What You Want, Dear Reader

[AdiposeAdorer]

 

 My name, Reader? Oh, let’s see here … how about Clarice? That’s a nice name, isn’t it? It’s from a movie, apparently, one that the writer of this story particularly likes. So yeah, let’s go with that, let's say that my name is Clarice.

And, now that I’ve introduced myself, let’s move on to my appearance. I mean, you need to know what I look like, right? After all, there are so many choices we could make here. I could be tall–all elegant and statuesque, with long, lean legs and a graceful, gazelle-like body–or, I could be short–a cute, petite little thing with a lithe build and a bouncy personality. The options are, if not endless, then at least numerous. But, we need to get this story going, and you need to know what I look like right away, so that you can appreciate as my appearance changes over the course of it.

For simplicity's sake, let’s say that I’m a fairly ordinary-looking young woman. I mean, I’m pretty, of course, but not in a supermodel kind of a way. My face is a little too round for that, and, while I’m not that short, I’m nowhere near tall enough. Still, I’m a good-looking girl, if I do say so myself. I have big, beautiful, brown eyes, soft, kissable lips, and a mane of tousled, raven hair that hangs past my pale, porcelain shoulders. And, needless to say, I’m thin. Well, mostly, anyway. I might be carrying a few extra pounds here and there—mainly on my hips and thighs—but my waist is still tapered and tight and my boobs are perky and firm, if, perhaps, a little smaller than I’d like. I’m a beautiful, carefree young woman with a physique that, I don’t mind saying, has turned quite a few heads in its time. But, we both know I won’t stay that way.

I mean, that’s why you’re reading this, right? You want me to lose my looks. You want to watch as my once beautiful body turns into a wobbling mass of blubber, as my boobs swell and start to sag, as my flat stomach spreads into a dangling apron, as my tight, shapely buttocks loosen into square slabs of lard, huge, rippling things, covered in soft dents of cellulite. You want to rob me of my figure. And because you want it, that is what’s going to happen, whether I like it or not.

Now, since you know what my name is and what I look like, let’s get on to the biggest question of them all: who am I? This is another one that could have an untold number of answers. I mean, where do you even start with this one? How do you go about encapsulating your entire identity in just a sentence or two? Oh Reader, there are so many things I could tell you. I could talk your head off for hours about my favorite book, or how I spend my evenings, but that’s not what you’re here for, that’s not what this story is about. So, let’s get on to the question that really matters here: Who am I to you?

Oh yes, Reader, you’re a character in this story just as much as I am. I mean, obviously. Why wouldn’t you be? After all, everything that happens here, to me, will happen because you want it to.

So, then, what kind of a relationship do we have? Well, since we need to get this story going, let’s keep things simple between us. Let's just say that I’m your girlfriend and leave it at that.

 

Oh yes, Reader, aren’t you the lucky one. Of all the people in this world that I could’ve gone for, I chose you. I’m not sure I know why myself. There’s just something about you, something I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know what it is, but I think you do. You’ve been looking for a girl like me for a long time. And, now that you’ve finally found me, you understand me better than I understand myself. You’ve studied me, and you know that, no matter how I try to hide it, there’s a fat girl inside of me, just waiting to eat her way out.

I mean, of course there is, you wouldn’t be spending your time on me otherwise, would you? You can tell from the shape of my body, and from the way my whole face lights up at those rare times when I allow myself a treat. That’s really why I’ve fallen for you, I think. Because, deep down, I’m exactly the sort of weak-willed fatty that you’ve always been looking for. And, because, you’re only too willing to treat me as such, to pamper me and spoil me, to ply me with all that food I won’t even let myself admit that I love, all while letting me be every bit as lazy and useless as I really am.

We’ve been dating for a while now, you and I. How we met isn’t really that important, but I’ve been living with you for more than a year now. I’ve even taken you home to see my family once, over the holidays. They took to you right away. And, for your part, I’m sure you were only too happy with what you saw. My dad’s been out of the picture for a long time now. My mother and older sister are the only family I have, and, well, they aren’t exactly a slight and dainty pair of girls.

With mom, there’s really no nice way to say it. She’s a huge ball of a woman, with a ripe, round moon of a face, a pair of doughy, drooping, oversized love handles, and a huge, hanging belly. I’ve spent most of my life watching her eat her way from one dress size to another. These days, she’s got to be at least 300 pounds.

My sister isn’t quite that big, but she’s not far behind. Last I heard, she was somewhere around 230. But, in my family, we don’t talk about that stuff much. After all, what you refuse to know can’t hurt you.

She’s a year older than me, and she’s never been thin—not for as long as I can remember, anyway. She’s spent her whole life as the fat girl, the one with the big belly and the chubby face that people either laugh at or ignore. That’s probably why she’s a bit shy most of the time. I’m ashamed to admit it, but when I was younger—back in middle school, mostly—I used to tease her a lot as well.

Over the years, I’ve heard people call her and mom all sorts of things behind their backs and, sometimes, even to their faces. That’s why I’ve always tried so hard not to let myself go. No matter how much I love to eat, I don’t want to end up like them. I don’t want to be the sort of big, greedy pig that people laugh at and make fun of. But, with you around, it’s not like I have much of a choice anymore. You know only too well that, with a bit of effort, you can get me way bigger than either of them will ever be.

I’ve already put on more than a few pounds since I met you. My face has started to soften, and I’ve grown just the tiniest hint of a gut. I don’t really think that much about all these new inches I’ve added to my body, though. I mean, it’s natural to put on a bit of weight once you’re in a steady relationship, right? You, on the other hand, rarely think about anything else. You love each and every new pound I’ve put on, but I’m not nearly big enough for you yet. You want me to gain faster, you want to see me struggle to squeeze into my clothes until, finally, I’m forced to go up first one size and then another. And, you know just how to get me there.

You’ve been living with me long enough now to have learned of all my little weaknesses, all those foods I just can’t say no to. It’s only too easy for you to surround me with temptation 24/7, knowing full well that, no matter how I try to resist, I’ll always give in soon enough. Especially now that you’ve got me hanging around the house all day, with nothing to do but eat.

The thing is, you see, Reader, that before I met you, I never really knew what I wanted to do with my life. I mean, I knew what I was supposed to do, get an education, a job, a man, all that boring normal stuff. But, somehow, that never seemed enough for me. This might make me sound kind of lazy and spoiled, but it always seemed so dull to spend your life just working and studying all the time. My friends usually roll their eyes at me and say that I have my head in the clouds when I talk about stuff like that. And, I guess maybe I do, but I’ve just always wanted something different, you know? Even if I’m not sure what.

I think that’s another reason why I like you so much. You never laugh at me when I say stuff like that. You always listen to me, and you can be so sweet about it too. In fact, when I first told you about all this, about how I wasn’t enjoying school and how I felt like, maybe, I needed to find my own direction in life, you were the one to suggest that I take some time off. At first, I was hesitant, but you made it sound like it’d be no big deal. And, in the end, as you were only too aware, it was what I really wanted deep down. Even though I knew it might be a bad idea, and even though my friends tried to warn me off, it just felt so right. I figured if I took some time off, I’d be able to grow into myself, to find out what I really wanted out of life. But, that wasn’t what ended up happening.

Yeah, I know. Shocking, right?

These last many months, I’ve done nothing but waste my days away on endless Netflix binges. I’ve grown plenty, but more in body than in mind. My boobs, which used to be perky and firm, have started to rest on my belly, which has started to rest on my lap. So, yeah, I might have put on just a little bit of weight.

I mean, of course I have. I just sit around in my PJs all day, with nothing to do but eat. If I didn’t have my TV, and all those snacks you keep buying me, I think I might just lose my mind.

Luckily, you don’t seem to care that your once spirited and enthusiastic girlfriend has turned into a lazy couch-potato, a tubster who just sits around and eats all day. I mean, why would you? You’re not reading this to see me go on adventures, or struggle to build a life for myself. No, as far as you’re concerned, any time I don’t spend sat on my ass stuffing my face is time wasted. You want me just like this, and, though you’re not ready to be entirely honest about it yet, you don’t mind showing it.

If it wasn’t for you, if you hadn’t been so loving and kind, I’d probably have realized what’s happening to me a long time ago. You’ve got such a way of putting me at ease. You love to play with all my little rolls, with the plush and luscious softness of my growing body. Whenever I ask you if you think I’m, maybe, getting a bit chunky, you’re only too quick to assure me that I look just fine the way I am. You make me feel like getting just a bit bigger might not be the end of the world after all.

Still, from time to time I can’t help but wonder, you know? Sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in a window, or something like that, and it’ll take me a while to realize who I’m even looking at. But, I guess, probably, I’m just catching myself from a bad angle, is all.

 

By the time you’ve had me living with you for a couple of years, I’m nothing like the slim girl I was when I first moved in. I’ve gotten so blissfully lazy and fat, my mind and body both turned to mush by my constant grazing and never-ending TV binges.

Oh, you just love to look at me, and to play with all my 200-plus-pounds of delicious fatness. You love every inch you’ve put on me, from my squishy second chin to my sagging gut, from my wide, flabby arms to my broad blubbery backside and my jiggly, cottage cheese thighs. You’re only too happy with how I’m growing, even if I’m less than thrilled myself.

I mean, don’t get me wrong here. I love the way you spoil me, the way you keep me lazy, happy, and full. I wouldn’t want it to stop for anything in the world. But, well, I know I’ve gotten fat. I mean, of course I do. I’m the one who has to lug all this weight around. After a while, it gets kind of hard *not* to notice. And, to be honest, though I prefer not to think about it, I’m starting to get a bit worried.

I just feel so heavy and tired all the time, you know? My thighs are starting to rub and chafe when I walk, and it takes so little to get me all sweaty and out of breath. It’s like I’m not even in control of my own body anymore. I just don’t feel good about myself in the way I used to.

I mean, you know how much pride I’ve always taken in my appearance. Before I met you, I used to love posing in front of the mirror wearing all sort of cute clothes. But now, well, now I can hardly even stand the sight of my own reflection. My face has gotten so round and fleshy that I don’t even look like myself anymore. Sure, my features are the same, but all the familiar contours that they used to sit among are just gone, lost under a pair of ripe cheeks and a swollen second chin.

My boobs still look good, though, so long as you squeeze them into a tight-enough bra. So, I guess that’s something. But, next to my huge, dangling belly, which sticks out so much further than my chest and fills out the front of my jeans in a way no stomach ever should, they don’t really stand out. Hell, it’s getting hard to find any cute clothes that fit me anymore.

But then, I guess that’s fine by you. So long as I spend my days sitting on my ass and stuffing my face like I’m supposed to, I don’t really need anything all that special to wear.

And anyway, it’s not like I really even go outside that much anymore. I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I last saw any of my old friends. I guess we’ve all kind of drifted apart, maybe we just don’t have that much in common, these days. While I’ve been sitting here, turning myself into a human dumpster, they’ve all moved on with their lives, getting jobs and doing all sorts of exciting things. Even if we ignore the fact that I don’t want them to see me like this, I don’t think I really have that much to talk about with them anymore. It’s not like anything exciting ever happens in my life.

So yeah, at this point, I don’t really even have a social life. Which is just the way you like it. After all, I’ve got all the friends I need right here at home. I’ve got you, and all my lovely little treats. Anything else would just be a distraction. If I ever get lonely, I can just grab another tub of ice cream to cheer myself up.

If it wasn’t for you, I’d have gone on a diet and lost all these pounds ages ago. Or, so I like to tell myself. The thing is, you make it so easy for me to just keep eating. You’re alway spoiling me, making me feel so comfy and safe, like my sloppy, slobbish lifestyle is really no big deal. Still, much as I might want them to, I know things can’t go on like this forever. I’ve already gained so much weight. Further or later, this is gonna have to stop.

I’ve tried to talk to you about my weight, to ask if you think that, maybe, I’m starting to get a bit *too* fat. But, you’re always quick to reassure me that I’m just fine the way I am, to tell me, jokingly, that you’d love me even if I was a huge whale of a woman. A thought that I, if I’m honest, find less than reassuring.

Still, it’s enough to keep me eating, and, for now, that’ll just have to do. It’s not yet time for you to tell me about your true intentions. If you tried to explain it all now, I just wouldn’t understand. I wouldn’t be able to see how all the things you’re doing to me are really for my own good.

You know that, no matter what I may think, I’m better off like this, as a sloppy, hungry fatty with no life outside of food. I wasn’t born to be the kind of girl that all the guys want and all the other girls envy, nor was I born to spend my time accomplishing great things. No, I was always meant for this, for a mediocre and uneventful life of constant idleness and never-ending gluttony. The sooner I accept it and embrace my true nature, the happier I’ll be. So, though I might not understand it yet, you’re really doing me a favor by taking my figure away, by reducing me to the life of passive overconsumption that I was always meant for.

 

Sadly, though, good deeds like yours rarely get the appreciation they deserve. And, much though you might try, you can’t keep me cooped up in here forever. Not yet, anyway. As the holidays roll around, and the two of us head off to visit my family, the time has finally come for me to set foot outside for the first time in many months.

Needless to say, my mother and sister, who still remember me as a slight and tiny thing, are more than a little surprised to find that I’ve grown to almost twice my size. They don’t really say much about it, but you can tell just from the looks on their faces when I waddle through the door. The last time they saw me, I’d put on a couple of pounds, sure, but I was still, by far, the thinnest girl in the family. Now, not so much.

They soon get over their initial shock, though, and give me a warm welcome, even if my sister can’t help but to tease me a bit about my weight.

“Looks like you’re finally catching up with the rest of us,” she says, giving my belly a pat once the two of us have hugged and said our hellos.

“Oh please,” I roll my eyes. “It’s not like I’m *that* big.” Though, deep down, I know I am.

After that, neither mom nor sis really mention my weight much. You know, stones in glass houses, and all that. We spend our days sitting around eating, talking and watching TV, while you help out with the cooking and dote on all three of us. Mom and sis both seem to really enjoy having you around. It’s almost scary how easy it is for you to get them to like you. All it takes are a few lame jokes, a couple of nice meals, and some innocent flirting. I guess, in the end, they’re every bit the hungry, lazy fatties that I am. And, if there’s one thing you know, it’s how to make hungry, lazy fatties happy.

Over the next few weeks, I eat as much as I ever have in my life. Just like at home, I spend my days on the couch, being plied with all sorts of fattening foods. Not just by you now, but by mom as well. How lucky for you that my family is so eager to, unwittingly, help out with all your little plans.

By New Year’s, I’m struggling to squeeze into my pants, which were already getting tight by the time I came here. Even my largest, and comfiest pair, my old fat pants, are getting to the point where they can hardly hold me. One evening, as I sit down after having been filled with a particularly huge meal, the button on them goes flying off, leaving me wide-eyed and embarrassed as I sit there with my belly hanging out.

That evening, my sister gently suggests that, if I want to, I can borrow a pair of her pants while I’m here. I eagerly agree, and that’s when the truth hits me. No matter how I wiggle, I can’t get her jeans all the way up over my butt. No matter how I pull and tug, I can’t even get the button to close.

“Um,” I say, blushing as I turn towards her, “you wouldn’t happen to have something a little bigger lying around?”

She looks just as surprised as I am.

“No,” she shakes her head, “those are the biggest pair I have.”

This can’t be happening. There’s no way I’m fatter than my sister. But then, why can’t I get these damn things on?

Once I’ve managed to peel her pants off again, my sister drags me over to the bathroom to find out just how much heavier I’ve gotten. As I stand myself on it, the bathroom scale climbs to a hefty 253. My sister, by comparison, is a skinny 236.

“Well, well,” she giggles, playfully pinching one of my love handles, “I guess you’re not the thinnest girl in the family anymore.”

I stare down at the scale without a word. This can’t be right. It just can’t be.

“We’ll just see about that,” I say, smiling and trying to play the whole thing off as though it’s no big deal. “By the time I see you again next year, I’ll have you eating those words.”

“Oh, sure you will,” she smirks, clearly not believing me one bit.

 

I can’t believe how blind I’ve been. How could I have let myself go like this? How could I not have realized that I’d gotten this fat? I’ve been sitting around, stuffing my face and not caring about the consequences for almost two years now, and look what it’s done to me! Well, enough is enough. From now on, I’m going to have to make some changes. From now on, things are going to be different around here.

Once the holidays are over and the two of us are back home, I tell you, in no uncertain terms, that I’m going on a diet. That I’m going to lose all this weight and get back to my old, slim self. You don’t seem to take me all that seriously. Though you aren’t mean about it, you make it pretty clear that you don’t think I can do it, and that trying would just be a waste of time. The way you see it, all a diet would do is wear me out and make me miserable. And really, why would I want that when I can just sit around and eat and be happy? After all, you think I’m beautiful just the way I am, you’d love me even if I was a huge whale of a woman. And, since I’m lucky enough to have a man who doesn’t mind me being a hopeless, lazy pig, I might as well take advantage of it.

It’s a tempting thought, I can’t deny, but my mind is made up. No matter how much I enjoy it, I can’t continue to live like this. I’ve put on so much weight already. If this goes on, I don’t even want to think about how fat I’ll get. I’m tired of not feeling good about myself, of never finding any cute clothes that fit, of the constant shame that comes with living in this blubbery body. I’m tired of all this weight bearing down on me, of my rolls shifting and brushing against each other with every move I make. And, more than anything, I’m tired of feeling like I’m not in control of my own life anymore. No matter how much I might want to spend my days filling up my old spot on your couch, I just can’t. If I don’t put a stop to this now, I know I never will.

I keep on insisting and, finally, you agree to help me. You still think it’s a waste of time, but, if it’s what I really want then, of course, you’ll support me. In fact, I’m surprised at just how supportive you seem. You make so many helpful suggestions and come up with so many good ideas. Soon, we’ve put together a whole plan to help me burn off all this weight.

It never occurs to me that you might be setting me up to fail. I love you too much to even consider that you’d do something like that. But you, of course, know that it’s really for my own good. You know what kind of a girl I am, after all. And, more importantly, you know what kind of a story this is. There’s no way any of my attempts to lose weight will ever work, and the sooner I realize that, the happier I’ll be.

 

Much as you’ve predicted, it’s not long before my diet hits its first snag. Not even a day, in fact. The thing is, Reader, that when you’ve been lazy for as long as I have, it isn’t easy to start exercising all of a sudden. But then, I guess you know that already. That’s why you’ve really invited me to go running in the park with you, after all. You aren’t trying to help me lose weight, you just want to see how out of shape you’ve gotten me. And, once we’ve started running, I don’t disappoint.

It isn’t long before I start to lose my breath, before the moderate pace you’ve set for us has me huffing and puffing. I can still remember, if only vaguely, that I used to enjoy running once, but, right now, I can’t for the life of me recall what that was like. Now, it just makes my body hurt. My feet are sore and my knees ache something fierce. My shirt keeps sliding up and my slightly too tight sweatpants keep slipping down, putting my jiggling belly on display for all to see. Each slow and awkward step I take sets a quake running through my blubbery body, sending all my rolls and folds bouncing up and down as rivers of sweat run along them.

I feel terrible. And, to make everything worse, everybody else I see here is so slim and fit. They seem to run without even the slightest effort, while I lumber along, breathing heavily as I clutch my aching sides. We’ve hardly even been at it for twenty minutes by the time I’m forced to stop. I’m just not built for this sort of thing anymore.

You smile surreptitiously as I stand here, hunched over, groaning and gasping for breath, my naked belly dangling in front of me, my worn slacks hugging every dent of my cellulite-riddled ass. After a few moments, you take mercy on me. Putting your hand gently on my back, your fingers sinking into my doughy, sweat-soaked rolls of flab, you guide me to the nearest bench, where I sit myself down, letting out a desperate sigh of relief as I take my weight off my poor, aching ankles. Though I dare not look up, I’m only too aware that we’re being stared at. I know only too well what a spectacle I’ve made of myself.

Once you’ve got me off my feet, you give my pillowy shoulder a reassuring pat and tell me to sit tight. Then, you head off, leaving me here with my mouth hanging sluggishly open, my overly ample chest rising and falling as I draw one groaning breath after another.

A few minutes later, you turn up again, carrying a cone filled with three scoops of ice cream—cookie dough, mint-chocolate-chip, and strawberry, you know me so well. “A little something to help restore your strength,” you say, “just this once.”

I know I should turn it down. There are way more calories in those three scoops than all my running has managed to burn off. If I eat it, my diet will be a complete failure right out of the gate. But, it looks so good, and I feel so tired. I need something to cheer me up. As far as my diet goes, I can always start over again tomorrow.

While I greedily fill my mouth with one bite of ice cream after another, the two of us have a talk, and I agree that it might be good for me to start a little slower with this whole exercise thing. For now, having a short walk now and then might be enough. Even if, as you know perfectly well, it won’t help one bit in burning off all this blubber.

 

I’d like to say that my diet continues without a hitch from here on. But, we both know that wouldn’t be true. In fact, it’s just a few weeks before it all goes seriously wrong.

I’m just so hungry all the time. You’ve been great about making me all sorts of light and healthy meals, but all that low-calorie, sugar-free stuff just doesn’t fill me up like my old favorites used to. Before I went on this diet, food was my greatest pleasure, the only exciting thing I had in my humdrum life. But, all these salads and carrot sticks you’ve got me eating just don’t give me the same rush that my cookies and chips used to. They just make me feel so empty, like everything is so dreary and dull. It’s not long before I start to crave all my old, guilty pleasures again.

You’ve been expecting this, of course. And, you’re only too ready to take advantage of my unbearable appetite. Though you’re subtle about it, you go out of your way to tempt me, filling our home up with all those sugary treats you know I just can’t go without, and, sometimes, even eating stuff like pizza right in front of me, while I’m forced to sit here chewing on my rabbit food, as you call it. Is it any wonder that I start to sneak a little snack from time to time—that, within a few weeks, I’m secretly stuffing my face at every chance I can find?

I feel terrible about it, of course. You’ve worked so hard to help me, and here I am, gorging like a greedy pig. I feel so hopeless, so weak and pathetic, but I just can’t seem to stop. When I eat, all my worries just fade away. Sure, by the time I’m done I might feel a little guilty, but that only drives me to glut myself more.

A month into my diet, you make me step on our scale—which seems, mysteriously, to have turned up again, after having been missing since just after I moved in—to see how many pounds I’ve lost. I know I haven’t exactly been doing perfectly, but I’m still shocked to find that all my secret little snacks have put a whole four pounds on me over the past month. You try to cheer me up, telling me that, since I’ve been doing everything right so far, you’re sure it’s just a matter of time before all this weight starts melting off my figure. But, of course, that only makes me feel worse.

As the second month of my diet wears on, you start to tempt me more and more, until you’ve got me taking one cheat day after another on top of all my secret binges. At the end of it, I’m crushed to find that I’ve put on another six pounds. I feel so out of control. I’ve worked so hard, and yet I just keep getting fatter.

You waste no time using my despair against me, turning my little cheat days into week-long feasts. By the end of the third month, when you remind me that it’s time for me to step on the scale again, it takes me a while to remember what you’re even talking about.

The display finally settles on a whopping 276 pounds, and I just can’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s no way I could have put on more than ten pounds just over the past month, is there? Have I really been eating that much? Am I really that much of a pig? Standing here, looking at those unbelievable numbers, I just can’t help myself. I start to cry, big fat tears rolling down my big fat cheeks. How could I have let things get this bad?

You’re only too quick to comfort me, sitting me down in my old spot on the couch with at tub of ice cream in my lap. As I stuff my face, a stream of my melting dessert dribbles down my chin and mixes with my tears as I bare my heart to you, telling you all about how weak and hopeless I feel, about how I’ve been cheating on my diet and binging behind your back. You listen without judgment, and, for a long time, we just sit there and talk as I eat.

By the end of the night, you’ve convinced me to give up on my diet for good. After all, food is what makes me happy. If I try to deny myself, I’ll only end up miserable. And anyway, you love me just the way I am. You love every doughy, drooping inch of my blubbery body. So, even if I had the willpower to lose all this weight, which I don’t, why would I ever want to when I’ve got a partner who’s only too happy to let me sit on my ballooning backside and eat to my heart’s content, a partner who would love me even if I was a huge whale of a woman.

This time around, those words sound a lot better than they did before. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to just let myself go? To just sit back and eat as you coddle and care for me. I mean, dieting clearly isn’t for me, and since I can’t keep my figure under control, I might as well just give up on it altogether. That way, I’ll never have to worry about it ever again. Sure, it might not be the healthiest way to live, but it beats feeling bad whenever you happen to have a little too much to eat. It’s not like I was ever going to be a model, or anything like that, anyway, so why should I care if I get a little fat? Having a few extra curves on you is hardly the end of the world, is it now?

 

Next morning, you wake me up with a huge breakfast, bigger than any meal I’ve ever seen. As I take in the sheer amount of food you’ve made me, a huge stack of pancakes drowning in syrup and cream, a plateful of scrambled eggs, and a whole package of bacon dripping with grease, you explain that, what with all that’s happened, I deserve to be spoiled a bit more than usual today.

From then until nighttime, you hardly let me leave my bed. You do everything for me, keeping me constantly surrounded with all those irresistible foods that I’ve spent the last three months trying so hard to resist, while I just sit here and eat. Soon, I’ve lost myself completely to my appetite. I can’t believe I could ever even have considered giving all of this up.

You watch, smiling fondly, as I gorge like I never have before, eating mindlessly like the greedy pig you always knew me to be. You’ve enjoyed seeing me struggle against my inevitable fate, but you’re glad that that part of our story is over now, especially since that means that we can finally get on to the really good bits.

[PrincessBlurmy CLIPS]

Can't wait to read more!

[Batman76]

This was fantastic! A really unique style

[Cyril Figgis]

Man, you don't see the 2nd perspective used too often in WG stories, but this is top notch stuff!

[AdiposeAdorer]

9 hours ago, Batman76 said:

This was fantastic! A really unique style

8 hours ago, CyrilFiggus said:

Man, you don't see the 2nd perspective used too often in WG stories, but this is top notch stuff!

Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed it.

19 hours ago, PrincessBlurmy said:

Can't wait to read more!

Now that I'm happy to hear. And, as it happens, you won't have to.

[AdiposeAdorer]

So, Reader, where were we? Oh yes! You’d just taught me all about how futile it is for me to even try to lose weight. And, now that I’ve given up on my diet, you tempt me to eat like never before. Every day, my portions seem to grow larger; every day, there seem to be more snacks around for me to munch on. With your help, I descend into a spiral of sloth and gluttony, constantly gorging myself as I sink ever further into my never-ending hibernation.

You’ve got me so comfortable now. All those heavy dishes you keep making me, with all that butter and all those thick, creamy sauces, have me so sleepy and sluggish that I rarely stop to consider the sheer amount of food I’m putting away—or anything else, for that matter. I just don’t want to bother much with thinking, or any other difficult things like that. All I want is to be kept cozy and cared for, to eat and eat without ever having to consider what all this food is doing to me. And, needless to say, you make that only too easy. It’s almost scary how sweet you can be sometimes, how much effort you put in keeping me complacent, stuck in a pleasurable, mindless haze as my figure continues to expand around me, swelling into a mass of yielding, uncontrollable flesh.

I don’t really think much about the way I look, these days. Our scale seems to have mysteriously vanished, again, and I rarely bother to study myself all that closely in our bathroom mirror. When I do, I hardly recognize the girl staring back at me. Every time I see her, she seems to have gotten fatter. Her face has gotten so round, her features far less striking now that they sit surrounded by such swollen cheeks, such flabby jowls, and such a terribly prominent second chin. Looking at her, at her fleshy moon-face and her dull, drowsy eyes, it’s hard to even see the girl I used to be buried under all this blubber. All those familiar shapes that I used to recognize myself by are gone, replaced by swollen, sagging, stretch-mark-riddled rolls that rest one atop another, packed tight with fat by your constant feedings. Sometimes, I almost feel like there is no me under here anymore, like I’m nothing but a hungry mass of soft flab.

That thought scares me a little. I mean, all I seem to do these days is eat. I have no job, no friends, and no hobbies, no life outside of your apartment, outside of you. At those rare times when you do take me out into the world, to demolish some buffet or other, I can’t help but look with wonder at all those skinny girls striding effortlessly down the street, confidently showing their trim little bodies in all sorts of trendy, tight-fitting clothes. I can no longer even imagine what it must be like to be one of them. I don’t even seem to belong in the same world anymore. And, from the way they look at me as I gobble up fatty foods by the plateful, I can tell only too well that they can’t imagine how anybody could ever let themselves get like me.

Meanwhile, Reader, you’re thrilled with the way my figure is changing. I mean, of course you are. You’re getting what you’ve wanted all along, to watch as I grow fatter, as my body is turned into a plaything for your pleasure. And, what a plaything it is. Just look at this bulging belly that fills up my sweatpants and hangs down to, almost completely, cover my nethers, and these heavy, sagging boobs that have no shape or hint of firmness outside of the huge bras I rarely bother to wear anymore. Not to mention these thighs, which are almost as wide around as my waist used to be when you first met me.

Oh yes, you’re only too happy with my progress, with my ham hock arms and my square, pillow-like buttocks, and you make sure to remind me of it every day. You make no secret of how much you love my blubbery body. And, as long as you’re here to play with them, I feel strangely good about all these many, heavy rolls hanging off me and weighing me down.

Lately, though, as I’ve gotten fatter, our relationship has changed. You still spoil me and make sure I never have to move a muscle, but you’re not as sweet about it as you used to be. Over the last year, you’ve, gradually, gotten more commanding, more unyielding in making me eat. It’s like you’re trying to push me, to see just how far I’ll let you go. And, being the weak-willed fatty that I am, I always give in and let you do as you please. After a few months, you start to feed me all sorts of shakes, and even some strange pills, which you say are vitamins, but which always seem to make me so terribly tired and hungry. As time goes on, I find myself feeling more like your pet than your partner.

By the time you bring me home for the holidays again, I’ve put on so much weight that mom and sis hardly recognize me. They don’t say anything, of course, but they’re a bit awkward, a bit less cheerful than usual as they welcome me in, our arms failing to reach all the way around each other as we lean in over our bulging bellies for a hug.

I still remember when I used to think mom was a huge ball of a woman. Back then, ending up like her was my greatest fear. Now, she doesn’t even look that big compared to me anymore.

For the first few days we’re here, mom and sis are a little suspicious of you. After all, it isn’t exactly hard to guess what you’re doing to me. But, you know only too well how to win women like them over. And, after they’ve been enjoying your cooking and lapping up your compliments for a few days, they soon start to soften to you again. One evening, as three of us are rubbing our bellies after having munched our way through another of your delectable desserts, my sister even leans over to me and tells me—in a longing, almost jealous tone—that I’m “so lucky to have a man like you.” I can only nod sluggishly in agreement as a huge burp escapes from between my lips.

For the next few weeks, my life goes on in much the same way as it does at home. That is to say, I do nothing but sit around and eat, my bare belly resting on my lap and my sofa-cushion butt spreading out beneath me. The only thing that’s really changed is that I’ve been moved from one couch to another. Mom and sis can hardly believe the sheer amount of food I’m putting away. They like to have themselves a little snack from time to time, sure. But, with me, it’s like I never stop eating. They don’t really comment on it, of course, but sometimes I’ll catch them staring at me in disbelief as I start on my second tub of ice cream or my third liter of soda for the day.

Needless to say, I don’t help out with any of the work that needs doing around the house. I’m just too heavy and out of shape to move about much anymore. Fortunately for me, you and mom are happy make sure that all my needs are taken care of. The two of you are always putting snacks in my mouth and doing everything in your power to make sure that I never have to get up. After a while, I start to feel less like a member of the family, and more like a permanent fixture, an unmoving blob of a woman who exists only to stare blankly at her TV as more food is shoveled down her throat.

I try my best not to think about any of this, though. I’ve got my shows and my snacks, what more could I possibly need? But, as I watch mom and sis move about in ways I struggle to manage, it’s hard not to notice how out of control I’ve let myself get. Especially as sis, still remembering how I used to treat her back in the day, never misses a chance to quietly rub it in my face. She’s always plying me with food and parading around in front of me, moving about in ways I no longer can and wearing the kind of clothes that I’ll never be able to squeeze my over-sized butt into again.

A few days into the second week of my stay here, she even manages to convince me to step on mom’s old scale. I do my best to pretend like I don’t care about my weight one way or the other, but I still end up holding my breath as the digits on the display race up to an unbelievable 372, revealing that I’m already over a hundred pounds heavier than I was last year, when I first decided that I *had* to go on a diet. If this keeps up, I don’t even want to think about what this scale will say the next time I'm here.

I’ve caught the glimpses of massively obese people on TV before, women who are so big that they can’t get out of bed on their own, who have been made so helpless by their immense size that they struggle to even reach far enough around their own bodies to wash themselves. Am I doomed to end up like them? Trapped by my own fat, unable to even take care of myself? The thought should scare me, I know. But, some part of me finds it strangely arousing. If I got that fat, I wouldn’t have any responsibilities. I’d be completely helpless, too helpless for anybody to ever expect me to do anything but lie around and eat.

I shake my head. It’s wrong to think that way, I know. That’s no way for a person to live. And yet, it feels so right, like it’s what I was meant for, what my entire existence has been leading up to.

My train of thought is broken as you call me down for dinner. By the time I’m making my way through my third plate of lasagna, my worries are all but forgotten. I mean, sure, I might have gained a bit of weight, but it’s not like there’s much I can do about it. There’s no point in me going on a diet, after all. And, as long as I’ve got you around to tempt me, I’m not about to cut down on my meals anytime soon. So, you see, even if I did want to lose all of these pounds I’ve piled on, there’s just no way I can. I’m too lazy and weak for there to be any point in even trying. I’m better off just letting myself indulge and not even worrying about it.

You’re only too pleased to watch me absentmindedly fill my belly up with as much food as mom and sis put together. I’m so far gone now that you hardly have to put much effort into fattening me, too far gone to ever turn back. At this point, there isn’t much left for you to do here. The time has come to bring this story to its climax.

Back home, you feed me more than ever. I’ve long since lost track of how much I eat every day. Lately, it feels like I never stop. I never seem to get full anymore. Or, rather, it doesn’t seem to matter how full I get. Even when my stomach is aching from all the food you’ve filled it with, I always want more. It’s like I eat just for the sake of it. If I ever stop to consider that, maybe, I should cut down a bit, the thought of going without all of my beloved snacks, of going without your constant coddling and attention, makes my heart freeze with dread.

You’ve done your work well with me. Now, as I get lazier and fatter, you start to change too. You’re still as loving and sweet as you ever were, at least most of the time, but the way you treat me and talk to me now is different, somehow.

I mean, you’ve always been kind of controlling, I guess—never one to take no for an answer, at least where food is concerned. And, you’ve always teased me about my weight when you knew you could get away with it. But, lately, you seem to be getting worse. Your teasing has turned harsher, and you’ve gotten a lot more commanding in feeding me. You’ve even started to call me by nicknames like “piggy” and “porker”.

I know I should find that demeaning, but, at first, you make them sound so cute and affectionate that I just can’t bring myself to mind. And later, though I hate to admit it, they just seem to fit me so well. I mean, just look at how huge and lazy I’ve gotten, what a sloppy slob you’ve turned me into. If I’m going to look like this, to live like this, I can’t really object to being called a pig, now can I? After all, isn’t that what I am, an over-gorged, gluttonous creature, only good for being stuffed to the brim with food?

And god, do you ever stuff me! Lately, you’ve started to feed me by hand, so that all I have to do is lie back and chew. And, you’re so forceful about it too, making me eat until my plate has been wiped clean, no matter how tightly my tummy is already packed with food. I suppose, sometimes, I really should say no to you. But, I don’t. I just sit here and placidly do everything you tell me to, letting you go further and further in feeding me.

Soon, you start to change up my mealtimes. Letting me go hours without food one day, before stuffing me non-stop the next. Occasionally, you even wake me up and make me eat in the middle of the night. I know I’ve let you go too far, but it’s too late to turn back now.

One day, when you’ve let me go for hours without food, to the point where I’m pleading with you to just give me something, anything, to eat, you tell me to get off the couch and follow you. With some effort, I manage to get on my feet and waddle over to the bathroom, where you’ve set up a brand new scale. You command me to get on, and I obey without thought.

“446 pounds,” you say, letting out an impressed whistle. “Not bad.”

I plead with you to give me something to eat already, but you brush me off. First, there’s something we need to talk about. You lead me back to the couch again, and I breathe a sigh of relief as you sit me down.

Once I’ve had a chance to catch my breath, you grab my belly, your fingers digging harshly into my soft flesh as you tell me, in no uncertain terms, just how far I’ve let myself go, just what a helpless, dependent pig I’ve turned myself into. I can only sit here, desperately hungry, held down by my own fat, while you tower over me, passionately laying into me about just how lazy, useless, and greedy I've gotten, how hopelessly flabby and out of shape I’ve let myself become.

I can’t believe how mean you’re being all of a sudden. I want to object, but I know every word you say is true. I’m a weak, pathetic pig, a fat-ass with no self-control or self-respect. I always have been, deep down, and it feels so good to finally be treated like it. When I object, weakly, between moans, that "I thought you liked me like this," you agree that you do. Which is why why you think I could stand to get *a lot* fatter.

Then, finally, you tell me everything, revealing what you’ve been planning for me all along. From now on, you explain, our relationship is going to be very different. From now on, I’m going to be your feedee, your obedient, fat pig. I’ll never have to think or worry ever again. My body will be yours to do with as you please, my only purpose in life: to eat every last bite you feed me, until I’m every bit as fat as you want me to be.

I know there’s no point in trying to object. You’ve got me too out of shape, too lazy and spoiled to ever manage without you. And anyway, I’m just so hungry. As long as I’ve got my food, I know I’ll be happy no matter what. And, the sooner I agree with you, the sooner I can have my next meal.

That night, you give me a taste of what my life will be like from now on, feeding me like never before, until my belly is packed so tight that I can hardly breathe. For the first time since the start of this story, I can see, clearly, what it has in store for me. You’re going to keep fattening me, and I’m going to keep growing, until I’m too huge to even walk on my own. I can’t stop you. My future is already written. And, even if I could, there’s no way I would. I understand now, like you always have, that this is what I was meant for. This is what I’ve always wanted, deep down. To give up any illusion of control, to let this narrative take hold of me and turn me into whatever it wants, whatever you want, dear Reader.

From now on, you keep feeding and fattening me, growing my body at a truly amazing rate. Under your tender, loving care, I blow up like I never would’ve believed I could, my belly expanding to overflow my lap, growing into a heavy rippling waterfall of soft flesh that flows over the edge of our couch, my backside spreading until two chairs can hardly hold it. I’m so heavy now that my legs struggle to lift me, I can only take a few labored, lumbering steps before I have to sit down, groaning at my aching ankles as I gasp for breath.

Needless to say, I’m in no shape to visit my family much anymore. But, fortunately, they don’t mind coming to me. At this point, even they can’t believe the sheer size you’ve gotten me to. They still don’t really talk about my weight—preferring to treat me like the elephant in the room that I am—but, I can tell from the way they look at me as I sit here, breathing heavily just from the effort of living in this huge body, that they're disturbed at how fat and out of control I've let myself get.

Not that they're exactly tiny themselves, though. Ever since they’ve started visiting here, they’ve been rapidly piling on the pounds. My mother always seems to be eating as she helps you care for me. And as for my sister, well … Lately, she’s been coming over just to hang out. She seems to like being around the two of us. Next to me, she doesn’t feel half as big as she really is. And, as for you … Having you for a brother in law hasn’t exactly been good for her figure. But then, it’s not like much else ever has either. She loves the way you spoil her and ply her with food, and she always starts to giggle as you jokingly flirt with her, telling her all about how pretty she looks and how lovely she is. She makes her crush on you only too obvious, and you’re only too happy to indulge her, to tease her and casually flirt with her.

I know I should probably mind all this, but I don’t. You’re just being friendly, just playing around and making her feel special in that way you do. Sometimes, I wonder what might’ve happened if you’d found her before you found me. Then, she might be the one stuck on this couch and I might still be thin. Or, at least, less fat. Still, as I watch her gaze longingly at you while gobbling up the latest plateful of cookies you’ve handed her, I can’t help but be happy that you’re mine. She will never know the true you. How stern and unyielding you can be when force-feeding me, how tender and sweet when rubbing my painfully packed tummy. She will never know what it’s like to truly be at the center of your world.

No, I don’t mind you flirting with her. But, when she’s around, I always make sure to be as affectionate with you as possible. Just to remind her that you’ll always be mine, that the only thing she’ll ever get out of her crush on you is a wobbly butt and a doughy, dangling belly.

The poor girl has gotten herself stuck in a bit of a vicious cycle. The more time she spends around us, the fatter she gets. And, the fatter she gets, the more she comes to us for affirmation. From time to time, I wonder how many years it’ll be before she finds herself stuck on a couch of her own. She must’ve put on a good bit more than a hundred pounds already. You’ve only really gotten a brief glimpse of her gain here, but I bet you like thinking about it, about what must be going on with her as the text focuses on what you’re doing to me?

You’ve got me so huge now. I must be well over 600 pounds. My face has gotten so round and flabby, my features made so small by the huge cheeks they’ve sunken between, a soft and squishy second chin resting where my neckline once used to be. My body is a bed of fat, a mass of shifting rolls and folds hanging off the once slight frame that they’ve long since buried. My boobs, huge, flat, pancaking sacks of flab, rest on my massive mound of a belly, which, in turn, rests between my broad, blubbery thighs. My arms have grown so vast and heavy that I can hardly lift them over my head. They’re wider around now than my hips used to be when I was thin.

There isn’t a single inch of my body that hasn’t been twisted and reshaped with fat. My fingers are thick, stubby sausages, my back a collection of drooping rolls that rest on my huge backside, which spreads out so far behind me now, melting across any seat I plant it on.

Does all of this turn you on, Reader? Even though you can’t see how deliciously fat and flabby you’ve made me? Are those words, and the images that they evoke in your mind enough to get you all hot and bothered? I sure hope so. I mean, why else have you been reading this? Now that you have me just the way you want, however, I'm afraid the time has come to bring this to a close. Now, you leave me, moving on to some other girl in some other story, happy in the knowledge that I will forever stay this way in your head. That I will keep growing, never quite reaching the point where all the many problems and complications that come with these many hundreds of pounds you’ve piled on my once slender figure start to catch up with me.

As you leave me now, you know I’ll be forever stuck as the following, final line describes me: trapped by my own fat, too lazy to ever lose a single pound and too hungry to ever stop eating.

[swahilimonkfish]

Man, you really are uploading your greatest hits onto here. You're a far more ambitious writer than when you started, but you still execute it all just as well. This is one of your greats, imo, and I'm glad to see it up here

[Cyril Figgis]

That was great from beginning to end, but those last couple lines are really something special.  You broke the fourth wall most wonderfully, and seeing Clarice embrace her role as one more WG protagonist was incredible.

[Maverick]

Very interesting story and perspective!  It has a casual dreamlike feel that keeps the darker themes from getting too dire, but it still ticks my more perverse boxes.  Well done!

Maverick