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.
