, mostly. She’d been fourteen then, and fourteen snapped back. This time it stayed, soft and folding over on itself when she bent, and no amount of the basement had touched it. Her face had gone round. Her arms had gotten thick above the elbow, in a spot she hadn’t known could get thick. The leggings she’d lived in all through the BBL summer stopped at her knees now and wouldn’t go higher.
The ass she’d built that summer was technically still back there. Buried.
Somewhere under all this. Like a nice couch in a house that got condemned.
She pulled her shirt back down.
Sixteen years old. Two kids. Stretch marks she was way too young to have, and a body that had, at some point in the last few months, quietly stopped being hers and started being a place the kids used to live.
She fed the baby first, because there was no doing anything else until she did. Sat on the edge of the bed, latched her, scrolled with her free thumb.
Her feed knew what she wanted before she did. It always had. Two years ago it had been thigh gaps. Last year it had been asses. Now it was this.
@hannahgetsherlifeback, 840K followers, standing in her bathroom in a matching set, one hip cocked, the waistband of her leggings held out from her body to show the gap.
“down 60 lbs. no surgery. no shortcuts. just discipline, prayer, and finally putting MYSELF first 🙏 if I can do it anybody can. comment GLOW for my routine 💕”
Forty thousand people had commented GLOW.
Madison had been on this side of it before. She knew what “no shortcuts” meant. It meant a pen in the door of the fridge and a bruise on the stomach nobody photographed. Everybody knew it meant that. That was the whole game now — you took the shortcut and then you posted about the discipline. The lie was the content.
She scrolled. Before-and-after. Before-and-after. A girl her mom’s age crying happy in a car. A twenty-two-year-old holding up jeans she used to fit two of herself into.
Every after was basically the same girl. Flat, loose in her clothes, smiling like they’d won. If she looked too long there was something else under the smiles — a stillness, like a volume turned down somewhere — but she’d learned not to look too long at things like that.
She wanted it. The way she’d wanted the gap, and then the ass. Total, stupid, bottomless — the kind of wanting that didn’t care what it cost because it had decided the cost was worth it before it knew the number.
The baby’s eyes had gone heavy. Madison unlatched her, wiped her chin, laid her back down, and went to find her father.
He was in the garage, not the basement, changing the oil on the truck he never drove anywhere. Music low. The good work-light clamped to the hood.
She stood in the door until he felt her there.
“I want to go on Ozempic,” she said.
He didn’t look up from the pan. Let a full beat go by, the oil running.
“You’re sixteen.”
“People my age are on it.”
“People whose parents fill out a lot of forms and pay for a specialist and lie a little on an intake.” He wiped his hands on the rag, slow. “That’s not a thing you just get.”
“You could get it.”
Now he looked up.
There it is. He didn’t say no. He said ‘that’s not a thing you just get.’ He’s already priced it.
She’d learned to read him in the basement, over two years, the way you learn a language you’d never choose to speak. He wasn’t a man who said no to a thing he wanted to say yes to. He was a man who made you understand what it cost, so that later you couldn’t say you hadn’t known.
“There’s a version of it that’s easy to get,” he said. “For someone with the connections. A couple hundred a pen, cash. And you don’t get anywhere on one pen — it’s months of them.”
“I don’t have a couple hundred a month.”
“I know you don’t.”
He set the rag down. Leaned back against the truck. Looked at her the way he looked at her measurements, the way he looked at the notebook — assessing, adding something up.
“It’s expensive, Madison,” he said. “It’s not the money that makes it expensive.”
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