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I am addicted to you


swahilimonkfish

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Should hopefully be 3 parts, all being well. It's dark and twisted but hopefully you'll like it nonetheless.

Chapter 1

I am addicted to you” I whisper into your ear as you walk with me hand-in-hand back to my place, and I mean every word of it. Every time we’re apart, I’m itching to be with you. I need one more hit of your cologne, one more buzz from powerful embrace. I need you, and everything in my life is just the build-up to that time that I can spend with you. If that isn’t addiction, I don’t know what is.

I am more-ish” you reply, smirking like the arrogant son-of-a-bitch that you are. I should hate that smirk, I do on all the other blokes. But for some reason, I love it. Maybe I’m conditioned to love it, maybe it’s Pavlovian. Every time I see it, I know a thrill is due soon. Because that smirk is your I-want-to-fuck-you smirk, and I want you to fuck me too.

You know I’d do anything for you” I whisper, biting my lip as I say it. And I mean every word of it. I’d jump off a bridge for you. I’d take a bullet for you. You are my alpha and omega and there is no depth I wouldn’t plunge to satisfy you. To coax another one of those smirks from your narrowed lips.

Anything?” you reply, knowing full well it’s true, but wanting to hear it anyway. I’m opening my front door and I have such high hopes as to what ‘anything’ could include. You hope ‘anything’ means fucking me, don’t you? Don’t worry, I hope so too.

For you dear, anything. Cos you mean everything tooo meee” I sing, puncturing the brewing frisson with a spot of Lionel Bart. It disrupts your concentration and the smirk erupts into something more open-faced. A smile. A laugh. Something warm and loving. I love you when you’re hot and I love you when you’re cold, but I love you most when you’re warm.

Would you please have some more?” you reply, mixing your Oliver songs up. I forgive you, I can’t help it. So many other relationships would have been immolated at that point. Imagine being in a relationship with a man who mixes up songs from Oliver, my friends would have said, and we’d have all laughed together at the ludicrous thought of it. But like at me now, letting you off the hook.

You know I’ve dumped men for less” I reply, and now it’s my turn to smirk, as we clumsily drift towards the living room, ready to turn it into a fucking room.

It wasn’t a mistake. I just wanted to ask the question. You said you’d do anything. Well, I’d like to test that out” you say, biting my neck as you drag my dress to the ground. It’s the solidity of you that turns me on the most. You’re tall, powerful and nothing on you budges. Your pecs don’t move, your abs are like granite. Everything is hewn. And as you sidle that dress down to my ankles, I couldn’t think of a thing I’d say no to.

Try me” I say, unbuttoning your shirt, and then your trousers. I want to see your flesh. I want to feel your flesh. I want to feel its lack of give. I want its hardness. I want all of your hardness.

Get fat for me” you say, and you throw me down on the settee and lean over me like a lion over its prey. I don’t have time to be shocked, everything sounds like a turn-on when your breath draws close. I should ask why, but I want to be ravaged so much that I don’t want to sacrifice the moment. This is not the time for inquisitions, this is the time for carnal flesh and powerful musculature. It is time for belonging and owning and being owned. So I put my queries to one side and give you the answer you want.

Yes. Yes. Yes” I groan. After all, I’d do anything for you.

 

Waking up next to you is awkward. I so desperately don’t want it to be awkward. Your company, your presence is what I live for. I get up in the morning solely with the intention of spending more hours of my fleeting existence swimming in your presence. Waking up next to you is the reason I smile. Waking up next to you is the reason I am.

But I’m looking at you, at the back of your head as your snore, and I hear you asking me to get fat for you. I don’t know what it means. I try so hard to be beautiful. For my mum, for my agent, for you. Always trying to be beautiful. I crush it at the gym. I sculpt and tone and push and pull. I run until my abs glisten, until my breasts heave, until my breath gets away from me. I look in the mirror and I see the consequences of this pursuit of beauty. The striking shape, lithe curves running down my tanned torso. I always hope it’s enough, I always fear it isn’t.

But last night, you fed me. You fed me all of the things that I had considered taboo. Verboten. Out of bounds. You fed me cupcakes. I lay down on this bed, and crumbs tumbled from my mouth. I don’t eat cupcakes. I don’t have that luxury. I don’t ever have the luxury of luxury. But I ate them and I enjoyed them and I enjoyed you. My head spun as your presence, that Mr Rochester brooding presence, smothered me in your shadow. I obeyed and I loved it and I blame you for that.

What are you doing up?” you say, groggily. Your eyes are shielded by their lids from all of the natural light pouring into the room, leaving narrow chinks of eye to pierce through. Your arm, the dense block of wood that you call an arm, was lifted to your face so that your hand could act as parasol and shield your eyes from the morning glare.

We need to talk about last night” I say, standing and looking at you, melting a little when your eyes and mine connect. You don’t respond. You just sit up and look at me, trying to use your eyes to pierce me into submission. I have to look away because I can feel them succeeding.

What about last night? You didn’t like it?” You get up now. I can appreciate you height as well as your power as you stride towards me. You never flinch, you never cede. You have me in the palm of your hand, don’t you? I’m not sure I could wrestle free even if I wanted to.

I did. Of course I did. But this… I have a career. You know that. I loved it, I always love it with you. But, my career? My career cannot stand it. Musicals are for beautiful girls. I would do anything for you, you know that. I need you more than anything. I would do anything for you...”

...but you won’t do that?” you reply. You prey upon my love of Meatloaf, you cruel, sadistic son-of-a-bitch. No wonder I love you so much. You walk up to me and put your hands on my shoulders. You’re 6ft4 and I’m 5ft5, and those hands on my shoulders make me feel even smaller.

It’s not won’t. It’s can’t” I plead, but there is vulnerability in my voice. A weakness that you know how to exploit. I am at your mercy once more as those sturdy hands shimmer into the softest of touches as they run down my arms.

Get fat for me” you say. There’s no doubt in your voice. No give. That same lack of give that is found in your flesh, there like blocks of wood, are now found in your words. You’re not persuading, or arguing or convincing. You’re not even ordering me. You just say it matter-of-factly, like there is no escape. Like this isn’t a negotiation but, rather, that this is just the nature of things. You want me to get fat for you, and I am your addict. And addiction is hard to kick when you’re not at rock bottom. And when I’m with you, I’m on top of the world.

How fat?” I ask, with a gulp. With fear. I want to back off, I want to cower in your presence. Helpless to your presence. But I stand there, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I stop and I stare as the bright lights of your car come crashing into me.

As fat as I want” you state. And now your hands are slowly, gently, kindly pinning me against the wall. And slowly, gently, kindly you start kissing my neck. That slowness, the gentleness, that kindness gradually evaporates into something more forthright and suddenly we are in the throes of one another and I have signed a verbal contract with you to be fattened and I’m not really sure what that will mean.

 

I stand on the scales without fear for the first time in my life. It feels weird. This stance, this position, poised in front of them in the bathroom. It all comes loaded with such fearful emotions. The dread of disappointment as I fail to reach targets. As I teeter towards 120lbs. But this time I stand on the scales with a sense of loss. A sense of mourning. I stand on the scales for the last time and I hope that this is not the last time I am on this side of 120lbs. But you’re looming behind me and I can immediately sense that you have other plans. Your loom takes my breath away, and I tingle through my body.

Cupcake?” you ask. Except it’s not really a question, is it? So I don’t answer it. I just take the cupcake and put it in my mouth. That’s my fourth cupcake in the past twelve hours, and that is more than in the previous twelve years. 25 year olds don’t get to eat cupcakes. Apparently, I do.

 

I’m sitting on the settee in my gym gear. How very normal of me. What is less normal is that this gym clothing hasn’t felt my perspiration on it for a week now. What is less normal is that there are muffin crumbs down it. What is less normal is that I don’t mind.

My friends have noticed I’ve not been at the gym for the past week, and have bombarded me with invitations. Whatsapp messages about spin class on Thursday, Google chat messages about aqua aerobics on Friday, texts about zumba on Saturday morning. All unanswered. I only answer to you. And you only ask if I’ve got room for some more.

And it’s not just my social circle that I’ve been circumnavigating. My parents keep calling. I missed our weekly meet-up and they just want to make sure that I’m okay. But of course I’m okay, I tell them. I’m with you. And I love my parents, I really do. But I just love you more.

My agent has also been trying to get into contact with me. There are auditions for Les Mis. And you know how much I love Les Mis. Les Mis is everything that I’ve ever dreamt of. Fantine is everything I’ve ever aspired towards. But I still love you more. My dream job feels like a nightmare excursion because it would mean less time with you. This is the power you hold over me. So I don’t reply to my agent, just like I didn’t reply to my friends. You insist upon it. I don’t need to scramble for jobs, when I can lay back and scramble on you. Who needs these things? Who needs a life, who needs a job, who needs a career, who needs a family? And who needs reasons when you’re my heroin.

So, here I am. Sitting on the settee, staring at the big fucking television we have on our wall. Dipping my hand into a tub of Pringles and then dipping my pringles into a tub of salsa, and then dipping all of the above into my mouth. I expected greater resistance from myself. To put up a grittier fight. But I’m not fighting and I’m not sure why. Except, now you’ve come into the room, with crème brûlée for a dessert t a meal I hadn’t eaten. You come in with that dickish smirk on your face and that powerful gait and poise. You come in and suddenly the room feels warmer, like you are incendiary. You come in and I remember why I’m not fighting. Why would I want to fight you.

 

It’s now been three weeks since you told me to get fat for you, and you are mauling me on the sofa. Your fangs are out tonight, my love. Your claws too. You are an animal and I am your carcass. You clasp me tight and roar as I lie back and submit. I feel your strength and your rigour grip me firmly and start the gentle thrusting motion with the rhythm of a cockswain. I don’t want to cry for help, but even if I did, I couldn’t. My breath belongs to you now, you see. All of me belongs to you now.

And you only ever seem to get hungrier for me, just as I’ve been getting hungrier for you. And now the first dividends of your investment are bearing fruit, your appetite for me accelerates in parallel to mine. I know now how to elicit that smirk. The smug one. The one that acts as a prelude to sex. To being fucked, because sex isn’t what it is. We don’t have sex. You fuck me. You smirk and then you fuck me. And I just have to open my mouth and eat something for that smirk to appear. Now who has who around their finger?

The fruit of our labour is more clearly seen on the scales than on my body, though my definition is melting like ice cream in the sun. Though my stomach shows softness when I sit down. And you so rarely give me reason to do anything other than sit down. But the real prize was when I stepped on the scales yesterday and we saw 125lbs. You put your chin on my shoulder and looked down as the scales told me that I was at my highest ever weight. Highest ever weight. Now that might have been the source of his hunger. He’d done this to me and I had let him. And I was letting him some more.

My phone rang as our rhythm accelerated. As it became less tender and more punishment. I could just lean back and let it happen. Let him happen. Let him happen all over me. He tossed my phone away from me, before I could read caller ID, and gave me his own set of vibrations. And I just let it happen.

The phone call was probably my parents again. I only spoke to them via phone these days. I lied to them and told them I was too busy. Too busy with friends, too busy with work, too busy with you. Only the latter one was true. They asked about Fantine and Les Mis and I told them I didn’t get the part. I didn’t tell them that I didn’t apply. They asked about my friends and said that they were always inviting me for workouts at the gym. I didn’t tell them that I always declined. I didn’t tell them that the offers were getting less frequent. They asked about you and whether things were serious. Whether they would be getting grandkids and a son-in-law. I told them we were getting more serious, but that we were still trying things out. I didn’t mention what it was that we were trying out.

 

Maybe we should rent elsewhere?” you ask, smiling at me with kind eyes and a soft stare. We are lying in bed naked, and our bodies are still recoiling from the session we’d just had. I was getting lost in you, deeper and deeper into your words I’d go and now I couldn’t see anything of what was before.

Why?” I asked, my eyes catching his and then never letting go. I could taste him on my lips and I could feel where on my body he’d been. Every part of me, every tract of nerves, every sensory wiring across my body, was tingling with sensations that I was beholden to. It was these sensations that I answered to. These sensations were my god and I would pray at their altar. And you? You are my priest and you guide me to god.

Get away from the prying and pestering. Cut free. Just you and me. Against the world” you say with a sympathetic facial expression flooding your face. It was a terrifying prospect. To up sticks and uproot. To leave friends, family, work behind. Everything that belonged to me. But I belonged to you now. So how could I say no?

Elope?” I say, my eyes lighting up where they should be panicking with fear. This should have been a warning sign, but you make arsenic taste like almonds and I submit once more.

Yeah. If you like. Let’s elope” and now I know that this is a one-way ticket. But I don’t mind when the destination is you. You wouldn’t be leaving your work, and it was your work that was now single-handedly keeping us afloat. But you worked from home now, so were unbound from the office and able to work anywhere. Anywhere in the world.

And working from home had been such a kinetic thrill. Your presence never parting, never too far gone. I was never clean of you, never sober, you never gave me room to kick your habit. You could always be in the room next door and I was always at your beck and call. I could be there for you always and you could be there for me always. And I’d answer your needs and you’d answer my needs. And both needs were always the same. I feast on food and then you feast on me.

I wasn’t allowed sex, I wasn’t allowed contact with you without being full first. You were always my reward for everything I ate. Every success was rewarded with your plundering. And soon the feeling of being penetrated and the feeling of being full became intertwined like a dog salivating at the sound of a bell. And this wouldn’t be without consequences.

Shall we celebrate then?” you ask with romantic intent. “Shall we celebrate with a weigh-in, and then maybe a feeding?” I should say no. No to the feeding certainly. That was what had lead to the sex that lead to the decision to elope. But then I catch a whiff of your cologne and I remember that I’m yours. I remember that I am a damsel in distress and you are both my prince charming and the dragon from which you save me.

Weigh in. Feeding. Champagne” I barter. Because champagne is for celebrations and I want to celebrate my dependence to you now. You are my ventilator and I need you to breathe.

The scales are pulled out for the first time in a month and I can see you nervous for the first time. At least, I think it’s nerves. I’m nervous, though I’m not sure what for. Do I want progress or regress? I have spent my whole life wanting a smaller number on these scales. Did it really feel right to crave a larger one?

Regardless, the scales never lie. They just tell you what you weigh and these ones are telling me that I weigh 133lbs. I am a whole stone heavier than before and I’m not sure if I should be thrilled or chilled by that. But your warming proximity reassures me and suddenly I am reminded that it is only a thrill. You are proud of me. You whisper in my ear and tell me so. And I feel on top of the world upon hearing those words, like this was an encore. This was my rapturous applause. I look forward to toasting this achievement in bed. You look forward to toasting some croissants first. This should be fun.

 

The new flat is great. And it’s also in Toronto. I am 300 miles away from home, and I’ve left everything behind. My friends, my job, my family, my phone, my forwarding address. I am now adrift and living on the Isle of You. And that seems fitting given that I Love You.

It took us three months for you to arrange all this. The old flat insisted on three months notice, and you had to arrange Canadian visas, and a place to stay once we moved there. And you had to juggle all of that responsibility on top of your job. Working from home undoubtedly eased some of that duress, but it was still a mammoth undertaking on your part and I cannot thank you enough. Seriously, thank you so much. You truly are my first, my last, my everything.

I was busy over the course of these three months also. However, I was busy doing nothing. Just eating, fucking and lounging around. My morning routine and my afternoon routine, my evening routine and my nighttime routine all blur into one, just sliding into lazier and lazier habits. Treacle sponge over treadmills, hot cross buns over cross-trainers, biscuits over bikes. You always make time to feed me and I always make room to eat it. The eating is becoming a thrill unto itself.

The gaining is too. The last weigh-in put me at 147lbs. I mean, that’s another stone heavier again. Are you proud now? Are you proud at what you’ve done to me?

Are my legs thick enough for you now? They were legs for dancing, thin enough to be sprightly but strong enough to do hard work. But their strength has atrophied and their thinness has been superseded. They are now thick cuts of meat, and you look at them with the same appetite. But how about my arse? It was once a gym goer’s butt, firm, tight and dense. Now the firmness, the tightness and the density have eased, and shape is slowly being replaced with size. My stomach? Is that still to your liking? Once cut and intruding inwards, now it sinks outwards a degree whether standing or sitting. My breasts, once firm and compact but arguably small, now growing and softening and letting itself go also. My face? Surely you have qualms about my face muddying with fat, softening angles and sanding down definition. I’ve gone from wafer-thin and waifish, to wafer-eating and waffle-eating. My gym tights are now too-tights. I have too much below for them to satisfy. By tops all ride up now, and each time they do I earn a smirk.

I sometimes wonder when you’re going to stop. When you’re going to let me stop. When enough is enough. Or is enough ever enough? Do you always want more? Are you endlessly insatiable in your pursuit at making me endlessly insatiable? Are you like the ever rising Shepherd Tone, just constantly ratcheting up your desires in accord with my ratcheting up weight? And if so, what then? And if not, what then? I should be asking these questions but you’re nibbling my ear as I nibble these cookies and now I’m totally devoted to you.

 

 

Though my passport suggests I’m now in Canada, I really cannot tell. I don’t see the sites of Toronto, and I never head further out into the wonderfully forested Canadian wilderness. I’ve never felt the fierceness of Canadian winters, nor have I enjoyed the benefits of Canadian company. I am in Canada in name only, but truthfully I’m only with you. You are the only person I see now, the only face I ever have to recognise.

I remember one time, trying to leave the flat. I decided I’d brave the great outdoors and be a part of the world. But then I smelt bacon, and I sat back down. Another time, I asked to leave. I actually asked your permission. You could have said yes. Why didn’t you say yes? But, instead, you said that I looked gorgeous and you put your weathered hands on my growing softness. You didn’t actually say the words ‘no’; you knew you didn’t need to. I’m an addict and you’re my addiction, and you are fully aware of that fact.

And talking of addiction, here you are now. Serving poutine. Well, I guess there are some clues that I’m in Canada after all. You sit on the floor while I lie on the settee, and you spoon in food with tender love and affection. You rest your head on its side, on my stomach. It would be cute if it didn’t make me so horny. You feed me another mouthful of poutine, and I groan as I receive it. That has been a recent development – groaning whilst eating. It started slowly, and quietly, but when I eat with you, it gets quite noisy. Is it just foreplay, to get you in the mood for the fucking that comes after? Or do I really feel that way about food? Another mouthful, another groan and now you start biting my stomach. You just can’t resist me. Well, don’t worry, I can’t resist you either. In fact, I can’t resist much these days.

 

I don’t know how long I’ve been in Canada, in all honesty. We left in late September, and we’ve had Christmas. But I don’t have a watch, I don’t have a calendar. I just have you. And food. Just you and food.

Why do you want to know?” you ask, as you feed me another cupcake. I anticipate sex when you feed me, but sometimes, I’ve noticed, you don’t even reward me with that. You work on the basis that the food is enough. And as I eat the base of the cupcake first, and then stare at the sugary, icinged top in anticipation, I wonder if maybe you have a point.

Just curious. I don’t even go outside. I don’t even know whether it’s Spring or Summer” I reply, honestly. Would my parents be worrying about me? Would my agent have given up on me? Do my friends sometimes ask one another whatever happened to me?

I thought you preferred seasoning to seasons?” you asked, deflected with food talk once more. It’s your go-to move. Probably because it’s so effective on me. I do like salty food, even more so these days. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten chips and thought to myself that they were too salty, but often that they weren’t salty enough. I know, I know, it’s not exactly healthy. But not a lot of what I’m doing is.

Come on, cut the crap. I just want to know how long I’ve been here. 5 months or 6. That sort of thing” I say, daring to raise my voice. I hadn’t done that in a while, and I sat there nervously once I did. I watched you as you contemplated what answer to give me. And then an oh-so-typical smirk came across your face.

Okay, we’ll make a rule. You want something, then you have to give me something in return” you say, as you feed me another cupcake. This one had pink icing. I’m fairly sure the pink ones are the nicest.

You know I’d do anything for you. I got fat for you didn’t I?” I say, and that turns your bastard smirk into a full on smile. It’s true isn’t it? I’ve come a long way. My nudity is testament to that. I’ve come so far that now my clothes no longer fit, and I spend my days naked now. Even lying down as I am, my stomach rises upwards, a little tor next to the more pronounced peaks of my breasts. Everything is thicker now, and wider too. 177lbs and it’s all for you.

I want you to get even fatter” you say, as push your hands against my stomach in a way that causes chemicals to pour into my brain. And these chemicals obscure the way I think because I should be concerned at this comment, shouldn’t I? I never thought things would go this far, get this out of hand. But here I am listening to you, as you treat 177lbs as a starting block. A springboard from which to leap. I am 60lbs heavier thanks to you and that fucking smirk of yours says that’s just nowhere near enough for you. Haven’t you done enough damage? No? Well, I guess we’re going to find out quite what you have in store for me.

Deal. Now what is the date?” I say, looking at you with girlish glee. I’m committed, you see. I’m up to my neck in you and drowning in you. That saturnine sneer, that looming presence, that sheer masculinity. I’m drowning in you, and I’m letting the waves take me.

October 3rd” you reply, without a hint of humour. But I’m not daft, I remember Christmas. I remember it. We ate turkey and sprouts and all the trimmings. I ate until I couldn’t eat any more, and then I ate some more. I ate until I could feel my innards scold me for misbehaviour and then I retaliated by eating some more. I ate until it hurt so much that I couldn’t think straight, and then, in that delirium, I ate some more.

It has not been 2 months Kyle!” I tell you sharply, unable to tell if you are joking. You’re not really the humorous type, so what was this? Some sort of twisted mind-game? Were you gaslighting me? Was that what this was? And if so, was I so far gone, that you felt like you could? Talk to me for once, will you? Just answer the goddamn fucking question okay? How fucking long have I been in Canada?

No, not two months. 14 months. We’ve been here over a year” you say as the run your hand along the hair behind my ear. Your words are gentle like honeydew or buttermilk. But the meaning behind them burn like fire. Because I am so lost now, so deep in the thicket, that I misplaced half a year and was none the wiser. That’s what you’ve done to me. I’m now so wholly dependent on you that there really is no way out now.

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6 hours ago, >_< 0_0 said:

The genders of the two characters confused me for the first few paragraphs , but after awhile, I figured it out. So it seems they moved to Canada? Interesting, very interesting. 

Yeah, I might have to go back and clarify the genders on the DA version. You're right about them being a bit vague at the start. I just wanted to throw you deep into the story and keep their physical forms vague for immersion purposes, but it would help if you knew which character was a bloke and which was a lady

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It's only getting darker and more twisted I'm afraid

Chapter 2

 

I am addicted to you” I whisper to my food as I put it in my mouth. You like that. Not in an amusing kinda way, but in a dark, sadistic self-important kinda way. You’ve managed to get me addicted to something other than you. You are now my drug, my dealer and my enabler. Everyone but the priest who prays for my soul. But you’re addicted to me too, aren’t you? That’s why you watch from the corner of the room when you’re supposed to be working, isn’t it? You’re addicted to an addict. You’re addicted to the girl who has completely resigned herself to her fate. You’re addicted to the girl who is now at the mercy of that feeling of food tumbling down her throat. We should be each other’s sponsor, except neither of us want to get clean.

You look hungry” you lie as I pour another cupcake into my mouth. A brown one this time, easily the worst colour. I clearly don’t look hungry. I look like a girl who has forgotten what hunger feels like. I look like a girl who hasn’t felt hunger in a long time. I look like very much what I am. A girl who eats too much. Often at your behest.

Famished” I lie back, because two can play at that game. I am as full as I look. And I look pretty damn full. I’m sitting up on the settee, as naked as the day I was born, if not more so, and my stomach in sitting down alongside me in my lap. I look like I’ve just eaten my own bodyweight in cupcakes, and that’s a lot of cupcakes given my impressive body weight now. 193lbs. See? I told you it was impressive. On a wee girl of 5ft5, that is impressive thank you very much.

At what point should I worry about my weight though? At what point should I worry about everything I’ve lost and the corresponding weight I’ve gained? Never? Ages ago? Somewhere in between those two dates? Where’s rock bottom and why haven’t I reached it yet? How much further do I have still to fall? And will I just go splat when I finally land?

I still don’t know what date it is. I don’t know when it is but I know it is past New Year. I know because I heard the fireworks. You can take away everything else, even the big fucking television, to deprive me of chronological stimulation, but you couldn’t silence the New Year fireworks. So I know this is some time after that. I don’t know when exactly, but I don’t care when exactly either. Because I have you and I have food and I have food and I have you. I have everything a girl could want and I have it by the plateful.

Do you want any more?” you ask, with an impish smile. You know the answer is no and you know the answer is also yes. I’m an open book, with oft open legs. I nod to you, to tell you that I do, as my hand slips down those open legs of mine. I never used to be like this. I used to be a good girl, a dignified girl, a classy girl. I performed at the West End. Hell, I was Emma Stone’s understudy once. Now, all I do is eat, and now it’s starting to turn me on.

We don’t even have sex that much, these days. Well, by previous standards. We don’t need to. We so often get our kicks at a distance. We just watch our respective addictions as we pleasure ourselves. I’m not sure why food is turning me on these days, but it is. It isn’t the flavour, and it isn’t the texture, it isn’t the chewing or the swallowing. It’s the more. That’s what I like. The more. It all reminds me of that first night, when you told me what you wanted to do to me. You wanted to make me fat. Every bite and it all comes flooding back. Your heavy breathing, your heavy touch. And after all them bites, I guess I’m heavy too.

The more I eat, the less important you are to me. I know, I know, it’s hard to hear, but it’s true. You’re just the middleman now between me and my one true passion – eating. I don’t even know what you do these days. For a living, I mean. You’ve definitely changed job. You’re always out and about, meeting people. I hope it’s not other women. I hope you don’t stop feeding me if it is. But this changed job seems to be bringing in more and more money, which is handy when I need more and more food.

You come back with another packet of cupcakes. I hope there are more pink ones in this batch. I really like them pink ones.

 

You’re more aggressive in bed these days. We treat each other like sex toys. You’re more aggressive outside of bed too. Your tongue is sharper, less considered. Your eyes rarely soften like they used to. We don’t talk about musicals any more. We don’t talk about much any more. We just fixate on food and fucking, more and more monomaniacally until our universes encompass very little else. I sometimes go days without talking, just eating and grunting. Neither of us mind.

Lean back and take it” you bark at me, and I oblige. Your hand is in my hair for grip as you work around my stomach to penetrate me. You bury your head in my breasts, weighty monsters now with depth and fullness and I continue to lean back and take it. Is my weight starting to make things difficult for you yet? Or do you prefer the challenge? I, personally, prefer the extra effort you have to put in, the way that the slow build-up motion rushes to a faster pace, itself at a much faster pace. The noises you make, louder and less friendly. And while you pound away, your face contorted into visceral anger, I close my eyes and think of biscuits.

Soon, you reach your climax but I want so much more. For you, sex can serve as an endgame but, for me, sex is always the foreplay, and the post-fucking feeding is the real denouement. Cake, now that’s an endgame. You dismount and hand me a box of muffins, and I fill my fat face with them. And it’s only then that I feel the surges that you couldn’t provide me. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You’re good, you really are. But, let’s be real now, you’re no muffin.

We’ve been continuing in this vein for a long time now, and I can feel the consequences piling on. The mirror details these consequences with brutal honesty. The way my face is feels a land away from where it once was. The number of chins that I own has now doubled, I am the proud owner of two chins. The chest beneath them is swollen, I am still the proud owner of two breasts. And the stomach below also folds into two constituent parts, I’m now the owner of a two-part stomach. Everything has doubled up. Even my weight starts with a 2. 209lbs according to yesterday’s findings. Proud of that, are you? Well, imagine how I feel, given that this isn’t just your doing any more. We share this between the two of us.

That said, for the most part, the weight disgusts me. You used to tell me I’m beautiful but now you don’t even do that. You fuck me more intensely than ever before, you enjoy my form more than ever, or, at the least, your role in burnishing it, but you’ve stopped saying you love me. And I’m not sure I love me either. I look in the mirror and cringe. The way that my arms rest more widely when they rest by my side. Or the way my feet stand further apart than before, because my thigh gap has disappeared right down to the knee. I hate the way my forearm wobbles when I run my hand through my hair. I hate it all. I just love the thing that does it to me. I love the food, I just hate the consequences. I hate it, but not enough to change.

 

You need to take this more seriously” you growl. There’s a nastiness to your voice that has been brewing for some time. Your comment feels pretty harsh, since I’m fairly committed. But you’ve been getting grouchy over the rate of weight gain recently. Or rather how easily it gets lost on my frame these days. In those early days, those halcyon day, every pound left an indent. But now, what’s one more pound on this body? Am I boring you? Am I too big? And yet, somehow, never big enough? You often come home smelling of other women’s perfume. But, what can I do about it?

I am taking it seriously” I say back, not hiding my frustration. I really am eating a lot these days. I eat until my jaw hurts. I eat until I’m tired. I eat until I can chew no more. And then I chew some more. But you’re pressing your presence on me now. Your looming is taking a turn for the dark. You cast malevolent shadows. The air congeals around you. This isn’t what you signed up for, apparently. This isn’t enough for you. Apparently. You wanted my weight gain to accelerate and I’m not sure how realistic that is.

We need to up this somehow. I need help feeding you” you say. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I don’t eat morning, noon and night. But, you do have a point about maybe introducing someone else to help. You’re very busy these days. Always out gallivanting, hobnobbing and the like. Maybe you’re right. But, how would it even work though? Do you put an ad in the local paper? Fattener Wanted, enquiries within? That kind of thing? Hell, I don’t even know if local papers still exist, it’s been that long since I’ve left these four walls. Why would I leave when the love of my life is between these four walls? And you so willingly feed me the love of my life so very often.

Sounds like a plan” I concur. Not that I ever don’t. I just nod at every suggestion. I never protest, never object. ‘More cake?’ - yes. ‘Room for some crisps?’ - yes. ‘How does another dessert sound?’ - yes. I am a yes woman, and the question that I acquiesce to is always the offer of more food.

Fine. Good. I’ll sort it” you say. Mysteriously.

And then a horrible thought pops into my head. I haven’t seen anybody new for over a year. How long over a year is anybody’s guess. But over a year for sure. The only person I communicate with is you. It’s all you. You have made yourself my world, and now you threaten to bring someone new into it. I suddenly feel self-conscious. I’m fat, naked and I worry my conversational skills have deteriorated. Another person in the flat suddenly sounds terrifying, even if they are feeding me.

 

It takes a while for you to organise. The air is tense in the meantime. Your moodswings scare me a little at times, even if they do invariably devolve into spectacularly physical sex. Your aggression’s growth is unabating. It’s growing like my waistline. Because I don’t have it in me to temper it, to curb it, to pour cold water on it and make it tepid. I just submit every time, and then console myself afterwards with more food. I need to stand up to you at some point, before it gets out of control, before everything gets out of control, but standing up isn’t my strength. And maybe everything is out of control already. Really, when was it not.

I’m worrying about the man who’s coming to feed me while you’re at work. What if he’s hot? What if he’s not? He could be anything. Any kind of monster. An even worse monster than you. And I’ll be trapped with him as often as I’m trapped with you. Should I be scared, or thrilled, or again revel in that grey area betwixt the two? I used to be a social butterfly, but now I am always cocooned. Am I Benjamin Button meets The Hungry Caterpillar or something? Where did all my friends go?

I sometimes wonder about the world I left behind. The world I abandoned for your micro-universe. What would they say if they saw me? What would my gym friends make of my sagging arse? What would my college buddies think of my rolling gut? What would my acting friends think of widening hips? What would my parents say of my decline, my deterioration, my descent into depravity? Would they even recognise me, physically or emotionally? And if they don’t recognise either what I look like or how I am, then am I even me any more? Like Trigger’s broom or the ship of Theseus. Who the fuck am I? Just an addict I guess. Just another addict. Just another addict who’s given up everything, including who they are, to feed their addiction. To feed my addiction of feeding.

Then someone else walks in the flat, while I have these thoughts. Someone other than you. Someone… female? I wasn’t expecting that. A shimmer of the outdoor world piercing my insulated home. Pretty too. So very fucking pretty. Maybe I should be jealous. Maybe you’re fucking her, a prettier model than the current one lying on the sofa eating macaroons like it’s popcorn. She has a cute bob, and a nervous smile, and a slinking figure. Skinny, but not in an egregious way, but, rather, in a clothes-were-designed-for-bodies-like-mine-and-that’s-why-they-look-so-good-on-me kinda way.

She looks at me and I’m something of a shock to her. The job description was clearly too vague. It turns out I was a surprise to her. Am I disgusting to her? Repulsive? The vile discard of society’s gluttony? But, then she sees you. dressed smartly as ever, and her face erupts with joy like a baby. So she’s one of the girls that you’ve been fucking behind my back-rolls. I should be jealous, I should be angry, I should be raging. After all, I’ve been betrayed by the man I’ve sacrificed everything for. But we’ve been drifting apart for a while. You’ve found someone else in your life, a skinny bint who will probably gain weight in a more obvious way than I can. And I’ve found someone else in my life. A little someone I like to call calories.

You walk up to her confidently and kiss her. Not a peck on the cheek, but passionately. Like star-crossed lovers reuniting in a cornfield. You grab her arse, her tiny arse bound tightly in denim, as you do so. I see you though. I see you peering over her shoulder as you do so, looking at me to garner my reaction. My reaction is just to reach for another macaroon. It’s my reaction to most things, to be fair. You now throw her against the wall with your body and undo her jeans. Your back is to me now, and she can see me watching from over your shoulder. She’s insecure, embarrassed. Your job description was clearly lacking. But you plough into her against the wall like you used to do to me. I should be jealous. I should be something other than peckish.

You leave her just as she was getting going. A power play, no doubt. Exerting dominance like the alpha you are. It used to work on me, and it will probably work on her, you manipulative shit. Speaking of which, you’re now walking over to me and kissing me. Now it’s my turn to look over the shoulder to watch her watching me. You’re a cruel of son of a bitch and we both deserve better than you.

When you’re gone, she just stands there awkwardly. Neither of us are talking and the room becomes stilted. I watch her as she looks around, glancing nervously. First-day-on-the-job nerves I guess. We’ve all been there, I suppose. Now she’s walking to the kitchen. Grabbing donuts too, from the looks of things. Krispy cremes, plenty of sprinkles. As good a starting point as any, I’d say.

What’s your name?” I ask as she walks towards me without any confidence. She tells me it is Margot. Poor girl. First she’s caught in your web, and if that wasn’t bad enough, her parents named her Margot. I tell her mine and we start to become at ease. She gently hands me over a donut, and I eat it while we talk. I ask if she’s a prostitute, because who else would do this kind of work. She scowls at the suggestion and says she’s a ballerina. Explains the slight frame, I suppose. She explains that she’s a ballerina and that’s how she met you. You always were a patron of the arts. That was how you met me. And she fell for you too, hook, line and sinker. Been there sister. Been there indeed. And next thing she knew, you couldn’t escape her thoughts. You festered and reproduced in her brain like the bacteria you are. And then, one night, she says that she would do anything, anything, anything for you. And that this was the anything he had in mind. The poor girl.

Are you disgusted?” I probe, as I eat the last donut that she hands me. She scowls again, but this time in denial. I’m not sure I buy it. She stammers not, but I find that suspicious. You arrogant son-of-a-bitch must have known we’d discuss this, so why have you let this happen? Surely you knew this would put her off, that she’d run for the hills. Or do you want to see how strong your pull over her is? Is this a test of her addiction to you? And was this all a test of my addiction too? Are you just curious as to what lengths women will go for you at your request? Some machismo-infused power game. Well, in that case, no wonder you feel so powerful, because Margot isn’t running for the hills and neither am I. In fact, she’s just getting up to get more donuts. And I’m leaning back and anticipating eating them.

And what about you” she asks, delicately, like an over-stretched daisy-chain. So I tell her my story. It’s basically the one that you’re reading now. She winces at some of the details, her eyes widen at others, but she seems so bizarrely non-judgemental about the whole thing. Like she’s in the fog too. I end with yesterday’s weigh-in. 228lbs. She seems startled. I suppose it is startling when you hear it all in one go. I remember the shock of reaching 125lbs, and wondering if this was a cross-roads. 100lbs later and I’m wondering the same thing.

I contemplate asking her what the date is. But I’m scared she’ll judge me. I’m scared that she truly will run for the hills and I don’t want her to because I have someone now, even if it is just your floozy. And I’m also scared of the answer. Because I can’t think of an answer that she can give that won’t chill every fibre of my being. There is no good answer that she can give, so I choose not to ask. I just eat another donut and smile politely. I hope we become fast friends. Though fasting isn’t my strong suit.

 

Over time, she and I get closer and then we pull away. Oscillating like the peaks and troughs of a heart monitor. She’s nice I suppose, but her lack of agency infuriates me. The way she curtails herself and sacrifices herself to your malevolent whims. Then I remember my own situation and feel hypocritical. I imagine that is how she thinks of me. I see her start to soften, I see the outward arch on her skinny frame, and the pride on her face as she showcases her ‘progress’, and dark clouds descend on my thought processes. She’s sweet and friendly, but I see her development and I remember your frustration at my lack of progress, and I feel flashes of… jealousy?

Which is stupid. Right? Because I’m not addicted to you any more. I’m over you. I’m here for the food now. You’re just a facilitator. Right? Kyle? Answer me, goddammit! Tell me I’m not addicted to you any more. Because why would I be jealous of not having the thing that I am over? But I see her take a slice of cake for herself as she hands me one and I have these diabolical thoughts. A murderous rage. Like, there are times when I consider lunging for the cake knife and seeing what harm I can do. See if you love her now. See if you admire those perky breasts now. Will you still love her if I carve her face open like a turkey? Well, will you? You bastard?

Of course, it’s irrational, isn’t it? It makes no sense. It just comes from nowhere, likes storm clouds on a cloudless day. It feels like anger. And it feels like jealousy. And it feels like fear. I don’t need you. I’m not addicted to you. So why do I fear losing you so much? When she’s not around, when you’re back from whatever job it is that you’re doing, speech-writing for politicians or whatever it is, I make more of an effort now. I try harder for you. I’m fighting for you, that’s what I’m doing. Maybe this is what you wanted all along. Well, looks like you got your wish, you piece of shit. Because you walk into the room and I do everything for you. Every sex game, every position, every course of dessert. All that you want, everything that you want, in never ending quantities. Because that’s what you gave me with food, and that worked on me. So, I’ll give you me in return and try to win you back.

When you next get shopping, can you get some weight gain powder?” I drop into the conversation, my eyes fixed on you to see how you respond. You’re tired after a long day of work and had told me you just wanted to go to sleep. I took this as code for you getting back from shagging Margot. I hate her, that lovely girl. I bet she’s so much more limber than I am. She’s a ballerina and I’m… not a dancer any more. I can’t bend like I used to, and that’s only partly because there’s more of me in the way these days. It’s also because I just don’t bend as far. My joints have ossified, decayed from lack of use. The creak and click on the few occasions that I rise to my feet and gingerly make the short expedition between the two sanctums in my life of the bed and the settee. My old fitbit told me that you’re supposed to do 10,000 steps each day. I reckon I rarely reach 150 a day. I’m not a mover these days. I’m a sitter and an eater, or a napper and a fucker. I hate walking now. The downward pull of my stomach, my increase in sway as I take corners. So no, I’m not as limber as Margot is.

Why?” you ask, your voice still brusque and curt. But the arch of your eyebrow tells me that I shouldn’t drop the conversation. That you even responded at all, tells me that I have your interest piqued. You so often ignore me when I talk to you. You don’t even dismiss me, just blank me out and leave me talking to the walls. Margot talks to me, that wretched wench, that lovely girl, that fucking bitch, that dearly beloved friend, but you don’t. You give instructions and you call me names. You sometimes even spit at me as you walk past me, literally just dredge up saliva and unfurl it at me like I’m contemptible. It breaks my straining heart to feel so unloved and abandoned. It hurts to admit this but when I’m on my own, I sometimes cry between bites of food. But I have your attention now.

So I can put on some proper weight” I say, trying to entice him with my own self-destruction. How much more harm do I have to do to myself before you like me again? I mean, I’m already at 247lbs. That’s officially morbidly obese. Is that not enough still? I remember when I wondered what your upper limit was. Now I know you don’t have one. It’s not the size you like, it’s the growing. It’s knowing that I have become this, and you did it simply by asking. And now you have me begging to grow more. That’s what you like, isn’t it? That I’m begging. Not with words, but my eyes are my tell. I used to be beautiful, I used to a pint-size model, now I’m 247lbs, afraid of the outdoors, afraid of moving, and I’m begging to gain more. And you’ve only used words.

If you insist” you snarl, and those words are like nectar. Forget the superficial disdain and just your sheer acknowledgement feels like redemption. Just a fragment of attention now feels like the sun shining on my face on a warm summer’s day. I had forgotten how much I had missed it as the feeling of affection fills me like a punnet of muffins. I am not needy though. I just needed that high. But I’m no needy. I don’t need you. I want you to know that. Listen to me. Look into my eyes as I say it. I. Do. Not. Need. You.

 

I need you. I’m sorry. I don’t want to, but I do. I see you spending more time with me and my heart inflates. I mean, the rest of me has been inflating too, it’s just that, oh you know what I mean. I’m not saying me and Margot are competing, per se, but I will admit that I’m winning. Your ferocity with me is returning, overcoming your previous apathy with a feral beastliness. You don’t act so beastly with her, with Margot. Not like you do with me. Take that you skinny bitch. Oh, my heart breaks for her as I see her lip tremble, when you blank her in favour for me, the delicate flower. It’s not her fault you’ve turned us against one another, she truly is a really kind girl and is only ever lovely to me. But my efforts are stimulating you more, once more. You are appreciative, though your words would never form to formally express that. Instead, you grunt at me or snap at me. Anything that isn’t no attention.

I’ve noticed something about the way you walk. You don’t walk. Most people do. Or did, anyway. I don’t keep track of these things any more. But you prowl. You prowl with the padded footsteps of a jaguar on the hunt. Your fangs are eternally on stand-by, ready to sharpen and protrude. You look for an opportunity to lose your temper these days, rather than fight for chances to keep it. You’re always looking for a fight, for a reason to shout at me, for an excuse to torment me. I fucking love you for it. You wanker. You utter shithead. You ravage my confidence and then you ravage me. I love you, you absolute cunt.

And all it took to win you ever was to trough on more food than I thought humanly possible, and get through weight gain powder like I was bulking for World’s Strongest Man competition. It sounds like a heavy price to pay, with heavy being the operative word, but it really isn’t. Not to be hated by you. Not to not be ignored by you. No price is too steep for that. You look at me and see how my once angular jaw is now a sea of chins, each one indiscernible from the rest. You see that and you see victory. Because you did that. You see the way I widen my legs when I sit so my stomach can rest between them, when I once had abs that looked carved from stone. You did that too. When I can no longer see the scales that I’m standing on, you smirk because you know. You know that you did that. When I get out of breath from just getting from sofa to bed or vice versa. Again, it was you that did that. My back aches and you did that. My rolls itch and you did that. I wince at open curtains and you did that. I feel sick when I go a few hours without eating and you sure as hell did that. You’re Dr Frankenstein and I’m the monster, but, it was Dr Frankenstein that was the monster really. And so it is with you. And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. And you did that to me too.

Margot confides in me, you know. The poor thing. The tramp. She doesn’t know what she’s doing wrong. She’s too big for ballet now, you’ve seen to that. But she’s too small for you. Especially now I’m around. Her weight gain has been commented on by family and friends, not with concern but with caution. They say she’s not fat, she’s not even chubby. But she’s not thin any more, and that change should prompt consideration. But she’s too small for you. And all the time, she’s trapped in this maelstrom, between a rock and your hard place, and I’m suggesting the wrong things. Maybe that makes me a bitch. I’m not sure what that makes me to be honest, and I don’t particularly care. She’s all that stands between me and you and I want her gone. So I suggest she goes for runs. Hits the gym. Get thicc. Maybe that’s what you like. It would certainly keep her family at bay. She does and it frustrates you, and you show her the only thing worse than anger. Indifference. And it cuts like a knife through butter. She’s my only friend in the world and I can only think good riddance to her.

And she’s so nice, and so obliging. We giggle like schoolgirls when we’re together. She says I’m her best friend. I hate her guts. Though, let’s face it, I’m the only one with a gut around here. She’s so helpful with the feeding too. Maybe she pities me. I do believe she pities me. I’d pity her if I didn’t want to carve her face open for stealing my man. For stealing you. But she feeds me magnificently these days. She’s even better at it than you. Maybe she’s the same as me. Maybe she’s trying to get rid of the competition. Maybe she thinks she can do that by making me too fat. Maybe she knows everything except the most important thing. That there’s no such thing as too fat. Not for you. It’s not the size that counts, it’s the growth, it’s the control, it’s the submission, it’s the power, it’s the ruination. Maybe she thinks I’m ruining my looks by doing this, but those 281lbs on my 5ft5 body have never looked better to you. Have they?

 

You weren’t there when I celebrated 300lbs. Why weren’t you there, Kyle? Why weren’t you there?

Margot was. She celebrated it with me. With cake. It seemed only fitting. She jumped for joy when I hit 301lbs. I sat down for joy. I scratched the underside of my stomach for joy. She sat down next to me and I regretted wanting to murder her. I regretted trying to keep her thin. Maybe, just maybe, it was vicarious. Maybe I was actually pushing her away from you to save her. Maybe I was just being as kind as she was. Because she really is nice you know, and she’s always there for me, even, and especially, when you’re not.

I know, I know ‘you’re busy with work stuff’. You’re one of those political commentators, Margot tells me, that just hates everybody. Immigrants, nurses, the old, the young. If only people knew that you hating someone meant that they turned you on. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a celebrated icon of the alt-right. Maybe if they knew about me, you wouldn’t be. Am I your dirty little secret? Well, your dirty secret anyway. If I ever had the confidence, desire and strength to walk out the door, would your world come tumbling down? Like mine has?

She sat next to me and I tried to kiss her. She pulled away, and now I just feel shame. She doesn’t like me ‘like that’. She only has eyes for you it seems. I’m just so lonely. When I’m impressing you, you are present. But the rest of the time, you’re just a spectre hanging over proceedings. She tried to deflect, act coy, pretend she wasn’t offended by my lonely advances but she couldn’t brush it off convincingly. I’m so sorry about doing that to her. I shouldn’t have done it. But she’s such a pretty girl and when she feeds me, I feel the light hairs on her arms brush my skin and…

I’ve started thinking about her when she’s not there. Even when you are. I miss her warmth. Her tenderness. And most of all, her kindness. Oh god, I miss her kindness the most. She’s still quite thin, maybe regular. But she’s so pretty that she carries it well. Her friends get on her back for getting bigger, you get on her back for not being big enough. But I like her. Like she is. Not sure why. I’m not sure why I do much, these days. I’m not sure I’m sure about anything at all.

 

I’ll help you gain weight” I tell her, in earshot of you. You were on your way out and you pause to overhear the rest of the conversation. It takes a lot to distract you from the day job, but comments like that can do it. I say it without ulterior motive. Not some Faustian pact or long con. I’m not trying to do her down or win her over. I’m not trying to fuck her and I’m not trying to get her to fuck off. I just want to help. I like her, I realise. Just not sexually. I’d just forgotten what having a friend felt like. It felt like her.

She looks at me. You look at me too. She doesn’t know that would be the key to your heart. You do, but you say nothing either.

He’ll love you more if you do” I say. Quietly, but undercut with conviction. She listens and her heart flutters at the prospect of you loving her more. You’ve really done a number on her. I can so relate. I’m 200lbs heavier now than when I started this journey, and my BMI is now in the 50s, so believe me when I say, I can relate. When my heart flutters, it’s probably a medical concern, so yeah, I guess I can relate. I’ve lost everything I’ve ever had, and I’ve lost it all for you. And you’ve barely given me anything in return, and yet somehow it’s my everything. You’re a bastard, you know that don’t you. You’re a bastard and I genuinely can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you. There is no oblivion to which I wouldn’t descend. No apocalypse I wouldn’t self-inflict. All for you. All of it for you. So, I most certainly can relate.

But, my friends… my family. They’re already giving me grief” she says, tepidly. Her head hung in shame. Knowing her words disappoint you. She sulks like a puppy that’s misbehaved, as she says it. Her weight shifts from one foot to another. I wish I could do that. And finally your eyes soften, like they used to. Back in the good old days before everything got twisted and contorted and my world tilted on its axis.

I might need to go back to Australia. For work. Maybe we could go together. The three of us. Other side of the world. No family or friends to haunt you” you said, a deep voice, but well modulated. It carries effortlessly across large spaces. I knew the offer. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. It was how I ended hear, in Canada. I knew it wasn’t an olive branch. I knew it was a pomegranate seed. But I knew from personal experience how little Margot cared. She was addicted to you. Just like I was. Just like I am. She would choose you over anything, like the addict she is. She wouldn’t choose life, nor choose her job, nor her career nor her family. Because who needs that when they have you. Because who needs reasons when Kyle Malcolm’s their heroin.

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I apologise but this story is seriously dark. Pitch black. I hope it doesn't upset you too much, but I also hope it upsets you a bit.

Chapter 3

 

I’m addicted to you” I joke to myself as I grab my blubbery midriff. But I’m not really joking. Not as much as I’d like to admit. I’m fixated on my own expanse these days. Fascinated with it. I love how unfamiliar it is. How unbelonging it is. How un-me it is. I look at it and just boggle at the tranformation. Is this what it feels like to be you? Do you boggle at my transformation too? Oh, you’re not answering me? Well, there’s a surprise. You never talk any more these days.

The Australia move didn’t happen just like *that*. You treat us like contraband. You need to smuggle us in. You can’t have a celebrated alt-right politico like yourself caught up in a scandal. Not when the scandal is fatties. Well, one fatty and one slightly-chubby. Or, as it is now, one enormity and one fairly chubby. No, you have to grease wheels like you grease breakfasts. Pull favours like you pull skinny girls in the hope to fatten them up. So, in the meaning, we just wait. Well, you wait. We eat.

She’s moved in, has Margot. For the time being. To get her away from ‘bad influences’. ‘Bad influences’ like everyone she’s ever known and loved. Everyone apart from you. So she sleeps in the bed. With you. Fuck you. And I sleep on the couch that I sit on, eat on and just generally congeal on. I suppose that’s one less reason to get up for me. A few fewer calories to be burnt. Honestly, these days, I’m a bucket away from never getting up at all. And what happens then? I sometimes think about that, but then I stop myself because I don’t like where that story ends up. I try to focus on the here and now because the future terrifies me. I’m an addict and addicts are scared of the future tense. And oft with good reason. I mean we all know where this story is heading, don’t we? We know from Chapter 1, page 1. We know, but we want to be proven wrong. Hope to be proven wrong. We know we’re not, but we cling forlornly onto an impossible future. But addicts don’t get happy endings. Certainly not without giving up their addiction. And I just don’t have it in me. I’m hopelessly devoted to you.

I’m keeping my promise with Margot about feeding her. This is why addicts make terrible friends. Because we don’t encourage sobriety. So I’m keeping my promise and making her fat, to win her over as a friend and you over again as a lover. You share a bed with her, you treacherous bastard. Come out here on the sofa with me, like a real man. I fatten her up while she fattens me up. We feed each other as our bodies become sliding scales of self-annihilation. With her at one end and me way down towards the other. You sometimes watch, and give me the attention I deserve, as we pack one another with food like holidayers pack clothes into their luggage containers. But not always. Sometimes you dismiss even that. Do you have even more women? Margot says that the perfume whiffs on your shirt aren’t hers. So what are we to you, a cattle market? Well fuck you Kyle, you sexy beast.

I am, myself, only half the number of the beast. I’m exactly 333lbs and that somehow seems fitting. Because you’re the devil and I’m only half the weight you want me to be. Because I’m halfway to hell. Because I’m always only half the weight you want me to be. And even when I double it – and I’m nearing trebling it – you always want double more. You’re as insatiable as me, but it’s more me that you’re insatiable for. And somewhere along the lines, I concurred. Because it’s not just you and it’s not just food I’m addicted to. I’m now addicted to growing. Because it’s only growing that gets rewards. Rewards like sex. So now I’m being turned on by my growth like you are, you filthy pervert. I’m enjoying my width and my wobble. I’m savouring every roll, every bulge, every jiggle. Because every one brings me a bit closer to you, just as you keep pulling further away.

Margot’s getting closer to you though, since my intervention. Not only does she get to spend each night with you, the lucky cunt, but she also seems to be getting the few slivers of attention from you during the waking hours. She’s subtly chunking out, her legs are thickening, her stomach and arse are pulling ever so slightly in opposing directions. She doesn’t look fat, but she doesn’t look like she used to be a ballerina either. She looks like a student who’s partial to the nightlife and knows how to have a good time, even though she is now flatbound also. Your imprint on her is showing already, your mark of the devil. She’s only short too, so the rewards are richer on her, and you lavish those rewards on her during the nights and now sometimes during the waking hours too.

Though, she does have more waking hours than me. It is only now I have constant company that I realise how much I sleep or doze. Lethargy clings to me like a bad smell, and I can just never shake it. And now I’m in a fog of daydream – never fully awake or asleep. My mind feels always in the background, never stirring to the foreground. I eat, I sleep, I sleep, I eat. Occasionally you fuck me for a brief breach of humdrum routine, but then it’s back to sleeping and eating again. That, coupled with my addictions, and I feel rarely lucid. Always hungry and rarely lucid. I reckon that would make a solid epitaph for me.

 

I chug weight gain formula like a fratboy. I down pitchers of the stuff to quench my thirst. My thirst for growth. My thirst for change. My thirst for self-annihilation. I have to chug now because we’re leaving soon. Your contacts have pulled through, and we’re leaving tonight. And this means something that I haven’t felt in years. This means I am going to have to wear some clothes. And so I’m wearing a smock. Just cloth draped over me like a dining room table. I ask what size it is and you just saying ‘fucking huge’. I guess my size 4 days are behind me then. And I miss my ribcage come to think of it. But it’s long gone now, under thick lasagna sheets of fat. Long gone and never coming back. I’ll never see my ribcage again. I’ll never see my toes again. I’ll never see my family and my friends again. And I’ll never see this flat again either.

Margot’s clothing choices aren’t nearly so smothering. She’s wearing the clothes that she came in, nearly 25lbs ago. The cycling shorts, once the preserve of a lifestyle of exercise and fitness, now cling so tightly to her that her legs and waist swell around them. The strapless top that formfits the outward push of her stomach for as far as her belly-button. She looks like she’s wearing children’s clothing, not clothing that fit when she moved in. Time has been cruel to her, muffins have been cruel to her, I’ve been cruel to her, you’ve been cruel to her, she’s been cruel to herself. She used to be a ballerina. She used to show no signs of softness. Now she shows no signs but softness. You can barely keep her hands off her. If she could get her cycling shorts off, I bet you’d fuck her as she stands. I hate you, you know. I’ll hate you all the way to the grave.

But we have to get moving. Moving. Shit. Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, fuck. I hadn’t thought about that. I hadn’t thought about much. Oh shit. A haze of consumption is all my petite little brain ever summons the energy to muster. I’m just chasing fixes at this point, and I don’t care for much else. The fix of you, though you deprive me of it so often. The fix of food, which I haven’t been deprived of, not by a long chalk. And the fix of growing, which hasn’t abated easier. But, fucking hell, now I have to move, and now there is so much more of me to do so than before. How far will I have to move? Oh fuck. How far will I have to walk? Oh fuck. Down stairs? Oh shit. Across car-parks. Oh crap. I feel my breath quicken. I can’t walk that far. I know I can’t. Shit, shit, shit. The thought of it makes me dizzy. The thought of it makes me sick. I can feel my innards clenching. My breathing’s getting faster now.

Are you okay?” you ask, a rare flicker of concern from your sharpened face as panic wraps its hands round my neck and squeezes. Your concern is touching, and I wish I was more aware of it, but the world keeps falling over in my head, like I’m trapped in a snow globe that people keep tipping over. I feel like I’m rolling down a hill, with up and down swapping places over and over again. All this fear, all this dread, all at the thought of just walking. Shit, Kyle, I think you’ve fucked me up good and proper.

I shake my head. I try to squeak out an answer but I can’t breath. Margot rushes to my side. She holds my hand, she stares into my eyes. But I can’t focus on hers. They keep slipping, like they have no grip on their soles. She exhales and inhales loudly in a steady rhythm, trying to get me to follow suit. I try but my lungs are railing against me, my heart is brute-forcing itself out of my rib-cage. Or the padded cell that I have instead of one. She tells me to breath along with her and i’m trying, I’m fucking trying. But my mind keeps running to that same thought. That same nauseating thought. I can’t walk out the flat. I can’t go out the flat. I can’t leave. I just can’t leave. Don’t make me leave. Please don’t make me leave. I’ll do anything. Eat anything. I’ll set fire to myself, anything. Do you hear me? I’d set fire to myself just to not leave this flat. I would do anything for you, but I won’t do that.

Just gas her now and be done with it” you say, coldly. That narrow chink of light, of empathy, of warmth, from you now all exhausted. My eyes dart around, frantic, to see who that comment is directed at. And another person enters the flat and I…

 

This feels comfortable. This feels warm, and soft, and secure. My breathing feels safe. My mind is sedate again. Wait? Where am I? I’m in bed sheets. Soft ones, silky soft. I’m in bed. Wide, so much wider than a sofa. Everything is wide. Even I am wide. Across the room from me is a widescreen television, sprawling the width of the wall. Wow, when did televisions get so big? The wall that it’s mounted on, like all the walls in this room, are a grotesque purple. A stifling, oppressive hue, presumably intended as rich and decadent, but so rich and decadent that it creeps in from the walls. There’s even a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. You clearly have a taste for the ornate. I didn’t know that about you. I know so little about you, come to think of it.

I hear the sound of a clink, coming from the door around the corner from my bed. I crane my head to look but the bed is so comfortable that I don’t really heave myself up particularly. I have no idea where I am. Where am I? What have you done to me? How did you get me out of my flat? And I’m naked again, which means you’ve stripped me, which means you’ve stripped me while I was unconscious and oh my god that feels like a violation.

Who is that?” I yelp, scared. My eyes are scouring the room for clues. I don’t know what kind of clues I’m expecting to find. I can taste my own fear. It tastes like metal.

Hi, look who’s back in the land of the living” comes a honey sweet voice. Australian inflected. Oh my god, I’m on the other side of the world. And she comes around the corner. Sashays in really, a walk that stems from the hip bone. A little wiggle with every step. A pretty little thing. Aren’t they always. At least I now know your type. You like pretty little things. So you can take their pretty and their little away from them.

Who are you?” I ask with fear as I see she’s brought a tray of food with her into the room. It’s one of them trays that they use in hotels and suchlike. Plates covered with metallic containers. That kind of thing. The Australian smiles as she sees me in my state of consciousness. She has such white teeth. Is that a weird thing to notice? But her teeth are so white, and she’s so pretty and I just hope you don’t destroy her like you’ve destroyed me. Like your destroying Margot. I want to tell her to run while she still can. Literally, while she still can. But I don’t. I have no power any more. I’m just a plaything for you, a ragdoll and food is my gravity. I’ve spent so long submitting that I no longer have the muscle memory to do anything else.

I’m here at Kyle Malcolm’s request. Apparently, he wants you fed?” she says, briefly revealing the insecurity of her situation. What have you told her? What did she expect? Have you got your talons in her too. Poor thing. Nobody deserves that. Nobody deserves you. Nobody but me. I do. I deserve you.

Are you… a ballerina?” I ask. I’m still dazed. I still don’t know who she is. I’m not used to new people. I’m scared. I’m confused. Do you like that? Do you like what you’ve inflicted upon me? Oi, I’m talking to you! I’m so confused, why have you done this to me? You monster. You hear that? I hate you, you’re a monster. Where are you? Why aren’t you here? I want you so bad, you fucking monster.

Hahaha, nah mate. I’m an escort, hired by your boyfriend Kyle Malcolm. You lucky girl, he’s a catch. He pays well too. A whole bunch of us girls, getting paid well by a handsome man like him, all to look after you. I hope you know how lucky you are. I’d kill for a man like that” she says. I’d kill for a man like that too. I nearly did once. I nearly murdered my only friend for him. I nearly grabbed a cake knife and smeared Margot’s face across it. Be careful what you wish for White Teeth. Be careful what you wish for. The man of your dreams can be the cause of your nightmares.

Now, open wide, here comes the aeroplane” she says, half-mockingly as she feeds me.

 

There is a revolving cast of these pretty Australian hookers that you seem to have on your payroll. They take shifts. Feeding me requires shifts, apparently. I don’t learn there names. No point. I’m not here to empathise. I’m not here to socialise. I’m just here to eat. So I just know them by their distinctive features. White Teeth, Big Tits, Cheekbones, that kind of thing. We’re all just meat to you, so why should they be anything other than meat to me. They come in and they feed me from sunrise until sunset, punishing me with every calorie they can get their hand on, like meat monkeys. Always punishing me. I like being punished. I deserve to be punished. I just wish it was you here that was punishing me.

I haven’t seen you since I woke up here. Every time the door opens, I crane my neck to peer. But it’s never you. It’s always some pretty little thing, with a distinguishing feature. I ask them about you but they don’t know. They just have a job to do, and are grateful to be paid so highly for such menial work. They don’t grow either. That surprises me. Maybe you can’t while they travel in packs. Maybe you have to wait until one separates itself from the pack before you can strike, like the predator you are. Or maybe you only have eyes for me. But, if so, where the fuck are you? Seriously, tell me. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll eat anything. Just tell me where you are.

I haven’t seen Margot either. The message, relayed second hand, is that I’ll get to see her if I’m a good girl. And good girl, you mean bad girl. I hope she’s okay. I really liked her. I kinda miss her. We were in it together. Two flies caught in your web, chatting away while we wait for the spider to bite our heads off. You’re the spider in this analogy, by the way. You’re always the spider.

In fact, I haven’t seen much. I’ve seen the en-suite. But going to the toilet is a chore now. The girls help me get up when I need to go. I hear my knees grinding when I stand on them, from the extra weight. I hear them grind when I step on the scales. That extra weight takes me to 351lbs I’m officially triple in size now. Happy now? Now that I’ve tripled for you? And that two of those three mes are just fat. I’m carrying double my body weight in just fat now. Surely you can be bothered to see me now?

 

400lbs. 400lbs and I get to see Margot. That’s the rule. Apparently. Delivered second-hand again. This time by Cheekbones. I bet you like the idea of that kind of power. That kind of control. That I’m running after you like a lovelorn teenager. But 400lbs is child’s play. Oh god, did I really say that? What’s another 50lbs? Wait, do I really think that? I’ve done that five times over for you already. What’s another 50? Oh shit, I really am ensconced in your pull.

And having constant feeder attention helps. Your pussy posse are a great assistance towards that goal. They each treat it differently. Some seriously, some softly, some seductively, some silly. Some just want a chat. Some prefer silence. For some it’s just a 9-to-5 job. For others, they actively enjoy it. Big Tits, for example, hates me and sees stuffing food down my neck to fatten me up as job satisfaction. I hope you take note of this for her annual review.

White Teeth really likes you. Oh, you’ve been casting your spell again, haven’t you? Your dark, swarthy spell. You’re working on separating her from the herd, and making her yours. I explain to her what you like. Why? To help her? Or to fuck with her? Or does an addict just want company? But I tell her that the way to a man’s heart is usually through his stomach, but to yours it’s through her own. She says she knows, and she’s hesitant. She’s proud of her good looks. As well she might be. As well I was too, before you corrupted my soul. She’s wavering. She’s not too far gone yet. Not like me. Not like Margot. Addicts addicted to addiction. The door’s open to her, she can run out if she wants to. I shut it on her though. I tell her she’d be his favourite. That does it. That does the trick. I see her eyes light up at the thought. Your favourite. Oh what a heraldic crown. I used to have that crown. I’m not jealous, but why did I do that to her? She was on the edge, could have tipped either way. And I pushed her towards you. Towards the dark. Towards oblivion. You sick fuck. That’s what I tell myself. You sick fuck.

I rarely take the time to appreciate my growing form. I’m morbidly curious about how I’m morbidly obese. How much I find myself sinking into a sea of me. There are puddles of flesh everywhere I turn. I sink into every crevice of the mattress. I find skin where there shouldn’t be skin, just bundled up in corners of my body unexpectedly. I look at my feet and marvel at how small they seem now, as a consequence of everything else growing. And you want more. Because apparently this, all of this, just isn’t enough for you. Just a stepping stone to a larger stepping stone. Always and forever. Amen.

 

I’m closing in on 400lbs now. It happened quicker than expected. Or it didn’t. I honestly have no idea how long it took. Time is my least important dimension these days. It’s the other three axes are all that matter. Expanding into each of them. Cheekbones has started acting concern. I find it irritating. She tells me inconvenient truths. Reminds me of grim realities. That this isn’t all some dark fantasy. That this is the real world and real prices might be paid. She uses words and phrases like ‘health’ and ‘heart’ and ‘might die’. And ‘will die’. And ‘stop it! Stop it please! I’m worried about you!’. It really takes the wind out of my reckless gluttony. I haven’t seen Cheekbones in a few days now. She appears to be off the rota. Was she pushed? Did she jump? The fuck do I care? Everything is just food now.

One of the girls I am seeing more of these days is White Teeth. The dainty sunkissed thing thinks she’s gaining weight. She calls that gaining weight. Losing skinniness? Maybe. But gaining weight? Pull the other one, you skinny bitch. I am gaining weight. I can eat back to back cakes now. On the regular too. I bet she couldn’t eat a hamburger. The lightweight. Literally. No, gaining weight requires devotion. Commitment. Sacrifice. All I do is eat. Perpetually glutting. Like a cartoon. You see, everything is just food now, Kyle. Everything is just food.

But less about me, what about you? What you been up to? Anything nice? Anyone nice? Fucking pretty little things behind my back? Well have you? You motherfucker. I don’t mind, Kyle. I won’t judge you. Just come back. For me. Please. I’ll do anything. You know I’ll do anything. I’ve done anything several times over already. So just come back. Please. I miss your darkness. I miss your eyes. I hate you, but I love you even more. But you’re not here, and I am just left alone with my stomach and my feeders. Everything is just food now.

I wonder how Margot is doing? I hope she’s doing okay. I just don’t know what okay means. Does it mean huge? Does it mean not? I don’t want to feel abandoned in my supersized state, but I don’t want to have competition either. I would love to have an obesity ally, but sometimes I want more for her. Is that silly? Since I don’t want more for me. Maybe I should. Maybe I’m tired of being your food mule. Maybe I’m tired of all this eating and gaining and losing myself in my addiction. I feel so tired these days. I’m so tired. Everything is just food now.

 

You utter wanker! You duplicitous, two-faced shitlord! Oh you wanker! Why Kyle? Why? Is this all some mindgame to you, you pompous tosser? Just playing me for a fool. I’m not a fool Kyle, stop treating me like a fool! I’m so fucking… Oh god, I don’t know. Just let me see Margot. Please. Please. Please please please please please please please. You promised! You promised! I did everything you asked. I always do. The doting girlfriend. The 412lb doting girlfriend. Oh I hate you. I hate every fibre of your being. I want to fuck you up, I want to ruin everything for you. Maybe I should lose weight. How would you like that? Huh? If I just got up and exercised. Trimmed down. How much would you hate that? A taste of your own mindfucking medicine. Huh Kyle? How would you like that? If I just stopped eating. You can’t make me eat. No, fuck you. If you won’t play by your rules, why should I? I’ll just stop eating.

Except I won’t, will I? You cruel, cruel wanker. Because I can’t. And that’s your point, isn’t it? That I am powerless. I am powerless against you. I am powerless against my addiction. I am powerless against my hunger, my greed, all of it. If I went cold turkey, I’d eat it. You have my in the palm of your hand. You always have. And now you’re clenching your hand into a fist. And squeezing me. Squeezing everything left of me. Like a lemon. I am a lemon with everything squeezed out. Nothing left of me any more. I just eat now. There’s nothing left to me apart from that. Eating is all you’ve left me with. You wanker. Everything is just food now.

The promise that I’ll see her at 500lbs is just a joke. It’s all just a joke to you. I want see her at 500lbs. You know I know I won’t see her at 500lbs. But you say it anyway because you know I’ll reach it anyway. What’s another 100lbs now? At this stage of the game? I should never say that, never just say “what’s another 100lbs?”. It makes me sick to think that thought. But I’ll head there, won’t I? No choice, can’t help it. Don’t know how long it will take, but one day I’ll be weighed and the scale will say 500lbs. It will say a quarter tonne. And I’ll shrug and get back to eating because nothing means anything more. Nothing means anything now. Everything is just food now. I’m just going to eat until I die now, aren’t I?

And Margot’s not here, is she? I’m never going to see her again. You’ve been stringing me along with a mirage. I asked White Teeth and she said she didn’t know and I believed her. She hadn’t seen her and I believed her. She isn’t in the opposite room or across the corridor or whatever. She’s gone, isn’t she? But why Kyle? Did you get bored of her? Because you love me too much? Or did she leave you? Is that what this is? Is that why you’re ignoring me? Afraid you’ll get too close to me? Afraid you’ll get attached and I’ll leave? Well, you don’t have emotional attachment in you. And I’ll never leave. You hear that Kyle, I’ll never leave you. And even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. After all, and I hope you listen this time, everything is food now.

 

Everything is just food now.

 

Everything is just food now.

 

Everything is just food.

 

It’s mainly new faces these days. New pretty little things. Only Big Tits and White Teeth remain. Big Tits loves her job too much. And White Teeth loves mine too much. So much she’s following suit. Adding layers to herself. Like she’s parfait. And everybody loves parfait. Especially me. Especially you. Oh, I bet you can’t keep your hands off her. Like you can keep your hands off of me. I bet your caress those fluffy soft love-handles of hers like you used to caress mine. Back in the good old days. Before everything turned to shit. Before everything turned to food. I bet you tell her how disgusting she is. Like you used to tell me. Before you abandoned me. Alone. With nobody but food for comfort. Everything really is just food now. There really is nothing else for me.

And the consequences bore me as much as they terrify me. I sit up and my knee tries to sit between my legs, but my legs are so thick that they can’t. And I can see my stomach inching piecemeal towards my knee. It will get there at some point and that is so breathtakingly terrifying. A reminder that everything is head-spinningly wrong. And yet that fear is drowned out by indifference. Because who gives a fuck? You don’t give a fuck, so why should I give a fuck? If everything is food, then this is just the inevitable consequence. If everything is food, why should I give a fuck about anything else. I don’t give a fuck about you, about me, about anything else.

Hello my love” a deep grizzled voice bellows from the doorframe I can’t see and fuck fuck fuck fuck it’s you. Oh god, it’s you. You’ve come. You’ve come to see me. Oh god, I can’t believe it. It’s really you. You’ve not forgotten me, you’ve not abandoned me. I knew you hadn’t. I knew you wouldn’t. Because I mean something to you, don’t I? This isn’t all for nought, is it? Oh please tell me that you’re here for me. Please Kyle, please. I’ll do anything and I’ll do so much more than anything. Because you mean everything to me.

Hi” I say and I try to hide my smile, but my mouth is winched wide by disobedient muscles. I try to hide my tears but I can’t. I just can’t. Why am I crying? Oh god, what do you think of me for crying? How pathetic is this? I’m so sorry Kyle. I’m so sorry for everything. I’m so sorry for whatever I did that wasn’t enough for you. Whatever I did that drove you away. Tell me what it was and I’ll fix it forever. Not eating enough? Oh, I promise I can eat more, I really can. I really will. Not gaining fast enough? Oh I’ll gain fast for you Kyle. I’ll pile it on like in the good old days. Back before Canada. Before Margot. Before all of it. Just tell me what you want me to do Kyle, please.

Not seen you in a while. Been busy. Work stuff” you gruffly explain and that’s your excuse? That’s all I get. I thought this was my fault, I thought this was all on me and it was just ‘work stuff?’ Oh fuck you Kyle! I was blaming me, and this is all I get. That was supposed to be an apology? You didn’t even say sorry. Look at me Kyle! Look at me and explain why you did that to me?

No, that’s okay” I reply and oh god I’m pathetic. That’s okay?!?!?! No, it’s not! Why did I say that? Oh, it’s your fucking eyes, isn’t it? I looked at your broody eyes and wilted like back when we first fell in love. So sharp, like a falcon’s eyes. Piercing. Cruel. Delicious. You walk towards me and take in my scale. I’m 481lbs now. I mean, that’s colossal isn’t it? On 5ft5, that’s just crazy. You haven’t seen me in 150 or so lbs. It takes its toll, doesn’t it? Oh does this size please you now? Am I big enough yet for you? Give me a sign, I can never read your face. Just tell me, do you like what you see.

I like what I see” you say, with that fucking smirk and oh god I’ve missed it. I’d been trying to picture that smirk in my head and I never get it right. Never do it justice. But here you are now, smirking away, doing it justice. I’ve missed you so much. As you get closer, I feel your presence, your darkness closing in on me and I’ve missed it so much. You wanker. Why did you leave me then? You shouldn’t have abandoned me, you sexy monster. You shouldn’t have done this. I love you. I hate you. I love you. I hate you. I love you. I hate you.

I grab the cake knife by the bed stand and swing at you. Why? I finally get what I want, and I’m swinging a cake knife at you.

 

And I connect.

 

I draw blood.

 

Oh shit.

 

I’ve carved your face, like I dreamt of carving Margot’s.

 

Your eyes flash with fury. I’ve never seen anything like it. The oxygen drained from the room. Blood is pouring from your chin. It looks non-fatal. Fortunately. Unfortunately. Oh I don’t know. I don’t know much any more. But you’re pissed. I can see your jaw clench, the muscles tighten in your neck. Your vein pop in your forehead. Everything is silent in the room except my breathing and the drip drip drip of blood from your chin and onto the mattress.

 

Drip, drip, drip

 

You lock eyes on me and my breath leaves me. Your hands are rolled into fists. Your face is contorted and twisted into a cruel fury. Your lip is upturned into a snarl. My hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. There is that vacuum of silence like just before a storm hits. That electricity charged in the room that gets your nerves on end like just before a storm is coming. And the only sound is silence, deafening silence, and the blood from your chin onto the bedsheets

 

Drip, drip, drip

 

You crawl towards me, on all fours. Feral. Animal. Carnal. So utterly inhuman. I can sense the cold of your heart frosting the room. I can sense the red raw anger heating the room. And you pad towards me and hover over me. You drown me in your shadow, like a monster from beyond the bowels of hell. Like the monster you are.

 

Drip, drip, drip.

 

I’m going to kill you” you say. Your voice not as controlled as it usually is. There is a waver of fury that even you can’t repress. You, who’s all about the veneer of humanity encasing the rotten carcass flesh of your soul. “But, I’m going to kill you slowly”

You grab one of the muffins from the bedstand and put it in my mouth and I chew. I chew while you glower above me. And then another. And another. You watch as you feed me. You plan on feeding me until I die don’t you? I open my legs as wide as they go, to give you room, as you put another muffin in my mouth. The room is still cold with your evil and hot with your fury and you’re unzipping your trousers to fuck me for the first time in god knows how long.

You’ve been killing me since London, haven’t you?” I say. And I’ve been dying since then too. “This is what you really want isn’t it? To kill me. You’re a psychopath. You kill people. You just do it slowly. Am I your first?”

Yes, but not my last” and then you shift enough of my bulk out of the way to enter me, and my breath is taken from me again. But it won’t be the last time. “You won’t see me for a while after this, my love. But when you do, I’ll be President and you better be fucking massive. And I mean massive, not this shit-show of a gain, you fat whore”

I nod. I promise. And I’ll oblige. You want to kill me. You want me to eat myself to death. I think I want the same thing too.

 

 

Who knows how long it has been since I’ve seen you, my love. A long long time. I spy grey hairs, so I’m not 25 any more. But I’ve been busy. Busy keeping my word. Keeping my promise. Eating myself to death. Eating like I’ve been possessed. Given that you are clearly demonic, maybe it’s possible that I have been. But I’ve been eating myself to the precipice. To immobility and beyond. I’m not sure if I am bedbound or not. But I might be, you know. I might just be.

White Teeth strokes my hair when she sees me. She says I’m beautiful. She says she admires my honesty, my openness. She says she wants to be like me. I guess she’ll be victim #2. Should I say anything? Yes, I should. But will I? No, I won’t. I’m curious as to what you will do to her. She’s getting big now. Soft. Heavy. Her teeth are still garishly white, but everything else is changing. I remember that stage. The transformation stage. The stage where the difference between where you are and where you were felt relevant. It doesn’t feel relevant to me any more. I’m passed that. But she’s growing and I’m watching in wonder. I’m proud of her, terrified for her, jealous of her. Oh to be back at that stage again. To relive this hellish helter-skelter once more. But I’m approaching the immobility stage now, instead.

I don’t want to die. I mean, I do, but I don’t. I don’t want to give you the satisfaction. A final ‘fuck you’ from me to you. But I will also enjoy losing the burden of all this. The guilt. The shame. The embarrassment. The anger. The sadness. The loneliness. I’m coming to terms with it. Slowly. A bit. Everyone dies, and lots die young. Very few die like this, but I’m not sure it’s been all bad. Oh, who am I kidding, I’ve loved it. But it’s also been my worst nightmare. But I don’t want to die. But I do.

I haven’t weighed myself in a while. 559lbs was the last time. Now it hurts to stand on the scales. Everything feels frail and brittle, like my bones are porous. So that was a while ago. I think. Since then, my stomach’s reached my knees. At last. Finally. A real landmark. Will you be proud, my love? You wanker. Will you be proud?

Yes” you say, in a commanding deep voice. Wait, what? “I said, I will be proud”.

You saunter in with a smile in your face. Not even a smirk but an out-and-out smile. It looks weird on your face, like it doesn’t belong. You do not have a face for smiling. It only suits a smirk.

Well, I’ll try to smile less and smirk more then” you say, with a smirk. Wait, so can you hear these thoughts? Or am I saying them out loud now. Oh no, I’m saying them out loud, aren’t I? Oh dear god, how long have I been saying these out loud?

You’ve been mumbling them from pretty early on to be honest. Addiction, my love, it does strange things to a person. Addiction and loneliness. It’s how I know how much control I have over you. And it’s the thing that scared Margot off. Not me, not the weight, but you. Oh, I tried to be angry with you, but you’re just so fat. So wonderfully fat. You knock me off my A-game” you say and my head is spinning again. Oh dear god, what have I done?

But you’re distracting me from my shock, my realisation, by jumping on me. Impossibly horny. You tell me we have five minutes until the doctor. Wait, the doctor? But you’re already pulling off your trousers. You’re pushing the mounds of flesh out of the way. You’re entering me, oh dear god I’ve missed you inside of me.

I’ve missed being inside of you” you say and I wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s like you’re inside my head. But long dormant synapses are firing now, and charges are rushing through me once more. Oh dear god, this was what started all of this. This pleasure. These sensations. This addiction. Addiction to you. To your power. To your dominance. I groan and gasp as bits of me erupt into sexual jiggling and it’s amazing and I love you. Kyle, I love you.

I love you too”

 

The doctor comes in as I catch my breath. You are putting on your shirt, and I’m just leaning back in my bed and gasping. You’re lithe and leonine, and I’m just splodges of mass. You cut through the air as you walk to meet him, to shake his hand and introduce him to me, the patient. I just lie there, wriggling without really moving, embarrassed, awkward, naked and oh so fucking fat. Because this is what you’ve done to me, my darling. And I’m okay with that. I’m not okay with that fact that I am okay with it, but I am okay with it.

The doctor requests that I stand on the scales. You hold your head up as you look at my response to that request. You spy the fear on my face at the prospect of summoning the strength and balance to stand on my own two feet. The fear of how difficult it will be and the fear of how close I will be to not being able to do it at all. You’re the perfect gentleman. You grab my arms to help me up, flexing those gym-strengthened biceps. I grunt as I push myself up, before standing like Bambi on ice. The doctor shows no emotion, his poker face is in check. Your poker face has gone to pot. You’re smiling.

You help me stop on the scales and you look downwards in anticipation. I swear I see you lick your lip as you look down.

So what if I did?” you ask, with a smirk.

The scales smirk a little less, and the number electronically announced reveals why. 713lbs. Dear God. Sometimes it feels like there is no threshold unpassed. And then I go and pass another one. 700 is passed? When did I even reach 600? The doctor jots down the number without a smirk. What a boring man he seems to be. He points out that, at my height, that makes my BMI is 118.65. Which is crazy. My BMI is what my starting weight was. If I get it to 120, I’m officially triple morbidly obese. I didn’t even know that these kind of things were possible. We’re in the realm of the unknown here, aren’t we?

I’m sorry Mr President...” the doctor starts and oh shit, I had forgotten about that. About you. Your career. You’ve kept me at such an arm’s length from it that it just becomes a background hum to me. But you’ve made it. You’re the president of Australia. The nation of your birth. Hence the good mood, I suppose. I guess celebrations should be in order. Cake, anyone? “…but this weight poses significant risks to her health. Even without factoring other aspects, like her lack of mobility. It’s the pressure to her heart that worries me.”

How much more can she gain?” you ask. Never knowingly not to the point. Everything is pointed with you. Your jaw structure and the way talk. You don’t care about my health. Well, you do. You just want it worse, don’t you? You want me to hit rock bottom and hit it with a splat, just like I wondered about all those years ago.

She needs to lose weight for her health...” the doctor begins, with his equivocating bullshit. I can see it’s testing your patience. And his duty towards his patients and your patience pull in opposing directions. And you’ve never met an immovable object that your unstoppable force couldn’t overcome. And you have a 713lb girlfriend.

How much more is possible?” you snap. It sends shivers down my spine. You scare me, Kyle. You really do, But then again, I did stab you in the chin that one time. And you did confess you are trying to kill me.

There’s no arbitrary number” he starts, seeing your anger swell. “But think of it like dice. At the minute, she’s rolling dice and she has a chance of rolling a number that will kill her. Her heart or something else, it’s all under remarkable strain. And she will keep rolling the dice until she either loses weight or rolls that number that will kill her. And the larger she gets, the more numbers on the dice will cause her to die.”

What are those odds doc?” you’re temporarily placated by the answer, but still on edge.

If she stays at this weight, she has a 50% chance of reaching forty” the doctor expands and hang on a minute, I’m nearing forty? How near? 33? 34? 35?

And if she grows to 800lbs?” you ask, as everyone blanks my protestations. I realise now that this must have been at your request. Ignore the crazy fat lady, she thinks she’s not saying these things out loud.

25-30%”

1000lbs?”

5% max”

If she doubles her weight?” you ask, and lean in. Ready for the kill?

She will die before she ever reaches that” the doctor states matter-of-factly.

Well, that just sounds like a challenge to me. How about you, my love? Does it sound like a challenge?” he says and kisses me as he says it. Fuck. I mean, I was going to submit anyway, wasn’t I? You know me well enough to know I waved my white flag a while ago. I’m a girl who’s addicted to your darkness, I may as well pursue the ultimate darkness too. But even if I did have the resolve to take a stance, a kiss would have smothered it like a blanket on flames. So I nod and smile.

She will die...” the doctor said, and suddenly he revealed the worry in his voice. I wouldn’t dare stand up to Kyle like that. Brave man.

She can walk out that door any time she likes. I’m not forcing her.” you say. And it’s true. In a sense. I mean, I can’t walk out that door any more. But you’ve never forced me. You’ve only ever used words. Words like “get fat for me”. And I just lapped it up, like I lap up everything you put before me. So I tell him.

 

I tell him I’m staying. I’m not moving. I will be here, in this bed, in this room, until the end of time. The only way you’ll ever get me off this bed is in a coffin. And it’ll have to be a big one.

 

But I hope nobody ever ends up in this bed again. And as you and the doctor filter out and leave me, I realise that it is probably for the last time. You’re going to leave me to eat myself to death and you’re not even going to check in on me to see the results. You never were. You just like to know that somewhere out there, while you’re electioneering or whatnot, I’m in here eating myself to oblivion. I grab a muffin from the side as if to prove you right. To prove the doctor wrong. Double my weight, here I come.

I sing between mouthfuls, but it’s not a happy song. Between bites of the many muffins that clog my arteries and strain my heart, and tie me down to a bed I’ll never leave, I sing. Fantine’s song. From Les Miserables. The role I was supposed to audition for, before you asked me to get fat for you. Do you know how it goes? As a patron of the arts with a soft spot for the British accent? Well, it goes a little like this:

 

 

 

There was a time when men were kind

When their voices were soft

And their words inviting

There was a time when love was blind

And the world was a song

And the song was exciting

There was a time

Then it all went wrong

I dreamed a dream in time gone by

When hope was high

And life worth living

I dreamed that love would never die

I dreamed that God would be forgiving

Then I was young and unafraid

And dreams were made and used and wasted

There was no ransom to be paid

No song unsung, no wine untasted

But the tigers come at night

With their voices soft as thunder

As they tear your hope apart

As they turn your dream to shame

He slept a summer by my side

He filled my days with endless wonder

He took my childhood in his stride

But he was gone when autumn came

And still I dream he'll come to me

That we will live the years together

But there are dreams that cannot be

And there are storms we cannot weather

I had a dream my life would be

So different from this hell I'm living

So different now from what it seemed

Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.

 

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Guest high

I voiced a criticism to the author, she responded, all good.

Then some clown tells me to check myself, like no one can criticize, like he's the freaking arbiter of discussion. 

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1 hour ago, high said:

I voiced a criticism to the author, she responded, all good.

Then some clown tells me to check myself, like no one can criticize, like he's the freaking arbiter of discussion. 

She. And I simply pointed out that being terse with the author about a fictional character may warrant a little perspective before posting further. I don’t think you need to be offended or hurt just because there is an alt-right character. 

Enjoy the story and move on. 

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Woah, so this all kicked off while I wasn't looking lol.

I genuinely meant no offense, Kyle's political position was predominantly exposition for another story. It's not like I discuss his manifesto or anything, I was more interested in showing his charisma and his power, to justify the dynamic I'd established.

But thanks John and Daria too, you've been great support not just here but on my other stories too.

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9 hours ago, ramka-sama said:

What a story! Just one question by the way, what happened to MARGOT?

Thanks Ramka-sama!

I don't explicitly reveal what happened to Margot, so it is in your imagination a bit. But I imply that she got freaked out. Not by Kyle, but by the narrator. She was saying all of her thoughts out loud, including her violent ones, and it scared Margot off. Remember, she often spoke of carving her face open with a knife. That might scare you off tbh!

But thanks for the comment, support and question :)

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