Ozempic Obsession
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Part 2: The Rest of It
Incest Sex Story: Part 2: The Rest of It - 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
The sickness came on the second day, like he’d said it would.
She woke up already knowing. Made it to the bathroom, brought up water and the sour taste of nothing. Emma cried through it from the next room. Lily cried through it from the crib. She rinsed her mouth, pressed a cold washcloth to her face until her hands stopped shaking, and went to see to the girls.
By the fourth day the sickness thinned out into something else. Not nausea. Quiet.
It caught her at dinner. Her mom had made the good pasta, the one Madison could usually put away two plates of, and Madison looked down at it and there was nothing there. Not full. Not sick. Just — gone. Like a hand had reached in and found the part of her that wanted and switched it off at the wall.
She ate four bites because her mom was watching, and moved the rest around the plate.
This is what he meant. It’s not the food telling you you’re hungry anymore. There’s just no one on the line.
She’d spent her whole life with the volume up. Wanting the gap, wanting the ass, wanting her body back, wanting, wanting, some want or other running under everything all the time. And now, about the pasta at least, it was silent.
It was the most peaceful she’d felt since before Emma.
The scale gave her three pounds by the end of the week.
Her dad said the first week was mostly water and not to get attached to the number. She got attached to the number. She stood on it morning and night. She took a picture of her stomach in the bathroom mirror and didn’t post it, just kept it, in a folder, to have something to measure the next one against.
“You’re dropping fast,” her mom said. Not entirely like a compliment. Her mom, who’d been stuck at the same fourteen pounds since spring. “What are you even doing different?”
“Just the workouts. With Dad.”
Her mom held the look a beat too long.
She’s doing the math. Not the real math — her math. How come the sixteen-year-old’s dropping it and I’m not. She’ll turn that over all summer and never once get near the answer. The answer’s not on the list of things she’d let herself guess.
“Well,” her mom said, and turned back to her own plate, most of it still on it. “Whatever’s working.”
On the seventh day her dad came up while she was feeding the baby.
He stood in the doorway. Didn’t come in.
“You’ve got a session tonight,” he said. “After they’re down.”
Not a question. He’d said give it a week, and it had been a week, and he kept a careful calendar of what he was owed.
“Okay,” Madison said.
The basement was the same as it had always been. The mat. The bench. The baby monitor turned to face the wall out of an old habit, back from when the thing it was pointed away from was a secret and not the entire point.
Her dad was already down there. No notebook this time. No tape measure. Nothing set out to write in, because there was nothing this was pretending to measure.
That was the part that still landed wrong. In the old days there’d been a whole apparatus — the angles, the fascia, the long clinical words he’d hand her one at a time so she’d have somewhere to file what was happening to her. Now he just looked at her, and she looked back, and they both already knew what she’d come down here to pay.
“Take those off,” he said.
She took them off.
She lay down on the mat, because the mat was where this happened.
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