All you can eat Thanksgiving

The restaurant buzzed with laughter and the clatter of silverware. It was Thanksgiving, and the all-you-can-eat buffet was alive with the aroma of roasted meats, fresh bread, and rich, savory gravy. Across the table from you sat your friend—a 20-something woman with an oval face dotted with light freckles, pale blue-grey eyes, and a tan turtleneck sweater. She adjusted her seat, her excitement palpable as she eyed the array of bowls being carried to nearby tables.

She had explained this to you earlier: having Prader-Willi Syndrome, she rarely felt full. But today was her exception, her one day to eat freely without guilt. When she told you about it, you’d insisted on joining her, both out of concern and curiosity. You were prepared to witness something unique, and you could see just how far this Thanksgiving feast would go.

The first bowl arrived—a steaming mix of beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy. She wasted no time, attacking it with her fork. Her movements were fast and focused, but there was a hint of frustration in her eyes. “I can’t eat as fast as I want,” she grumbled between bites.

“You could just use your hands,” you joked.

Her face lit up with the idea, and before you could stop her, she grabbed a bun, ripped it in half, and began scooping the food into her mouth with it. Gravy dripped down her chin and smeared across her sweater. “This is way better!” she declared with a grin.

Bowl after bowl came. She alternated between beef with gravy, Turkey with gravy, and mashed potatoes swimming in buttery goodness. When she ran out of bread, she simply used her hands, scooping mashed potatoes directly into her mouth. “I love mashed potatoes,” she said, licking her fingers. “They fill every corner of my stomach by the end.”

Her belly began to swell, round and tight, pressing against the waistband of her jeans. By the time she’d polished off her 20th bowl, her sweater had ridden up, bunching around the top of her expanding stomach. The fabric clung to her, darkened with smears of gravy and bits of mashed potatoes.

A waitress passed by and paused, her eyes wide. “Would you like to move to a larger table?” she asked gently.

You glanced at your friend, thinking she might finally slow down, but she shook her head eagerly. “Yes, please,” she said, already eyeing the next round of bowls being brought out.

You moved to a four-person table with a crisp white tablecloth. She sat down, her belly pressing against the edge of the table. Her hands and face were sticky with mashed potatoes, and chunks of bread clung to her sweater. She hardly noticed, too focused on the next bowl, then the next.

As she continued, her belly grew further, spreading out in front of her and forcing her to sit back in her chair. The buttons of her jeans strained, and with a loud pop, the top button flew off. She laughed it off and kept eating, gravy dripping down her front.

The waitress returned, her face a mix of amusement and concern. “I think you might need an even bigger table,” she suggested.

This time, you were moved to a massive ten-person table. Your friend stood to eat now, her belly so large that it rested against the table’s edge. Bowls were placed directly on top of it, and she ate with both hands, shoveling food into her mouth as though her life depended on it. Gravy and chunks of meat slid down the sides of her stomach, pooling onto the tablecloth below.

Her sweater, stained beyond saving, clung tightly to her massive belly, which gurgled audibly with each bowl she consumed. “Blorp,” it groaned, as though protesting the sheer volume. But she pressed on, shoving food down her throat when swallowing wasn’t fast enough.

By the time she finished her 40th bowl, her belly had overtaken the table entirely. There was no room for dishes anymore, so the waitress placed bread bowls directly on top of her stomach. She continued to eat, gravy running in rivers down her arms, her face smeared with mashed potatoes and meat.

Her belly was gargantuan now, a monumental orb that stretched impossibly large. It heaved and churned, making wet, sloppy noises as it processed the mountain of food inside. Yet she showed no signs of stopping. Her pale eyes sparkled with determination, her freckled face a mess of food, her hands sticky with gravy and butter.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she began to slow. Her hands, sticky with mashed potatoes and gravy, trembled slightly as she scooped up yet another handful. Her cheeks bulged with food, but she seemed to struggle now, her body reaching its limits. Bits of mashed potatoes spilled from the corners of her mouth, plopping messily onto the swell of her gargantuan belly.

She moaned softly, her voice a mix of pleasure and exhaustion, as she tried to swallow. “So good,” she murmured between labored breaths. Each word was punctuated by a low, wet gurgle from her stomach. The sound was relentless—loud "blorps" and "glunks" echoed from her belly as it strained to process the monumental feast she had consumed.

Her sweater, hopelessly stained. The fabric had long since ridden up, leaving her round, taut skin fully exposed. Her belly was massive now, pressing against the edge of the oversized table and spilling outward. Each breath she took made it wobble slightly, and it groaned under the immense pressure of the food within.

She picked up another bread bowl, already filled to the brim with mashed potatoes and gravy. Holding it in one hand, she used the other to scoop the contents directly into her mouth. Her breathing grew heavier, coming in shallow, gasping bursts. She moaned again, closing her eyes briefly, savoring the rich, buttery flavor of the potatoes. "This...this is the only time I ever feel like this," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion, pleasure and food.

Her belly let out a loud glorp, the sound vibrating through the table. She placed a hand on the top of her stomach, feeling its stretched surface as if to reassure herself that there was still room. But each swallow now felt like a struggle. She tilted her head back, her throat working harder, forcing the food down as gravity did the rest. She shoved another fistfull of food in to force down the last one. A lump traveled down her throat and into her packed stomach, which protested with another wet gurgle.

“More,” she whispered, even as mashed potatoes dripped from her chin onto her already messy sweater. Mashed potatoes and gravy pooled on her chest. Her free hand wiped at her face, but it only smeared the food further.

You watched, mesmerized and slightly concerned, as she reached for another bowl, her determination unwavering. Her belly shifted with a low squelch, spreading further across the table. She groaned deeply, almost a growl, as she pressed the last bits of the bread bowl into her mouth. “I...I can’t stop,” she moaned, laughing breathlessly. “It’s just so good. One day...just one day...”

Her swollen stomach filled the space between her and the table, forcing her to lean back slightly to make room. The sounds of her belly were constant now—loud, sloppy, and almost rhythmic, as if it were an orchestra of digestion. Each gurgle and churn seemed to resonate with her pleasure, her moans blending with the noises into an odd symphony of satisfaction.

Finally, she let the empty bowl drop onto the table and leaned heavily on her belly for support. Her breaths were shallow and labored, her face flushed with effort. “I think...I think I’m full,” she murmured, though the glint in her eyes suggested she still wanted more. Her hands rubbed over her taut stomach, which let out a series of loud glunks in response, as though confirming her statement.

She smiled at you, messy and radiant, and let out one last contented moan. “This is the best Thanksgiving ever,” she said, resting her head back as her belly continued to gurgle happily.