The Live Stream

 

This wasn't a commission, I don't do those since I'm too busy to keep up with them and deliver a quality product in a timely manner. However it was a request and suggestion, and I greatly appreciate it.

RunWarrior365 was a moderately popular streamer. She had her own subreddit, and all the usual socials. Right now, about 800 people were watching her stream, a fraction of the 21'000 subscribers she had. However it was one of the secrets to her success, she streamed three times a day, one in the midmorning, one in the midafternoon, and then one in the evening. The daytime ones were usually a couple hours. The evening one, starting around 4pm, usually went for 8 hours, with only a halfhour break around 8:30pm, leading to wild speculation on how much sleep RunWarrior365 actually got, what she did for money, and when she had time for anything else.

"Oh shit! No I didn't need that!" Isla was starting to get a little out of breath. The Skeletal Guards had spawned in catching her by surprise and fighting her way out didn't seem to be working. Another hit from the necromancer... "Nooo!!" The game over screen appeared. "Okay everyone," she said, speaking into the headset mic, trying had not to pant "I'm going to take a break, I'll be back tonight for the stream with NoReason and RealDawg." Isla made sure that she muted the stream. If you'd asked her, she'd have said that, honestly, she a little relieved. It had been nearly 45 minutes since she last had a break and she starving. Mom had brought her the order from McDonalds a few minutes ago and she wanted to dig in. The smell had made her large stomach growl. In fact she'd made a couple key strategic mistakes in the game to enable her to take her break a little earlier then normal.

 

Isla dug in with gusto, scarfing the fast food. It didn't last long, but it wasn't meant for a meal. It was just her midafternoon snack. Her mom was preparing a taco bar for the family dinner tonight. It was Isla's favorite, and she normally ate as much as the rest of the family combined. Her enormous stomach temporarily sated she laid back satisfied. Pressure was building in her bladder and she called "Mom?"

Steps came down the hall and her mother appeared. "Yes dear?"

"Mom, can you please turn the suction on?" Isla gave her Mom a wide eyed apologetic look. "Pretty please? My back hurts." She added a little pout on the end. Isla's back felt fine, she was just tired and full, so while she could reach the suction unit mounted next to the bed that pulled the urine up Isla's external catheter to turn it on and off, she'd like JUST laid back to relax, and sitting up and rolling partially onto her side to reach it was a lot of work.

"Of course Isla dear." Her mother turned the suction on and Isla relaxed. Isla's mom gently stroked her hair, which was annoying but Isla had just played the sick, helpless, card. When she relaxed her bladder everything relaxed down there. Soon the urine was flowing pouring into the external catheter and being sucked up the tube into the cannister. Isla pushed a little, to get all the urine out of her bladder, which made her pass gas. Neither woman reacted to it. Isla's mother bent down. "You do seem a little tense." She said. "Do you need one of your muscle relaxers?" 

Isla shook her head. "No I'm okay. I think it's just from having to pull myself over earlier." Her Mom had helped her bathe in bed this morning, then changed the sheets on the bed and Isla had been forced to get up and use the bedside commode, so her mom could change the sheets. Isla's father was gone for an early meeting and had been unable to help roll Isla onto her side so her mom could bathe her back, leaving Isla cranky and exhausted. Isla realized she was getting close to the 'entitlement' that her brother sometimes accused her of and, although her mom was pretty good at overlooking that, added hastily "It's my fault, I shouldn't have pulled so hard, I should've pushed more with my leg. My calf was just so sore..." That was no lie. Swollen by lack of use, retained fluid, and excess adipose tissue, Isla's legs were inflicted with advanced lymphodema and swollen far beyond any normal healthy size. Folds of fluid created crevices, and even her calves touched and rubbed when she stood. Isla's left calf was currently wrapped in a compression bandage after it had partially opened during her bath a few days ago. 

"I know dear, it's okay." Her mom continued to stroke Isla's hair. Isla had finished urinating and now she was ready for a nap. 

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble." Isla apologized. She sniffed "I'm such a big gross blob, I wish you'd just put me in a nursing home or something so you didn't have to work so hard."

"Hush Isla!" Her mother scolded her. "Enough of that. You are not a lot of trouble. I think you need to take a break from those silly games, take a pain pill and relax." 

"Will you turn on my CPAP for me?" Isla pleaded. Like the suction unit, she didn't want the noise from the oxygen concentrator get picked up by her mic. When she'd been forced to start using it during streams she'd started to see comments asking if someone was remolding her space, or generally asking what the humming noise was, it was now kept in a closet, with the door closed. Her CPAP was located next to her bed, and her mom turned it on for her. While Isla too her nasal cannula off, her mom plugged in the oxygen tubing to the machine and then swapped with Isla. Isla got her CPAP on and her Mom plugged the oxygen into a small portable tank mounted in easy reach on Isla's bed. That way Isla wouldn't need to keep her CPAP on in order to get the oxygen she needed if she woke up. Then her mom got Isla one of her oxycodone and Isla swallowed it with some of the soda she had left. 

 

Then Isla was alone, reclined in her bed. As the medication masked the chronic soreness in her legs and hips she stretched luxuriantly. Sometimes it was all too easy with her Mom. There was an excellent chance her Mom would bring her extra dessert too if she thought Isla was really struggling with pain. You had to be careful though, Isla didn't want her mom to get upset and burn out. Isla wanted just enough sympathy that she could be lazy, even for someone nearly bed confined from their weight, which meant she was also reinforcing her Mom's enabling.

Isla woke up to the smell of taco meat and looked at the clock. Her stream would start in 15 minutes. Plenty of time. She took her CPAP off, and rolled to her side. Her oversized butt and thighs barely shifted, all the movement was done with her torso. She found the buttons for the machines, turning them off. First the suction unit, which had stayed on in case she urinated in her sleep which happened sometimes, then she turned off the CPAP, pulling the oxygen tube out of it's connector and plugging it back into her nasal cannula. She pushed herself back up with a grunt. Her breasts slid back down her chest under her gown and her belly dragged across her thighs. She took a breath, and heaved her sagging belly back to center so there wasn't so much pressure on her right hip. She raised the bed and looked around. Her stomach growled as she fired up the computers. She knew her Mom would be in with dinner at any moment and Isla would have her tacos and video games. She didn't have any premonitions of anything bad coming her way.

The next two hours were pretty routine. Isla gorged herself. Her mom had made her a pan of brownies and Isla barely talked on stream, keeping her mic muted most of the time so she could eat. And anyway most of the people tuning into the joint stream were there to see the other two guys, Isla was their token woman, and she just needed to say the right things when they were joking. It was while she was finishing her 6th taco when she felt her guts starting to rumble. Her stomach was hurting and Isla hesitated. Then suddenly the level was over. Her team had won, and they were going into the lobby. Isla messaged the other two guys that she was going to sit this one out and take a break, and then put up a little box on her screen to let people know she was on break. She then hit the mic button, forgetting it was off already, hung her headset on the monitor, and pushed the monitors on their big swing arm away. "Mom?" She called. 

"Yes dear?" Her mother appeared and saw Isla sitting the bed up all the way. She moved into the room, turning the lights on.

"I need the commode." Isla panted, breathing in off her cannula as she got ready to move her legs. This was going to suck. She was very closed to being stuffed to capacity, and that made moving a lot harder. Normally she wouldn't go to the bathroom till around 8pm, this was almost two hours early. Her mom came over, and pulled the catheter from between Isla's legs, setting it aside. "I need you to help with my leg." Her mom took Isla's left leg, swinging it over and Isla gasped in pain from the extra pressure. Her Mom brought her walker and set it up. Isla slid to the edge of the bed, naked backside rustling on the sheets, dragging the chux pads with her. "Hold the walker." Isla ordered. She was terrified of falling. She tried to get up and failed. "Fuck!" She gasped. Her mother pursed her lips but didn't say anything.

 

She rocked a little bit, then pushed herself upright with a gasp, every ounce of strength her body could muster, and a long wet fart. Some urine dribbled out onto the floor as Isla clenched what muscles she had to drag her enormously heavy butt off the bed. The chux pads stuck to her backside, both massively fat cheeks slapping together. She took two steps, fat sagging breasts slapping now, belly wobbling, and slowly turned. Her disproportionately large backside and wide hips trying to throw her swollen legs - so wide it pushed them apart - off balance. Her mom stood behind the commode to keep it from sliding, and pulled the chux off Isla's wide ass. Isla collapsed onto the commode in just the nick of time, her fattened hips overlapping the sides of the bariatric commode.

 

With a gasp of relief her bowels noisily emptied into the plastic basin. She emptied her bladder, a powerful stream slapping against the side of the basin while her Mom got the bed reset. Head down, fresh chux in place for Isla's thighs and backside. "Are you done dear?" Her mother asked. Isla shook her head, still out of breath from her herculian effort. More waste was streaming from her backside. She finally finished with a sputter of flatulance, and cleaned her FUPA with the wipes her mother handed to her. The stench of her waste failed the room. Her mom didn't say anything, she just held the walker and Isla braced herself. She rocked backwards and forwards and heaved herself upwards. "Hurry." She begged her mom. Her hips were killing her, her chest hurt from breathing hard, and she was pretty sure the wound on her bandaged left leg had partially opened again, oozing lymphatic fluid into the gauze under the compression wrap. Her mother was experienced, through, but quick for all that. She wiped deep between Isla's fat packed butt cheeks, cleaning the greasy fecal matter off the matted cellulite slabs that were Isla's anatomy.

That done, Isla took two steps forward turned, with her Mother's steadying hand, and then she sank onto the bed. She scooted back and her mom helped her swing her legs over. Then she went to take care of the waste in the commode. 

Isla pulled the monitors back over and blinked. The comments had flooded in, wild speculation and rumors. Insults and jokes. She saw the mic was live and with a horrified cry she closed the apps and shut off the computer, burying her face in her hands. 

For the next two weeks Isla more or less existed. Sometimes she'd play games; never live, always offline. She mindlessly ate when food was put in front of her, but never asked for more. Her Mother and father couldn't make sense of it. 

Then one day Isla got a message. It was one of her fans who occassionally donated. "I hope you're okay." It said. "I was watching your last stream when it suddenly went dead. I don't know for sure what your situation is, but I hope you're okay."

Something snapped inside Isla and she responded with "I'm fucking fat, okay! Go ahead, screenshot this, tell everyone. I don't care anymore. No one wants to watch a gross fat chick play games."

The fan replied "I don't think people really care. If you can ignore the haters you'll be fine. As for telling everyone, that's not my place. I think you should do it. Then we can all move on. Why don't you give it a try?" After some coaxing, Isla agreed to give it a try. It was better then just sitting here doing nothing.

 

 

 
Posted on RunWarrior365's Socials:

 

I guess I owe you all an explanation. People have commented under my stream, and clips have even made it onto the internet. There's been a lot of speculation, and I just want to end the rumors and speculation.

When I was 20 I dropped out of college. I'd only been taking online classes, it had just been too tiring going in person at my size. I was always exhausted and out of breath.

I've always been fat, but I gained a lot of weight after high school. I worked at the hotel my dad runs, at the front desk, but soon even that got to be too much getting up and moving around. I was simply too exhausted at the end of each day, just from getting dressed, working, and going to bed, and I quit when I was 22.

 

I settled in at home, spending most of my time in my bedroom, playing video games, watching movies, and eating constantly. I know my family has enabled me, I own that. But I was tired all the time, I started to have chest pain, and my legs were swelling up. What would you do if you were 22, 23, years old, and moving was an excruciating workout?

 

When I went to the doctor, for the first time since I was 18, and that was when I diagnosed with a condition I'd never heard of call Obesity Hypoventilation Syndrome. A sleep study confirmed it and soon I was at home with a CPAP machine and a bunch of pills. But I'd get severely out of breath during the day from walking, so I continued to gain weight, which has made it harder for me to breath. Having the energy to do anything is a huge problem for me. Eventually they put me on oxygen, two years ago when I was 27.  I have continued to gain weight, and now it's to the point where I have to spend most of my time in bed because getting out of bed is so painful and exhausting.

 

I needed to do something to keep from being bored. I've always liked gaming and when I started streaming it was because I needed an activity I could do from my bed. I met so many wonderful people and I plan on continuing to game and stream. If it matters to you that I'm fat then you don't have to hang out here anymore. But for my friends and fans who like me for me, welcome back, let's have fun together."

With that posted Isla took a breath and for the first time ever, strained, grunting, she pushed herself up, and peeled off the thin piece of tape at the top of her monitor. Then she turned on her camera. She began the stream with "Sorry I was gone everyone, but I'm back. I'm excited to play this game, I've heard a lot about it..." The comments, positive and negative, poured in, but Isla forced herself not to mind. Breakfast was nearly an hour ago, and she was starting to feel rumblings as her belly started to anticipate the Wendy's it was going to be fed for mid-morning snack. Her brother had told her he was coming by to drop something off and asked if he should pick her up something on his way and she'd asked for Wendy's. 

 

Isla's fan, the one who'd convinced her to come back let out a sigh of relief as Isla's blog post popped up on her social media. He enjoyed watched her play games, she seemed to genuinely enjoy them, and she was pretty good at it. Thanks to her recommendations, he'd purchased a couple of games and had enjoyed them. He got up from his computer desk, and pushed the chair back. He was glad that she had a purpose, something she enjoyed that she could do from her bed. He'd started watching along, and sharing the stream as a way to give her some confidence and to be supportive. Speaking of supportive he had to run an errand for his parents, and on the way to their place he had to stop at Wendy's and pick up a very large order for his little sister.

 

The McLean Family 2 - Actively Enabling

"Dear, will you do me a favor...?" Ron McLean Sr. heard those words countless times a day. But he didn't mind. Today, as he got up to get his wife Taylor the iPad charger from her bedroom he said what he always said. "Of course." He'd been saying it a lot more lately. But to him it made sense. It was just too hard for his 630lbs wife to get up and get things on her own. 

When she did have to get out of her oversized armchair, it was quite the process. First she had to make sure that she had her cane. Second she had to shift forward to the edge of the chair. This inevitably pulled the protective padding on the chair forward to the edge bunching it up, and he'd have to fix it later. Third, she'd gather her oxygen to her. She'd been on oxygen for a couple months now, and she was very cognizant of where the oxygen tubing was. Fourth, she'd rock a little bit and then heave herself out of the chair. Even with the extra padding, and the taller height of the chair it was always hit or miss as to whether or not she'd be able to get out of the chair on the first try or not. Pressing on the chair arm and leaning on her cane she'd heave with all her might, struggling to her feet. 

After that, once she was on her feet, she might have been up, the hard part was over, but she was in a battle against the clock. A battle that became harder and harder to win the fatter she got. She would lean on her walker, and then she'd start to waddle, wide ass quivering, heavy belly bouncing, trying to pull her down towards the ground. It was a slow painful process, her legs swollen with fat and retained fluid, almost seemed to shake from the struggle, and she gaspes for air, face reddening, even with the oxygen tubing running to her nose. 

When she makes it to her destination; her bed, the toilet, the shower chair, where ever, she always sinks onto it with a "woof" of relief and gasps for air. Sometimes Rob would check her pulse so he could feel her fat saturated heart pounding in her chest. 

And that's why when Rob's workday was interrupted with "Dear, will you do me a favor? I forgot my charger next to my bed." He didn't mind going to get it. She was much to fat, moving was much to difficult to expect her to get up and get these things herself. As he came back with the charger he asked "McDonalds for lunch today?" 

Taylor looked up at him and smiled "Of course, it's Monday today, isn't it?"

The McLean Family 1 - Using the Bathroom

Taylor McLean didn’t like going to her sister's much. They lived a couple hours from her and her family and she hated long car rides. They had two rambunctious boys, everyone was loud, and her brother, who would certainly be there, was an alcoholic. All of them were in better shape then her too, including her brother, and rubbed it in her face. And there were stairs to get into the house. But today was Memorial Day, their family's annual start of the summer cookout, and they'd all be outside anyway.

Stairs hadn’t always bothered her but they did now. Taylor weighed 588lbs, she always knew exactly how much, and anyway at her size it didn't really matter. She was around five and a half feet tall and the majority of her weight was carried in her massive wide belly, which almost hung to her knees on top of which sat her large flat breasts. Her butt, while fat, was wide and flat, and her thighs were packed with enough extra weight to force them apart and give her an obvious waddle, which made her growing hips jiggle when she moved. Taylor carefully eased herself down out of the front passenger seat of their minivan, her balance had been an issue lately. Behind her, their son hopped down and headed for the backyard where the noise from the family could be heard, only to be called back by her husband. "Come here and help carry!" He ordered. Loaded up with their contribution to the family meal as well as their chairs they headed towards the back. He carried Taylor's folding chair which could support up to 600lbs, and pulled their cooler. Taylor only carried her 64 ounce tumbler as she slowly waddled up the driveway. She had a cane at home, but her pride had made her leave it there. Her tumbler was full to the brim of real sugar Dr Pepper, her favorite drink. Ever since her sister had found out she was diabetic she'd nagged Taylor about drinking soda, and eating just about anything.

Taylor made it to the backyard. She was gasping and out of breath. Her chair was set up on the patio in the shade of a tree. Her husband understood her needs. She couldn't be on ground the chair might sink into, and she needed to be out of the sun. It wasn't too hot of a day but she was sweaty and panting from the effort of walking when she sank carefully into her chair. She was sure it was overengineered but she was close to it's max weight. She was still panting, almost gasping. It was a lot of exercise for a woman who's only routine form of it was walking to the kitchen for food and back to her recliner. "I swear you've gained weight Tay." Her sister said.

"Not much." Taylor replied. "I'm keeping an eye on it." It was half true. She was keeping an eye on it, but she'd gained about 50lbs since she was last here. She opened her tumbler and took a drink of the Dr Pepper through the dark straw. "I'm drinking water more often." She said. "No soda for me at all today."

They were interrupted by a shoving match and yelling from the kids. Taylor's husband, her sister, and brother in law took off to deal with it. "What's going on?" She heard her sister demand.

Her son snapped back "Derek is making fun of Mom!"

"It's not making fun if it's true!"

"You said she looked like a basketball!" Taylor flushed. It was true, the way she'd piled herself in her chair, she did look almost circular.

"She does!" There was more struggling, some more talking and Taylor watched with half interest. "She looked like the blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." Taylor flushed and looked away, looking at the ground. Her teenager swung for Derek's jaw but his Dad grabbed him and pulled him away. So the adults again broke it up. In a couple more minutes everyone had apologized and punishments had been threatened and the adults returned.

Nothing really happened for a couple hours. It was hotter then normal, and she was grateful for the shade and the light breeze. Taylor's husband brought her a plate loaded with snack foods and Taylor heard her sister take a sharp deep breath but she ignored it. She started to graze and kept drinking from her tumbler.

Soon it caught up to her. She could feel the pressure, the need, to urinate building up inside her. Her brother had arrived with his family then, and he'd fired up the grill. They were about to put the meat on. Taylor leveraged herself out of her chair, carefully, and said "I'm going to go wash my hands I think. Get ahead of the rush."

"I suppose it takes you awhile doesn't it?" Her brother asked with a laugh. He was already three beers in and had probably had a couple drinks before coming over. It didn't matter anymore since he'd lost his license after a DUI so his wife drove him everywhere.

Taylor flushed and didn't say anything, saving her energy for the walk around the house. There she ran into her first obstacle. The stairs. They were concrete, a sort of half circle leading into the house, with an old and rusty metal railing mounted in the middle. Taylor, who normally tackled stairs by leaning heavily on the railing knew this one wouldn't be able to take her weight. She put a hand on it gingerly. It shifted. She'd use it for balance. She heaved her right leg up onto the first step, right hand using the railing to balance. Her belly shifted to the left. One down, four to go. She was sweating and panting already. She hadn't had a lot of practice going up stairs at this weight. Her house had a wheelchair ramp that she could shuffle up, and she hadn't been upstairs in at least 70lbs. She repeated the process, her right knee screamed in agony as she dragged her foot up. Three to go. She could do one more with the right knee, she knew it. She got it onto the next step. She had to move fast now, it was hard to balance with her weight on two different steps. She leaned forward and pushed off. And had to come back down. She hadn't been able to get it up over the lip of the steps. She tried a second time, and made it. She stopped for a moment to breath. She didn't have long, she needed to sit down. She glanced to her right and saw her son and Derek standing there. Derek was grinning and her son looked worried. Derek didn't say anything just stared. Her son came up the steps. "Can I help Mom?"

Taylor, already embarrassed, wanted to turn him down. But she was exhausted, out of breath, and her legs, knees, and back were in considerable pain. "Yes, please." She said. Her teenaged son got himself next to her on the left side, letting her get her arm over him. Leaning on his shoulders she used her left foot this time, getting it onto the next step. She pressed herself up, leaning more heavily on her son then she intended she heard him grunt as she pulled on him. She flushed, but she was trying to breath so she could get herself up the steps. One final one, and she made it, somehow, without hurting her son. "Thank you." She said and smiled at her son. He smiled back, his eyes looking somewhat worried, and then he turned and scampered away.

Taylor's next obstacle confronted her. Exhausted as she was, she had to navigate the mudroom and then get through a narrow doorway. She made for it. She got her right leg through, and carefully, went through sideways. Still gasping she made for the bathroom, it was right there. This was the final challenge. The bathroom was narrow, with the vanity and toilet on one side, and bathtub/shower on the other, curtained but open window on the end. She couldn't turn and walk normally because she couldn't fit between the vanity and tub, the vanity would push her hips towards the tub and there was nothing over there to balance on. Additionally turning around wouldn't be possible till she was by the toilet. So, with her back to the vanity, she squeezed in. Her butt brushed the vanity as she waddled sideways to the toilet.

Gratefully, she dropped her sweatpants and sank onto the toilet. She sat there, and urinated, and gasped for air, smelling the characteristic smell of sweaty fats folds. It wasn't that she wasn't clean, she just produced so much sweat. Finally, some energy and air restored, she took some toilet paper. She rocked to the side, pulling her belly out of the way, and pressed her hand beneath her belly between her legs to wipe. The smell of her sweat, and B.O. came to her nose. She'd showered the previous night, and this morning she'd had her husband help her apply body power in all the folds below her belly. But on a day like this, it hadn't lasted long. She wiped, dropped the paper into the toilet and got ready to get up. The plan was to get up, hold onto the vanity, and try and turn around so she could flush the toilet and wash her hands.

She grabbed the window sill next to her, and the vanity and pushed. Her tired knees groaned with agony, tired muscles ached, and... she couldn't do it. The toilet was too low for her. She reached for her phone to text her husband only to realize she'd left it in the pocket of her chair. She tried again. Nothing. A break, third times the charm right? This time her backside made it a couple inches off the toilet before she collapsed onto it. She was out of breath again, sweating despite the cool house, and tried to muster her energy for one last heave. It would have to be calculated, she didn't want to fall into the tub. She was breathing, building the energy when there was a knock on the door. "Hey, how much longer?" A rebellious teenage voice came through the door.

She tried with a heave, and couldn't get enough of a grip to pull herself up. "Derek?" She called. "Could... you go tell your Uncle Ron that I need a hand in here?"

"What? With what?" Derek sounded taken aback. "Aunt Taylor?"

"Yes." She admitted. "Just... the toilet is a little low, I just need a hand to stand up."

She heard feet going away, then through the open window she heard him bellow "AUNT TAYLOR IS STUCK ON THE TOILET!" She buried her face in her hand.

About a minute later the door opened and in strode her husband. Teary eyed she looked up at him. "The toilet is too low." She whispered. "I... can't get up. My legs..."

"It's okay." He reassured her. He got himself under her armpit and she got a hand on his shoulder and together they pushed up, pulling her up off the toilet. She leaned on the windowsill and vanity, trying to breath. Her husband bent to pull up her pants. She looked out into the hall and saw her son standing there, with a look on his face she'd never seen before. There was anger in it, as well as some sort of determination. And embaressment. Their eyes met and he turned and ran out of the house. Taylor felt like sobbing. Instead she washed her hands and then waddled sideways out of the bathroom. She navigated through the mudroom door, and this time, with her husband to lean on, got down the stairs and headed back to her chair.

No one said anything about it, and that made it all the more humiliating. Her husband, bless him, tried to help, standing in front of her while she gave herself her insulin before eating. Then she plunged, trying to bury her humiliation and embaressment. He brought her seconds, and thirds of a few specific dishes, and dessert. No one said anything. 

There was some reprieve when her brother, Nick, tripped and drunkenly fell over in the grass, and had to be helped back up. Taylor saw her niece, Nick's daughter looking at him. She looked upset, and it was a familiar expression. Taylor looked away, and saw her son showing her other nephew, Derek's younger brother, something on a gameboy. That's when she realized that her niece had worn the same expression of angry embaressment and humiliation. Shame. It had to be. Both children were ashamed of their parents. Taylor felt like dirt.

Before they left her husband went to the bathroom with her, helping her up the stairs, and helping her to stand up again. Afterwards everyone said their good byes. Her sister gave her a hug and looked her in the eye and said "Taylor. I love you. I don't want to nag but you need to lose weight. This... it's not healthy, I feel like I'm watching you kill yourself." She looked over her shoulder. "It's like... Nick with his drinking. It's an addiction, and you can get help if you want." Taylor felt her eyes fill with tears and her sister hugged her again.

Their son was quiet in the van, the entire ride home staring sullenly out the window. Taylor half expected him to get angry at her but he didn't say anything. And that made it almost worse. Taylor felt so bad she didn't suggest to her husband that they stop someplace so she could get herself a snack. Taylor slowly and painfully, exhaustedly, waddled up the wheelchair ramp and through the widened doorway of their house. The previous family had a child who had been a motorized wheelchair user, so everything on the ground floor had been widened and adapted for that, and right now Taylor was very grateful the previous family had been so dedicated to giving their kid that freedom. She made her way into the living room and sank into her large recliner with a sigh. Her husband headed down the hall between the stairs and living room wall to the kitchen to put things away. Taylor reached for her tablet and stopped seeing her son come into the room. They were effectively alone. Taylor's bedroom, and presumably the disabled kid's, was where the dining room should have been, at the back of the house, between the living room and kitchen. An addition that had been built onto the back of the house had a fully accessible bathroom with level shower, handheld shower wand, and a toilet with handrails and a raised toilet seat. It had doors, and the one between her bedroom and the kitchen was closed at the moment. Taylor took a deep breath, and she could smell herself. The stench of being fat, on a full summer's day, where she'd effectively been working hard. She looked at her reflection in the dark screen of the iPad. Her hair was a mess from sweat, and she knew she was flushed, even now. "Yes sweetie?" She asked.

Her son took her wide heavy duty office chair from the desk across the room, and crossed to her. He was 14, tall and lanky like his dad. He sat down on the chair that Taylor was starting to think was a little small. He barely filled a third of it. They were sitting close. "What's it like being fat mom?" He asked.

Taylor blinked. It wasn't really the word 'fat,' she used that word and so did her husband. She believed that fat wasn't a bad word by itself. She believe in fat acceptance, fat adapted things, and 'reclaiming' the word from people, like her sister, who used it as some sort of profanity. Taylor would say things like "And you're sure this restaurant is fat friendly?" or "Does that store have fat girl sizes?" Taylor hesitated. Then she said "I suppose it's not great. It can be a lot of work. I need to make sure I take my time and keep clean, there's a lot more to wash in the shower. People don't really choose to be fat, I've always..."

He interrupted the excuse she always used. "No I mean, like... what's it like when you're walking? Do you get up slow, and sit down slow, and get out of the car like that because you have bad knees or because you're fat?" He seemed a little frustrated and she was taken aback.

So Taylor was honest. Bad knees were another favorite excuse but apparently she needed to be open. "It's because I'm fat. My weight pulls me off balance so I have to be careful. My thighs have extra fat tissue, it's called adipose tissue, in them so it pushes my legs apart. They chaff, I get friction burns on days like today if I walk too much." He was ashamed of her, he wanted to understand why she had hurt him so bad, she just knew it. "I weigh almost 590 pounds." She said, softly. She saw his eyes widen. "That's what? 5 of you? 6 of you? I carry five of you every day, every time I move, breath, dress. When I shower, when I go to the bathroom, it all has to be moved. Could you carry that do you think? I'm sure you could, you're pretty strong." She smiled at him. "When you were helping me up the stairs, I could feel how tough and strong you are. You're not a kid anymore. But being a strong guy, being almost a fully grown man, how far could you carry five times what you weigh now? It can be exhausting, it can be a huge hassle. You know how hard it is for me to get clothes, to go shopping, or when we go out places together. Sometimes I hate it, and I don't exactly enjoy all that." She decided to finish off her little speech with something to justify it. "But it's my reality. I deal with it because what choice to I really have here? It's not like I can just not eat, no one can just stop eating food." Speaking of food, she wanted this over with so she could text her husband and ask him to bring her something to eat, she was starving. It had been nearly 4 hours since dinner. "I'm sorry I embaressed you. I embaressed myself. But these things happen when I'm my size and my age. I'm sorry." She added, more quietly.

"No, I..." He paused. "No.. Um..." Another pause. Then to Taylor's amazement he started to blush. "I... There's a girl named Sandra, she's going to be in my grade in high school. She went to a different middle school I guess, but she's going to go to Roosevelt High. With me. I mean with us. She was at orientation day. She's... kind of fat I guess. Some of the guys were making jokes about her, but I didn't. We were sat next to each other in the auditorium, and she's super nice. But... well she kind of walks slow too, and she gets out of breath pretty easy. So I... don't want someone like Derek to be mean to her I guess." His face was beet red, putting her red flushed face to shame. "I think I have a crush on her" he almost whispered.

Taylor, was reeling but she managed not to show her astonishment. "What you do" She said "Is talk to her like she's any other girl. She's not sick just fat. But don't call her fat, you don't need to talk about her weight at all, it's non of your business, and she knows that she's fat. Be her friend, if people tease her, stick up for her. You can talk to your dad, he did all those sorts of things for me. Maybe you guys could hang out together. You could come over here and play video games maybe. We can give you snacks or something. Just... be nice, and if she needs a hand be the one she wants to ask for help."

Taylor got her snack. It was wonderful. It was all the things she'd wanted to eat but couldn't. Little Debbie snack cakes, a giant bowl of popcorn, and huge slab of the cake they'd made. Finally, a couple hours later with their son upstairs in bed, her husband came in to help her shower. Taylor didn't exactly need help in there but he liked to help and she didn't mind. As the water started to run Taylor looked up at her husband. "He asked me what it's like being fat. He's got a crush on a girl. He says she's 'bigger, kind of fat.'"

Her husband laughed. "Sounds like he's got good taste." He soaped up a washcloth and bent down to scrub her legs and feet for her. "Do you want to go to your sister's again next year?"

"Hell no!" Taylor said vehemently. "They can come here where something as simple as using the bathroom isn't an astronomical struggle."

The Helper 2

CW Contains slob, bathroom themes.

 My brain is struggling to comprehend this mountain of a woman in front of me. By every metric she's disgusting. She stinks, the whole room stinks. She's nothing but a helpless pile of fat and bad odor, a... thing I just watched consume enough food for an entire family.

"I'm sorry." She says. I assume she's talking about the smell but then she says "I don't have any aides today. My daughter brought me lunch but that's about it. She's at work now." I try not to stare at her, imagining someone having sex with this blob of a woman. She looks up at me, her irises are a sort of dirt brown, and her sclera is tinged yellow. "I go to the bathroom here in bed. I need to go number two, and I can't hold my bowels at all well anymore. Not for years. If I go, I have to sit in that till morning. I can't move by myself well enough to get it out from under me, and anyway do you think I can reach to clean myself? I'm already sitting in my own piss, I just want to be clean for a little while. If you help me, I will pay you $300. On top of the $100 I was going to pay you for helping." Her eyes, buried in her fat moon of a face are almost pleading with me."

I hesitate. This sounds absolutely disgusting. I know it's going to be, she's passed gas again, and it's still rancid. Her bowels must be as full of fat and as ruined as the rest of her. "How do we do it?" I ask.

"You will?" I nod. "I'm going to go." She said, panting a little. "You'll have to help me roll on my side. You can collect the chux pads from under me and throw them away. I'll need you to wipe me off. Just be really gentle, my skin is very delicate." She gestures. "That carts got everything you'll need."

I cross to it and then I hear her gasp. She farts, farts again, and groans. I turn around, her hands are clenching the bed and I hear the unmistakable sound of her shitting. The smell hits me. I'd gotten used to the underlying stench in the room, but this makes my eyes water. I get gloves on and wheel the cart over. I drag the garbage can over too. She's breathing hard, her blotchy face redder from exertion. "Hey." She wheezes to me. "My right thigh... it's very delicate right now. It might tear open. If it does, you'll need to bandage it or it could get infected. It's weeping pretty bad right now, there's a chux under it, and it'll probably stick to my thigh when we move. Pull it off and see if you can tuck a fresh one over it so it doesn't leak all over the bed." I'm feeling a little overwhelmed but I nod again. "Ready?"

She uses a remote to lay the bed back so she's flat. She moves her left leg. She sort of shoves her left heel into the bed and starts to pull herself to her right side. I plant both hands under her back and shove. She balances for I brace myself for it and it's pretty bad. There's a pool of feces, half brown liquid, some partially solid. There's a sort of indentation, heavily scarred on her left ass cheek. I'm frozen a second, unsure where to start, the only reason I don't vomit from the sight or the smell is just how unrealistic the scene is. Her ass is a massively wide wall of swollen red flesh. "I can't... breath good... like this... Don't... take... long." I hear. I move. I turn the little dial on the grey box all the way up so oxygen is hissed into her nose as fast as the machine can make it. I start bundling up the layers of absorbent chux pads under her. I'm glad there's a lot of them, she needs them. Some are sodden with urine, the rest are now covered in feces. A couple by her legs are a sort of light yellow color, unlike her dark urine. I toss them all and then I get into the bed behind her with the wipes. She gasps "Easy! Easy..." As I start to wipe, so I slow down, making multiple passes instead of digging into her ass. It's all fat, there's no muscle, maybe some fluid, and it shifts and wobbles as I wipe it. I wipe down the large fat fold with the crack in it that I assume is her pussy. I make sure to clean deep and get the urine out and she gasps. I throw soiled wipe after soiled wipe into the trash can. When she's clean I take a chux pad, carefully peeling the old one off her right thigh, and she yelps in pain. The smell from her thigh is unlike anything I've ever smelled in my life. Clear fluid is... weeping through her skin. It's red and stretched tight, it looks ready to pop. I carefully wrap the new pad over it. I lay down layers of chux pads, and then I help her roll back over.

The sheets fallen away, and I can see pasty white breasts with massive pink nipples. She sits the bed up, and then holds up a hand. I don't say anything instead I study how her breasts are basically completely formless and just extra fat folds over the larger fat folds of her belly. She takes a long time to catch her breath. Finally she says "Not bad." She reaches for her phone. "I can venmo or cashapp you... I don't keep cash around here." I discard my gloves into the trash can. Somethings happened, it's like a switch has flipped inside me. I look into the trash can without any emotion or reaction. It seems half full of dirtied medical supplies, and the smell of her shit radiates out at me. "$150." I say. "As long as you take my number, and call me if you need any help like this again." She stared at me. I look back at her. "You need help, I'm willing to help. I'm not saying I'll do it gratis, but you seem like a nice enough lady, I'd hate for you to have to spend the night in a pile of shit."

"It wouldn't have been the first time." She says.  I reach down and turn the oxygen concentrator back to where it was. She's pant breathing through her open mouth again, looking up at me. "Well let me know if you need me." I respond. "Anything else?"

"Could you... in the fridge freezer there's some pints of ice cream. Can you bring me one please? Dessert." I nod. In the kitchen I find the fridge freezer is half stocked with pints of ice cream and the other half has an ice cream cake with a couple pieces missing. I pull it out and cut a massive slab off it. I put it on a plate and bring it in with a fork. She blinks at it. "I... thank you. But a pint would..."

I cut her off. "You were very patient with me, it was painful for you, you deserve a treat." Her eyes sparkle, her small fat mouth twists into a grin, and she flashes an almost bashful smile at me with her yellow teeth. "I'll do the dishes and I'll bring you your dessert." I reply. I sit down on the edge of the bed. She loads her mouth with a massive bite of the cake. I sit on the edge of the bed by her feet. I gently run my thumbs over her cankles and then I start to rub her feet. She moans softly, and stuffs the ice cream cake into her mouth rapidly. Before I know it, it's gone. I go to the kitchen, rinse off the plate and fork leaving them in the sink. I get a pint of ice cream. It's the high quality, full fat, real milk kind, loaded with cookie bits and chocolate chips. I return to the living room with it and a spoon. I offer it to her. "Here you go. Anything else?"

"No." She says. Almost demurely. "Thank you."

I give her my venmo and she sends me the promised $150. I wink at her, pat her greasy fat naked shoulder, and head for the door, locking it behind me. I breath the clean clear air in through my nose, purging my nostrils of the odor. I head down the sidewalk and I'm humming. I'm wide awake and feeling almost jaunty. Like I've found a purpose.

The Helper 1

CW: Pretty significant slob

 I knocked on the door and I heard a voice through the window. "Hey. Over here." I turned and through a lighted window I can see a hand beckoning through a curtain. I walk over to it. "Here." It says, in a breathless female voice, and offers me a key. "Let yourself in. Just turn right off the hallway when you get through the door." A little confused I return to the door, unlock it, and make my way in carrying my delivery. I started delivering for a delivery app a few weeks ago to make some extra money. I'm trying to save up enough money to quit the dead end job I hate and move. With two jobs though, I'm pretty tired. Since delivering food I've seen plenty of overweight people, men and women both but nothing prepared me for what greeted me when I entered the living room of the narrow prefab house.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. An overpowering level of body odor, and piss. Next is the bed. It's the widest hospital bed I've ever seen and it's right next to the window the hand came through. It's back is to me and I can just see a head. I walk through the room and the next thing I see is the woman.

She is far and away the fattest woman I've ever seen, or ever imagined. Greasy hair frames a massively round face. A double chin jiggles as she breaths audibly through an open mouth. Her nose, practically swallowed in her fat cheeks is being fed oxygen through a tube but apparently it isn't helping. She's pulled a sheet over herself, it used to be white, now it's stained with food and... other fluids. Below the sheet, a massively pale white belly, covered in stretch marks and pockmarked by scabs, falls onto enormous thighs that push her legs away from each other. Huge hips are near the edge of the bed. Motionless feet are practically swallowed in swollen calves, one of which is covered in a compression bandage. She looks about 50 but she's probably only in her early 40s, her body is barely recognizable as human. "I don't bite." She says, when I freeze. Her voice is thick and weak, as if her windpipe is constricted and talking is difficult. I blink and then I walk forward, crossing the old floor that sticky in places. "It smells delicious." She's eying my collection of bags with glee. She takes a deep breath and then coughs a few times clearing her throat, and she passes gas at the same time, adding to the smell of the room. She glances up at me. "I'm sorry." She said. "But I lost the ability to control that a long time ago." She gestured around. "I haven't walked in five years certain things become unimportant. Now, dinner?" I offer her the bags and she wheezes as her breathing speeds up. It takes me a second before I realize she's excited. "See that table on wheels?" I look at it. There's an identical one in front of her, with a laptop, box of kleenex, and two liter bottle of Orange Soda. She takes the bottle of soda and I gingerly move the other table, before, piling them on the empty one. As soon as it's within reach, she's pulled over her left thigh with a grunt and a wheeze. She takes one of the boxes, opens it up, and starts to demolish a chicken strip, chewing with her mouth open. "Thanks." She mumbles.

I turn to go. "Wait." I turn back around. She's paused in the middle of ripping apart a bread roll. "Are you able to stick around? I'll pay you. $100 if you help me with a few things. I'll need you to toss the garbage when I'm done. That kind of thing" I blink. "Oh. Sure." She waves towards a chair. It's a normal recliner type chair, and probably the cleanest thing in the room. I take a seat. "I'm Jeff." I offer.

"Michelle." She replies. "Don't talk, I want to eat." She's machine like, it's unreal. The chomping, slurping, grunting... It reminds me, a little uncomfortably, of the time I fed the pigs at a school trip to a farm. She eats rapidly, jowls bouncing as she chews, everything washed down with swings of orange soda. I look around the room. There's a TV mounted to the wall, muted, with a rerun of Cops playing on it. A grey box is humming and seems to be feeding her oxygen. A large 55 gallon trash can is across the room. There are shelves of medical supplies in plastic totes or cardboard boxes, each labeled in marker. Some are words I've never run into before. "Chux Pads, Cannulas, 5x9s, Elastic Bandages." Others are recognizable, or at least I can guess. "Gloves, Wipes, body powder." There's a small rolling cart near the bed, just out of her reach with four drawers. On top is a small white plastic tray. They're also labelled "Morning, Noon, Night, PRN." I can see pill bottles inside. I can see a grey cart, like those used in warehouses. There's a bucket on the bottom of it, and the top has a box of gloves, two large stacks of blue/white fuzzy things, and a plastic tub. It takes me a minute to realize it's a plastic baby wipe container. There's a belch and I look back at her. I can see her face, it's almost dreamy. She farts again and doesn't seem to notice it. I notice the smell, it's absolutely rancid. She's over halfway through her meal, and it's going in record time. I thought I was picking up a dinner for a family of 6, and a hungry family at that, but she's showing no signs of slowing down.

After about 15 minutes she lets out a belch that rattles the light fixture. "That's better." She pants. I wordlessly start collecting her trash. I move the table out of the way, dropping everything into the large trash can. "Would you get me a second bottle of soda?" She asks. "In the kitchen? Oh, and I guess... could you also bring the clear pencil case in there? Not the pink one, the clear one." I make my way to the kitchen. It's almost sterile and completely untouched. The fridge hums loudly in the corner. I open it up. The entire bottom shelf is nothing but two liter bottles of soda. There are two pencil cases on the top shelf. The pink one says "Eyedrops" and the Clear one says "Insulin." I take a bottle of soda and the insulin into the other room. She's pulled the old sheet up a bit and I can see more of her belly. It's in two huge obese folds that almost, but not quite, swallow a cavernous belly button. A large adhesive bandage, stained, is on her left lower fold, and a couple bandaids are on her upper belly folds, one on each side. "I'm going to need the little white tray that says meals... There's a little cart with wheels somewhere..." I take the white tray. Sure enough it says "Meals." I step close to her. This close I can really smell her. Even her breath which I can smell as she pant/breaths through her open mouth stinks. For a couple minutes there's a pause as she uses her phone to check her blood sugar on a little white disc embedded in her fat upper arm. I notice how the fat droops down, hanging over her elbows. She takes a hand wipe and cleans her hands and drops it back in the tray. Her hands aren't fat, if anything they're rather on the small side, even for a woman. She takes an alcohol pad and rubs it on the top fold of her belly. It comes away stained dark and she repeats the process three more times till the pad comes away clean. "Will you help?"

"Sure." I reply, "But I don't know anything about injections."

"I'll do that. I just need you to put the bandaid on, it's hard for me." I nod and open one up. She takes the insulin pen and pokes herself with it. There's a click and she removes it. Instantly watery blood starts to pool up. I press the bandaid down over it and I immediately see why it's hard for her. Her belly is almost fluid, it's... it's got to be like trying to patch a water bed. My hand sinks into it but I get the bandaid secured. I collect the garbage and return the tray to the small table. "While you're there, would you just hand me the one that says "night?" She asks my back. I hand it to her. There's a collection of pill bottles in there. She starts taking them as I toss the garbage, and return to the kitchen to put the insulin in the fridge. I returned and collect the tray of her nighttime meds and return it to the little cart. "I'm paying you." She says. "I promise."

"Thanks." I mutter, feeling awkward. I don't hear her pass gas this time but I can smell it. "I appreciate it. I need the money."

Mother/Son

 CW: Contains themes of incest and slob

I open the door and walk through the back door into the house. I'm loaded down with groceries. It's my childhood home, and it still is my home today. Although these days I have pretty much the entire second floor to myself, with the exception of some stuff that's being stored up there. I go back out the door and get more groceries. I start to unpack them, frozen foods into the chest freezer in the corner, desserts into the fridge freezer. Everything else goes on shelves, in cabinets, or on the small kitchen rack where we keep candy or other desserts. That done I start to make dinner. I don't have any text messages and I haven't heard anything from the other room. I disassemble the rottissere chicken, and begin to fill a plate. I have an entire tray, the pile of chicken, the heaping of deli mashed potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, an entire container of deli dessert. The plate is full. Opening the fridge I get out a bottle of Candy Apple Faygo and a bottle of their Cola. With them under my arm I carry the tray into the other room.

Mom's right where I left her, propped up with pillows in her sagging recliner. A cheap cigarette smolders in her hand and she eyes me, then she eyes the tray. She lifts it to her lips for a final drag, and then stabs it out into the ashtray next to her on the side table. "Finally." She growls at me, with the gravely smokers voice she's had my whole life. "I'm starving. You took forever."

"Sorry the store was busy." I place the tray on a TV table and move it next to her. I watch as she surveys the food. She nods her approval and I collect the ashtray, and the trash from the snacks I gave her before I left. I collect my own dinner in the kitchen then return to Mom's room. That's what I call it. It would be the living room in a normal family's house. In our townhouse it's the only suitable room downstairs for mom to inhabit. We're in the smaller unit, the one next door has as a dedicated dining room at the back of the house. Where that would be in our unit is the attached garage, which we've also given up. We own the building, and the rent from next door takes care of a lot of our expenses.

I return from the kitchen with my much smaller meal, and a glass of lemonade. I sit down at the kitchen table and take a bite. I glance over at mom. She's doing what she does best. Consuming. Whether it's food or nicotine, she's an expert. She's a sort of fat round ball. Round face, no neck really, and then it's all fat. Her breasts and love handles, it's all rather normal but then massive pile of her belly. It's huge, hanging below her knees. It's extremely heavy, pale, and discolored. Then it's normal. Regular fat thighs, a FUPA, and a big wide backside. She doesn't wear pants anymore unless we have to go somewhere, and that's about twice a year. Mouth full she says "You took so long at the store, I had an accident."

"What kind?" I ask, and frown at her.

She glares at me. "Diarrhea one time and you act like I'm a fucking child. I fucking pissed myself, what do you think?"

"Sorry." I reply, it's easier this way. It's been shit more then once, one time it was because she thought I was taking too long at work so she did it deliberately. She told me that in those words too. "I'll get you cleaned up after dinner." I tell her.

"Of course." She snaps still hangry apparently. "I ain't going to sit in it all night!"

I don't say anything. I eat. She goes back to eating. I finish first, like I usually do with my smaller portions. I cross to her. She's processing the meal one dish at a time. I shake a cigarette loose from the pack next to her. I place it in my mouth, light it with her lighter, take a nice preliminary drag, and then exhale it into the room. The nicotine relaxes me. I look down to collect mom's dishes. "Better bring me a fresh pack." She snarls. "Before you smoke all mine."

I nod at her, and take her empty dishes. I toss the empty plastic dessert container, and then I load the dishwasher. Then I lean on the counter and smoke the cigarette down slowly, savoring the peace and the buzz of the nicotine. I stab it out in the ashtray in the kitchen and return to the living room. Mom's done. She's lighting another cigarette. I take the tray, finish loading the dishwasher, and then start it. I return to the other room. "When I'm done with my cigarette." She says. She's calmer with a belly full of food and lungs full of smoke. "By the way, I haven't had no problems with the AC."

I smile. "I'm glad. I spent what, an hour fixing the fucking thing?"

She snorts. "Your Pops would've done it in 15 minutes, but at least you were able to get it fixed." It doesn't call for an answer, it's about as close to a compliment as she ever gets. Pops, my father, did everything better, according to Mom anyway. He was also a lot better drinker then I am, and he was a lot more confident at driving while intoxicated. It worked great till he piled into the side of a concrete mixer parked at it's cement plant at 80 miles an hour. Mom finishes her cigarette stubbing it out. "Okay." She says.

I pull a pair of gloves on, grab the plastic divided carry caddy off the chair by the kitchen table, and bring her walker close to her. She plants her bare feet on the floor. I get a hand under her arm and she heaves. She takes a couple steps with the walker. She's breathing hard. I grab the fabric chux pad and pull it off the chair dropping it to the floor. It's pretty sodden, she must have really needed to go. I place a fresh one down. Then I drop to a knee. I take a generic flushable wipe and start wiping. Thighs, butt cheeks, then between her thighs. Her FUPA, taint and ass crack. She grunts. "My knees." She growls at me. It's a warning not a complaint, her knees are shot, destroyed by her weight. "I know, I'm sorry." I understand this one, it can't be easy or painless for Mom, standing still, bending over, all that went in your belly trying to pull her down. Mom takes to steps back and sinks onto the chair with a groan. "Much better." She says. I wad up the chux, and toss it in a laundry basket. We go through 8 a day on average. I layer two of them up underneath her on the chair, and four of them under her in bed. She has to urinate during the night but she can't, or won't, get up alone, and she refuses to wake me up to help her. So she just wets the bed, emptying her bladder into the fabric pads.

Mom relaxes back in her chair. The evening routine is beginning. Saturday afternoons are shopping days, after I do household laundry in the morning. Clothes, bedsheets, and so on. Sundays are when I clean the entire house. Monday, other then caring for mom, I don't have any chores. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays I work as an HVAC Tech. It's 32 hours a week, but my boss knows I take care of mom, so they give me a bit of slack and call me full time so I get the health insurance and retirement. They don't know she's obese, just that she's disabled with a lot of health issues. Mom's considered disabled by the state so she's on the Medicaid and Social security thank goodness, and my sister comes around to help her during the day, getting her lunch, and maybe helping with the bathroom while her kids are in school. She can't help more then that though, not only is she fat enough it's getting hard to move around, but she's saddled with three kids, a job, and a deadbeat husband.

I blink and realize I was day dreaming in my chair at the table, starting to nod off. Mom's looking for me. "You're tired." She states. 

 I nod. "Yeah, sorry. I guess it was a busier week, and a hotter, longer, day then I thought."

"I could go to bed early tonight." She says.

"No it's okay." I respond trying to wake up. If Mom has to make a concession for me, I'll never hear the end of it. Mom doesn't bend to other people, it's not her way.

"I'm tired and sore, I need to take a fucking shower tomorrow, I'm going to bed early. Get your lazy ass up and help your Ma." I heave myself to my feet and get mom's toothbrush and a bottle of water. Mom brushes her teeth spitting into the plastic basin I hold for her. I take it all to the bathroom. I return and Mom has her top off, her flabby breasts on display. She always complains about being hot, but insists on sleeping covered with the sheets and a comforter. So she sleeps naked. "I need to shit first." She says.

"Okay, sounds good." I answer, yawning. Shit, I'll have to get up a little early so I can get everything ready for her shower.

Together we get her up. She takes a few steps. Her belly hangs to her knees, quivering with the movement. She makes the long - 10 step - trek to the commode. She more or less collapses onto it, wheezing from the effort. I lean against the wall and light another cigarette from Mom's pack. I take a couple drags, then push myself off the wall and carry the chux pads down to the washing machine. I toss them in and start it. I spray some hydrogen peroxide in it and wipe it out with an old rag. That goes in the washing machine too. Then the clean chux from the dryer are piled inside and I hoof it back upstairs, pausing to kill my cigarette butt in the kitchen ashtray. Mom's still on the commode. She's got her hands on her walker, belly drooping towards the floor. She grunts, pants, wheezes and strains. I hear her pass gas and she grunts again. I fold the chux pads, stacking them on the old sideboard. I take four of them and lay them out on the bed for Mom to sit on.

I glance up sharply at a loud sputtering fart. Mom's face is a bit red. She nods. I help her up and she leans on the walker. Using my caddy of cleaning supplies I again clean her up, wiping the sticky brown feces off the inside of her ass cheeks. The wipes go in the trash. Mom straightens and fights her way to the bed, finally collapsing onto it. I help her to swing her legs up onto the bed. She pants, getting her breath back. I take the commode basin to the bathroom. I empty it into the toilet, wiping it out with a couple more wipes, before flushing. Gloves in the trash, hands washed I cross the hall back to her. "Water?" She gestures to her CPAP. I take the reservoir and fill it with distilled water. I lock it in place, then I bring her a plate of snacks, a soda, water, cigarettes, lighter and ashtray, placing them on her bedside table in easy reach. Mom pats my cheek, her soft hand comes behind my neck and she pulls me down and kisses my cheek. "Thank you dear." She says, her gravely voice gentle. She kisses my cheek. "You're a good son. I love you. Have good dreams, sleep tight and don't let the bedbug bite. Goodnight." I feel a stirring inside my stomach. They're the same words she's been saying to me before I go to bed my whole life. Except for the "I love you." That's fairly rare for her, it always has been. She's just not a gushy person. Dad was, once Mom wasn't quick enough and he woke me up at 2am, incredibly drunk, sobbing, hugging me, and telling me how much he loved me and my sister. I turn off all the lights and head to bed, leaving her alone in the downstairs room, lit only by her TV and the glowing ember of her last cigarette of the day.

Drop dead tired I make my way upstairs. I use the bathroom, aiming my penis into the toilet, and then I brush my teeth, trying not to think. I go down the hall to my room. It's pretty bare, it's at the back of the house overlooking the alley, the same one I've had my whole life. There's a desk, dresser, and bedside table. I have a couple lamps, a few books. There's a couple mementos. A tarnished faux gold "winner" medal from school olympic day. When my sister and I came home with them, Mom drove us to a sitdown restaurant as a reward. Dad had a few drinks, and was smiling and laughing. On the small shelf I put in myself is an old bronze trophy from when I won third place in gymnastics at the age of 9. I remember Mom pulling me to her belly and telling me she was very proud. My technical diploma hangs on the wall with an old family picture. I can remember Mom, wearing her long dress, bulging belly still visible, sitting in her wheelchair, smiling at me during the graduation. I undress dropping my clothes in the hamper in the hall and sit naked on the edge of my bed, staring out the window. The sky is still pink from the sunset. I get up and go to the desk in the corner of my room. I pour myself a drink from a plastic bottle of cheap whiskey into a glass. I look down at my nude lap. I run my index finger along the underside of my erect cock, a cock that's been erect since Mom kissed my cheek. I blink away a couple of tears. My penis throbs. I want to touch myself badly. I sigh and toss back the whiskey. It burns my throat. I touch my penis again, running my finger up and down along my shaft. It's aching with need, it's no use, I need to do it. I wrap my hand around it, and take some tissue from the box on the desk, sit down in my old desk chair and close my eyes. I start slowly, massaging my hand up and down my erect manhood. I'm dirty, I'm naughty, I'm a bad son. I need to try harder, take better care of Ma. I need to be a good son. She's so massive, so obese. I start to speed up. I need to be a good son, a good caregiver for Ma, she's too fat to be alone. She's so fat, she's so fat, Ma is so massively fat. I masturbate myself savagely, trying to sexually punish myself.

Tomorrow morning when Ma takes a shower, I'll need to be sure I lift her heavy belly up out of the way so I can get all the way in there to make sure she's clean. I'll make sure I quickly but thoroughly clean her ass crack so she doesn't have to stand long. If she doesn't have to stand long she'll be happy, I'll be a good son. I'm panting now, my full cock twitches in my hand. In my mind: Her incredibly heavy belly is on my shoulder, her soft pliable thigh fat under my hand. In my mind, there is no washcloth. Just my hand and I'm rubbing mom's flabby cellulite ridden thigh. I hear myself grunt, I'm starting to edge.

I'm going to surprise her tomorrow. I'm making homemade Big Macs for lunch, they're her favorite. It makes her fatter, makes it harder for her to walk, makes her need me more. I moan a little, I can't help it. It'll make her happy even though she hates showering. I'll be a good son. I will be a good son. I'm a bad son but I will be a good son. My penis erupts, I orgasm, ejaculating into the tissues. I clean myself up then I sit there breathing heavy, staring out the window. I pour myself another drink and wipe ashamed tears from my eyes with the back of my hand, smelling myself. I smell sweaty genitals and my ejaculate. I feel small, dirty, disgusting. I get up, toss down the drink, and make my way to the bathroom. I urinate, then wash my hands, finally I rinse out the glass I used for whiskey. I don't look at myself in the mirror.

I take a cigarette from the pack next to my bed and look at it for a moment. Then I sigh and light it. I've already smoked more then my normal amount today since I didn't have work and my chest feels tight. I cough a couple times, airways irritated by the low quality tobacco. I'll probably get emphysema or lung cancer from this, but I don't care. Someone like me? I'd deserve it. I smoke it the filter, using the harsh smoke of the cheap cigarette and the rush of the nicotine to try and smother my shame. I extinguish the remainder of the cigarette butt in the ashtray and lay down on my bed. What's wrong with me? Why am I like this? I'm asleep in minutes.

The Enabler Mindset

 People treat me like I'm sick. Like I'm the bad guy. But I'm not. I'm a good husband. My wife needs me. That's all it is. Just because she's obese doesn't mean that she doesn't deserve love and I love her. In fact it makes her need me more.

From the moment I get up in the morning I'm there for her. These days its a struggle for her to get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes she can't and she'll wind up urinating on the chux pads I keep under her. I have to keep chux pads under her because her right thigh has a giant weeping lymphodema on it. I keep it clean for her, because she can't. She's too fat to do it for herself.

That's another thing. She's too fat to do most things by herself so I have to do them for her. You wouldn't expect her to go without wiping after using the bariatric commode because she's too fat to reach and clean herself, well why should she go around without shoes because she can't bend down to tie them? Is that sick? Is being willing to help your wife "sick" just because she's overweight?

So what if she likes food. I like food too. I want her to be happy, I want her to enjoy what she eats. She's a big girl with a big appetite so she needs big meals. She's in pain a lot, and I'm not in denial, she has some health issues, but that makes it all the more important to me that she likes what she eats because then she's happy. When I bring her the large pizza order, I get to see her happy for a little bit. 

Is it sick to help her with her insulin after she eats? Lots of people are diabetic. I don't care that it's because she's fat - or so the doctors say. She has high blood pressure, lots of people fat and thin do. I'm not sick, I'm just making sure I take care of her health, it's not my fault, or her's, she has lots of health problems. These things happen sometimes.

People act like I'm sick because she's so fat. Just because she's much fatter now then when we met. People stare at us when we go out, her on her mobility scooter, wrapped in too small sweat stained clothes, breathing heavily off her oxygen canister. They stare at me too, when I bring her lunch. Like I'm the reason she's like this.

I'm not sick. I like bigger women and I love my wife. It's not sick to make her happy.

The Personal Care Assistant Part One: Meeting Galena

I was at loose ends. I work as a PCA, or personal care assistant. I've got lots of additional certifications and training. I'm a CNA - certified nursing assistant. I'm even ventilator trained. My specialty is bariatric care. 

My last assignment had been working for the Millers, who were both old, fat, and unhealthy. Mr Miller was barely mobile, and Mrs Miller had been bed confined for ten years. I'd worked for them for two years, and I'd loved it. But to be honest, it hadn't been healthy for me long term.

I was a live in aide, and the two years I was there I basically breathed second hand smoke and ate pizza every day. I'm a smoker too, and being able to smoke at work wasn't a good habit for me to get into. The job ended when Mr Miller passed away and their children decided to move their mother into a long term care facility.

It was probably for the best in honesty. I'd put on weight, giving myself cellulite, a plump pot belly, and it had made my breasts start to sag. Most of my weight gain had gone to my hips and thighs. I went from just being another chubby CNA in scrubs to a pear shaped BBW. I cut back on my smoking too, but the two years of tobacco abuse, first and second hand, gave me chronic asthma, exacerbating the exercise induced asthma I'd had since I was a kid.

I was staying in a half decent long term occupancy motel. I'd woken up and stepped outside for a morning cigarette. I tell myself that the damage to my health won't be too bad if I work out a little and keep it to 5 cigarettes a day. I have a hangover. I told myself that going out last night, eating junk food, and getting drunk is just a one time thing. I'll behave myself from now on. That was when the text came through.

Someone needed a PCA. I was told to meet with them at the Specialty Care Unit at the local hospital.

SCU is for people with special needs. Whether that's bariatrics, or they have some kind of disability, or even overflow from other specialty units, the SCU is where people who don't need the ICU but need something special wind up. I made my way down the hall, feeling a little out of breath from the long walk across the campus. "Hey Maggie." I greeted the nurse who'd sent me a text.

I like Maggie. She's bubbly and cheerful. She's also significantly fatter then I am so she makes me feel better about myself. "Hey!" She greeted me in return. "Great to see you again. I've got a possible client for you."

Galena was a bed confined bariatric woman, who weighed nearly 800lbs. "She's 28!?" I exclaimed, incredulously. Two years younger then me, and three times my weight Maggie nodded, and continued. The ambulance had been called to her home for blood sugar issues. Her blood sugar had been very high, her kidney function poor, and she had several different infections, the worst being in her left thigh. "Wait till you see it." Maggie said. It had taken 5 firefighters and 4 paramedics to get her out of her house and into the ambulance. Since then she'd been in touch with a social worker, who'd insisted she get a professional caregiver. Maggie had recommended me.

I knocked on the door of the room and then moved around the curtain and felt my breath catch. There was a nurse or CNA in there cleaning up, and I could smell the characteristic odor of a recent BM. I was used to that. I was also certainly used to obese people, but Galena was a completely new experience. She was wearing a hospital gown over her torso and looking at her face alone it was completely normal looking other then the nasal cannula delivering her oxygen. But from there down it was completely different. Her biceps were two piles of sagging flesh, and under the gown her body seemed to be melting towards her hips which flowed out, and nearly touched the side of the bariatric bed. Her legs were uncovered and they were massive. Her left thigh was bigger around then my waist, and bandaged tightly. As I smiled, and stepped closer, my eyes realized her belly wasn't small by any means, and it sagged down onto her thighs. "Hi Galena" I said, and introduced myself.

Galena was panting like me after a couple flights of stairs. But I knew that all she'd done is rolled over. She used her wrist to gesture me to a chair on her left. I passed around the front of the bed and sat down in the chair. This close I could hear the faint wheeze on her breath. I could smell the unmistakable odor of an obese person who's been getting bedbaths for a long time. I could see the cath bag hanging off the side of the bed, half full of lightly brownish urine, indicating the kidneys were still recovering. "They're not letting me go home without someone there who knows what they're doing." She opened with. "I think it's a load of crap." I was to learn she never used profanity. "I had a girlfriend and my parents." She said. "And as soon as Bonni dumped me my health went bad." She smiled at me, showing me yellowed teeth. "You don't need to hear about my problems. I got questions, but I need you to understand something. I'm not going to eat healthy. I'm not going to loose weight. Actually, I'll probably gain it. It's not a rebellion, it doesn't turn me on, I'm just eating myself to death. I'm not suicidal I'm just an addict. Like a junkie, but food. I'm not going to change so don't try." She ran out of breath and paused. The wheeze had gotten a little louder and I raised an eyebrow at her.

"Can I say something?" She nodded, still working on her wheeze. "I have a duty of care." I explained. "I can't force you to do something, but I can't in good conscience do something that will hurt you. Now, if you order a pizza for dinner I'm not going to toss it out, but it would make everything a lot smoother if you take your prescriptions, and let me try to take care of your health issues."

Her breathing had returned to the unhealthy sort of pant with the gentle wheeze at the back of it, which I was to learn was her normal. "I always try to take my pills. I just forget. When Bonni left I was trying to manage them myself, but I'm no good at it. I'd get confused and forget to take them." She got conspiratorial. "I really need something substantial. They got me on this diet and the foods not bad, but it's not... like good. I really like good food, ya know. You're a fellow big girl, you know what I mean. I'm getting desperate here, I feel like I'm being starved to death, I haven't been full in ages." She winked again. It was a helluva speech for someone who can barely gasp out more then a handful of words at a time.

"Tell you what." I said, my voice also low. "If you stick with it till discharge day, you can order the biggest feast of your life for all I care once they get you home."

I arrived at her place an hour before the ambulance crew. Galena's Dad wasn't home, he was off working, I got the impression he was some sort of big shot. Galena's Mom was a pleasant vague person, the sort of person who makes for the best kind of unintentional enabler. Galena's room was in the basement of the house. which was built into an artificial hill. Access could be gotten around the side down a wide concrete path. Her room had probably been a family room that had been converted to it's current purpose. It had clearly been modified by a professional contractor, with large sliding glass doors to a sort of patio, and a wide doorway into the bathroom, complete with bariatric toilet, and a big shower. I'd been given a room on the second floor, Galena's old room I found out later. As I spread chux pads on the bed Galena's mom said "Oh I don't think she needs all of those since she has the catheter, and she's really good at letting me know when she needs the bedpan."

I smiled politely at her. "I'm going to have to give her a bath when she's back, and she'll need an ointment. This will take care of some of the mess."

I was outside smoking a cigarette when I heard the ambulance backing in. There were four paramedics and they navigated the stretcher down the sidewalk carefully. Galena overflowed the gurney, making it top heavy, but they kept her from tipping over. We got her in bed. They had a sort of air mattress under her that you could blow up and then it blew air through tiny holes, essentially turning Galena into an inverted air hockey table when we slid her over. We had to roll her to get the hospital linens out from under her, sit her up, and generally get her settled. Galena was exhausted by the ordeal, lying there gasping, her constant wheeze almost a rattle. Her mom patted her hand. "You must be hungry." She said. "I'll get you a snack."

Galena looked at me. "So... you're a fellow junkie?"

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"You reek like cigarettes."

I felt my face get red. I started to stammer but Galena shook her head. "Don't bother. I don't care what you do. I'm eating myself to death, you're smoking yourself to death, I can't judge you, the important thing is we're happy." She broke off to gasp, wheeze, and then cough breathlessly. As she took a few desperate rattling breaths I thought she didn't look very happy, but I didn't say anything. She said "Just don't smoke in here because of the oxygen. Otherwise, it's us versus the world junkie babe." And she patted my gloved hand with one of her's.

After the "snack" which turned out to be a massive slab of cheesecake, I got Galena settled better. Then the "feast" catered by a local pizza place arrived and with grunts of glee Galena dove in. Immediately afterwards, I got the medicated ointment on, and I helped her have a bowel movement with the bedpan. She must have really had to go, because she really filled the bedpan. It was a healthy, regular BM, there was just a lot of it. As I cleaned her I noticed something. Her FUPA, which was a pile of flesh squeezed between two massive thighs, was wet, odd since she had a cath in place. Then I recognized the consistency and realized Galena had lied to me. She may not be suicidal, she might quite possibly be an addict, but eating and being this big was absolutely a fetish for her.

Wilcox Farms 2

In private staff called her Dr. Wilcox's biggest failure. 12 years ago she'd entered the 'farms as the first patient and she'd never left. Wilcox openly admitted it. He'd entirely failed to bring down her weight. He always said that possibly it was because she was his first patient and had been the "guinea pig" for his theories and treatments. Staff speculated on everything from genetic problems making it difficult to loose weight to stubbornness on her part. All were agreed that the failure of her respiratory system 5 years ago had made further progress much more difficult.

Haley had entered the facility 12 years ago as the first patient. She'd weighed 600lbs at 22 years old but had ballooned to over a thousand. Her peak weight had been measured at 1100. Her respiratory drive had failed and she'd almost suffocated. Wilcox had managed to intubate her and eventually she'd been surgically given a tracheostomy and placed on a ventilator. She'd been on a crash diet loosing nearly 300 pounds but it had been a fight to get her under 800. At least according to the official documentation. As of now she weighed 817lbs (58.4 stone) as of this morning's weighing. Unknown to all but a couple staff members, who'd also been here for those 12 years, and close family, Haley was married to Wilcox. And unknown to everyone but her and Wilcox was that she was incredibly turned on by her weight, and experienced almost orgasmic levels of pleasure when her massive stomach was stuffed with food.

Currently she was constantly being fed, 24/7/365, a caloric heavy, high nutrient feed through the tube to keep her gargantuan stomach at least somewhat filled so she didn't starve, and to give her the nutrients she needed to stay alive. Of course she still consumed food by mouth. The most amount of pleasure she received in her daily life was when she was eating food. But it was a lot of work for her and she only ate a couple meals a day now.

Haley couldn't talk anymore but she didn't need to. Her life was perfect for her, and she could communicate using her tablet. It was after 8 and she'd just finished her dinner when Wilcox came into her room the largest one in the Intensive Care Unit side. It was quiet and dark other then the soft lights bathing her body in yellow light. He closed the door and crossed to her bed. He touched her swollen cheek and they exchanged kisses.

Then he stepped back to admire his handiwork. No, their handiwork. Haley didn't overflow the Bariatric hospital bed but she filled it comfortably. Her face and head were fat, perched on a double chin that had been spread but now encompassed her trach. Formless breasts cascaded over fold after fold of fat to her massive belly which ran all the way to her knees. Her belly had always been her biggest asset but she didn't really have any small ones. Her legs were formless, deformed by fat, fluid retention, and muscle atrophy and small feet red, puffy, and unmoving, poked out the bottom. She was surrounded by tubes, the tube to breath for her, the tube to feed her, the tubes of the PICC line they administered medications through. The port for her to receive dialysis since her kidneys barely worked. The urinary catheter to take away urine, the rectal tube that took away her fecal matter.

They spent most evenings together, and all day Sundays. Most of it was just being close, watching TV or movies together. Once in a while, for old times sake, he'd feed her but it exhausted her easily. And once in a while, if she had the energy they'd...

Tonight he could tell, she had the energy. She confirmed it when he got close and she grabbed his crotch with her fat swollen fingers. He couldn't access her vagina anymore but he really didn't care. That's what vibrators are for. It was a bit of a struggle to get her's placed through the fat of her thighs and belly but he manged it and turned it on. Then he got undressed and started to fuck her belly button. She had a big deep belly button and he loved it. The huge expanse of her belly flowed around him, jiggling with each thrust.

When he'd finished, and gotten her cleaned up he relaxed in the chair listening to the hiss hiss of the ventilator breathing for her. And contemplated. Her health was bad, terminally bad, but he didn't really know how long she could live like this. Everything was stable. Her heart was the only organ he couldn't really treat and it was still going strong, with no evidence of problems. Unlike so many of his patients. He was interrupted by the tablet's computerized "I want to show you something"

He got up and looked. The tablet read:
"I want to be 1000lbs again. There's something magical about being half a ton, 4 figures. I miss it. I want to try. Do you want me to?"
Wilcox didn't say anything at first. There was no reason too. He turned up the speed that the tube feeding was being administered to her by and gave her a kiss. "Yes." He said. "But I need you to eat three meals a day like the good little land whale you are."
That got him a heavy nod and a tight smile.

Family Traditions

Present Day Christmas:

"Kylie are you ready?" I ask sticking my head into the bedroom. A look tells me she's almost ready. Her massive cellulite ridden ass is covered in a threadbare pair of panties, and she's working on sitting on the edge of our sagging queen sized bed to start on her pants.

"I'll be done faster if you give me a hand." She pants. "But why do we need to go to your parents for Christmas?" She whines the last sentence.

I bend down, get her pants around her ankles and then up. I offer her a hand and she heavily pulls herself to her feet and pulls her pants up the rest of the way. She takes a few breaths and says "I'm too fat for this shit. That's all."

I come close to her and pull her close for a hug. She knows what I like, and she rarely gets bothered by her size. But she's at a weight now where going out and doing things is a lot of work and she hates physical activity. "Kylie." I hold her. "I love every inch and ounce of you." All 5'6" (167cm) and 482lbs (218kg) of her. "You're perfect."

Still a little huffy, either with me or the situation, Kylie takes her cane and leaning on it slowly starts to waddle towards the front door. I follow behind enjoying the sight of her massive ass cheeks jiggling in her pants. Kylie takes the ramp leading down to the sidewalk slowly and carefully, as it's a bit steep.

We make it out to the car and Kylie gingerly gets into the car, panting heavily, her belly and saggy breasts rising and falling under the tent like hoodie she's wearing. I get in the drivers seat and head to McDonalds to get Kylie some lunch to tide her over till dinner time, while Kylie removes a cigarette from a battered pack, and lights up, taking a drag. About twenty minutes later, as we're driving down the highway and Kylie swallows her last bite of Big Mac she says "You never answered my question."

I blink at the road and then at her. She's lighting another cigarette. "I'm sorry?" I ask. "What question."

No longer annoyed, thanks to food in her belly, nicotine in her blood stream (with more on the way) and the knowledge that we'll have an excellent meal, she exhales a drag, hacks once, and wheezes slightly while she takes a couple deep breaths. Finally she says "I asked, why do we have to go to your parents for Thanksgiving? Why can't they come to our place for once?"

Christmas, 20 years in the past

I remember being ten years old and showing up to my Aunt and Uncle's. I'm carrying our contribution to the feast, as is Dad and brother. Mom is carrying herself, a little out of breath from the short walk from the car to the door. Uncle Don is in his Big Chair, big enough for me and my brother to sit in side by side. He fills it completely, his big belly not only rounding out his shirt, but his overstretched sweatpants, and he overflows the sides of his massive armchair. He's out of breath and I wonder if he just got back from the bathroom. He only goes two places, the bathroom or his chair.

Mom gets settled on the couch and we go off to play with our cousins. Eventually my brother disappears upstairs too. Like all family meals there's plenty of food from the moment you walk in the door, but you're expected to clean your plate at dinner too.

When they call us I find my brother finishing a plate of snacks. Uncle Don and Mom are going to sit in the living room with Aunt Clara and Dad. And my adult Cousin Shelly and her husband.

Shelly is sitting in a large wheelchair, her legs are swollen and huge, and her gut fills her lap under a large blouse. Her face is a round fat circle, with a fat forehead and double chin.

I watch Dad bring mom a plate completely loaded down with food, and watch as Mom's eyes widen and sparkle, and she kisses dad. Uncle Don is getting two plates, one completely full of mashed potatoes. He's still out of breath and he tucks into his food between grunts. By the time dinner is done I'm full, and Uncle Don is sweating slightly. He belches and looks at Aunt Clara. "Pie?"

While in the kitchen helping my Dad plate pie for Mom and Uncle Don I ask "Why do we always have Christmas at Uncle Don's and Aunt Clara's?"

Dad pauses for a moment and looks at me. "Well you see" he says "It's hard for your Uncle to get around. So when you were really little we decided that whoever had the most trouble getting around would host. That way they could still see everyone."

Christmas, Present Day

Kylie pulls herself out of the car with a grunt. She'd accepted my explanation but had immediately lit up another cigarette afterwards. I'd found that odd. Years of smoking, not to mention her weight and associated health problems, have ruined Kylie's endurance and it's extremely rare for her to smoke two or more cigarettes in a row. One of the things I love about Kylie is that she just doesn't care. Her favorite saying is "I'm here for a good time, not a long time."

The house smells of food. Mom's propped up in her bed completely supported by pillows and the back of the hospital bed. She's 56 now and looks like hell. All of us know Mom doesn't have much longer, and have known it since her first heart attack 5 years ago. I'm not sure if this is the last Christmas here or if we've got another year. Unlike Cousin Shelly and her husband who hosted for 14 years, 9 of them featuring a bedbound Shelly, Mom's health has been getting worse since she was rendered immobile after they placed several more stents a year ago following another heart attack. She's pale with dark circles around her eyes, she's gasping for air despite wearing a nasal cannula, and her voice is distorted, in the way only a massively fat person's voice can be. It's a mumble, hard to understand, like fat is pressing on her windpipe. When Shelly died unexpectedly she had become quite heavy, but Mom is almost a blob in the bed. She's covered with a sheet, and is completely motionless except for her head and forearms which are bringing snacks or her drink to her mouth.

We're the last to arrive. My brother is there already, sitting on the couch with his wife. She's probably closing in on 350lbs (158kg). My sister waddles out from the kitchen carrying cookies. She's been helping care for mom these last few years, and sharing mom's diet hasn't made her thinner. My sister's told me that Mom's gained almost 60lbs (27kg), and almost all of it's gone into her massive belly, which rolls out from in front of her. Kylie gratefully sinks into Mom's old standing assist recliner, her huge ass filling it completely. Aunt Clara is there talking quietly with Shelly's husband Chuck.

I get up and get some snacks for Kylie who's chatting with Mom and my sister in law. I'm watching Kylie of course. She's snacking constantly with mom, even outpacing her, although that might have to do with Mom's difficulty breathing. Dad announces a half hour to dinner and Kylie reaches for the chair's remote control. "Can you help me stand?" She asks. I go and give her a hand and Kylie says "I'll be right back in." I follow Kylie out to the porch, knowing she'll need help off the bench.

Kylie takes out a prerolled blunt and takes a hit. "Mmmmmm." She sighs and then she opens her eyes again. She offers me the blunt and I take a hit myself before handing it back. Kylie takes another hit and then asks "Can we host next?"

I hesitate and then I look at her. She's smiling at me, giving me a glimpse of her yellowed teeth. And I realize she knew.

Christmas, 6 years in the past

"Merry Christmas!" Shelly greets us from her bed. We're early and her husband is still finishing up getting her clean. Apparently Shelly had to use the bathroom right before we got there. Shelly grins at Mom. "You look wonderful!"

Shelly has been bedbound for 5 years now and every time I see her she looks more and more filled out. Her legs have developed into formless blobs from fat and lymphodema. One huge mass at her thigh is red and angry, and one of her calves is bandaged tightly. Shelly is covered back up for modesty sake. Not really her's since she doesn't really have any.

I introduce Kylie, who sits her 280lbs (127kg) on a kitchen chair. Her butt slightly overlaps at the edges. Shelly, a sort of stoner type, is clearly high. Kylie and her start talking quietly. I go to help in the kitchen and as I walk out I see Kylie and her with their heads together. 

We eat dinner, and I help clean up. Aunt Clara gets up and leaves early, citing a long drive home. But when she's gone we speculate as to whether it's her new boyfriend, a man who lives in the bariatric wing of a nursing home near her house.
Mom and Dad leave early with my brother, his fiance, and my sister. Shelly glances at me and says "Why don't you help Chuck put the leftovers away." I take the hint and I leave them alone. I glance over my shoulder before stepping through the kitchen door and Kylie is leaning towards Shelly, who's actually pushed herself off the supporting pillows and is leaning forward. 

Christmas, Present Day

I look at Kylie. "It's almost considered a curse."  I say. "The family that hosts... Well their the ones who're going to have the next loss."
Kylie, opens her mouth, closes it, and starts coughing. It's a painful sounding, wet cough, and she spits over the porch. Then she says "Bullshit, Shelly hosted for how long?" She reaches and takes my hand. "I'm your little piggy remember. And I want to be shown off, in my home pen someday." She's smiling her naughty smile, the smile that made me fall in love with her, and she's deliberately using fetish talk to drive me up the wall. Her hand grips my crotch. "Besides my love, I'm in no rush. But if you make me come all the way to your parents when I'm past 600lbs I'll never forgive you."
"You don't need to keep gaining if..."
"Oh shut it." Kylie says, her hand still rubbing my crotch. "We both know I'm never going to be able to stop and I really don't care. I'm hear for a good time, not a long time, remember?"

Christmas, Near Future

"They're here!" I announce to Kylie. I return the Nitro to my pocket, having given one to Kylie. She's been experiencing chest pains lately, and the nitro's become important to keeping her healthy. She's sitting upright in her bariatric hospital bed, her ass spread out under the sheets, her legs with their fat swollen thighs in front of her. Her belly, never her best feature has grown into it's own in the last two years and fills her lap completely with stretchmarked flab. Two hours of hard work and Kylie smells of baby powder and deodorant instead of her usual sweat, BO, and piss. Kylie smiles broadly and holds out a hand with nicotine stained fingers to greet Susan, my brother's wife, and my sister, with her new boyfriend. Sarah's painstakingly waddling towards Kylie, her massive belly filling the front of her pants, and I can see exposed skin where her shirt is supposed to overlap her pants. My sister turns her bariatric rollator walker around and carefully sits down for a breather, the ramp into the house is steep. Everyone starts to get seated, with us feeders and enablers, filling plates with snacks for our gainers and feedees. Kylie reaches for a cookie, and takes a few deep breaths off her nasal cannula.

As the meal concludes and people start to drift out soon it's only Kylie and Sarah. Kylie looks at me with a twinkle in her eye. "Why don't you men go clean up, and get us some pie." She says. I see my sister look up and smile. And I know that Sarah is about to be let in on the family secret. I beckon to the room at large. "Come on guys, let's go get dessert ready." As I look back, Kylie is sitting forward, panting with the exertion of moving by herself. Her cannula is out of her nose, and she has a lit cigarette in her hand. Before I step into the kitchen I can see them with their heads together.