Ozempic Obsession
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Part 6: Side Effects
Incest Sex Story: Part 6: Side Effects - 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
She threw up on a Wednesday morning with the tap running so no one would hear, and when she came out her mother was in the hall wearing the same gray face.
“You too?” her mom said.
“Me too what?”
“The nausea. It got me again this morning — brought up my whole coffee.” Her mom sagged against the wall, wan and weirdly cheerful about it, the misery-loves-company glow of the newly medicated. “Nobody warns you it comes back. I thought I was past it.”
Oh. Oh, that’s convenient.
“Yeah,” Madison said. “Rough one.”
“It’s when you go up a level, the stomach just revolts for a week. You bumped up too, right?” She didn’t wait for the answer. “God, look at us. Two peas. Drink ginger ale, it helps a little.” She patted Madison’s cheek on the way past, clammy and fond. “Beauty is pain, baby.”
Beauty is pain. Sure. That’s what this is.
She hadn’t bumped up. She’d barely touched the pen in three weeks — a unit here and there so her mom wouldn’t clock that she’d basically quit, because you didn’t keep taking this stuff once you were —
Don’t.
She drank the ginger ale. It didn’t help.
Her father knew. He’d known before she did. He’d done it on purpose with both eyes open, same as her.
He didn’t say it either. But that Thursday, down on the mat, he did a thing he’d never done — before he touched her at all, he laid his hand flat and warm on her stomach and left it there, reading it.
“Little different,” he said.
“Is it.”
“Mm. Fuller. Right here.” Not a question. He was confirming a thing he already knew, out loud, the way he confirmed everything, so it’d be on some invisible record that she hadn’t said no. “You feeling alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’d tell me.”
“Would I.”
He almost smiled. Left the hand there a beat longer — proprietary, pleased — then moved it down and got to what she’d come for. He was gentler that night than he’d been in months.
It didn’t get past her. She didn’t say anything about it, either.
By November she was filling back out, and everybody had a theory.
She sat through that dinner the way she sat through most of them now — full, leaking, careful with it. He’d had her a few hours before, slower and gentler than he used to be but no less thorough about finishing, and she could feel it working its way out of her every time she reached for her water. Across the table her mother buttered a roll she wasn’t going to eat and studied Madison’s middle like a problem she almost had the answer to.
“You’re softening up a little, hon,” her mom said, injection-buddy to injection-buddy, not unkind. “The weight finds a new place to sit. You still doing yours every week?”
“Every week,” Madison said. A lie, but not the interesting one.
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