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."

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.

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.

Practically Immobile

CW: Scat, obesity related health issues

I need to pee. Badly. I also need to shit. I am terrified. It's currently around noon on a Tuesday, the actual hours have no meaning for me anymore. And Mondays and Tuesdays I don't have help. The carers come the rest of the week and weekend to help me but not on these two days. My insurance won't give me enough money to afford it. In a perfect world I would get one at all times, 12 hours a day, and a second one for "active times" for me the morning when I need to be bathed and my skin care routine accomplished. But I need two for the whole period because my needs are so great and my health so poor. On Monday's my brother picks up money and goes shopping, and in an emergency he can clean up after an accident. But on Tuesdays I have no one. If I use the chux pads under me, the highly absorbent pads for collecting human waste, I'm sunk until tomorrow. If I can't get up to change them, then I will be sitting in a puddle of my own urine for the next 24 hours. The only option is the commode.

Made of white plastic with a reported weight capacity of 1000lbs the commode is situated right next to my bed. I look at it, sitting there, stalwart, so close I can touch it with my right hand. I can see the basin, it's about 1/8th full from my 4am pee. I don't sleep well at night anymore. But that was nearly 8 hours ago and my bladder is sending stabbing pains through my belly. I can't hold it anymore, but I hate moving. On days when I have caregivers I don't even use it, it sits on the far side of the room. I just have the caregivers put me on a bed pan and change the chux pads under me.

The problem for me is my massive belly. When I stand, it drops below my knees and pulls my back down. My knees, hips, and back constantly ache from the weight pressing on them. Making matters worse is my general weakness. I have a bad heart, one of the many issues caused by my high concentration of abdominal fat, so I've spent most of the last two years in bed. At first I could still get to the other side of the house, but now, I can barely make it onto the commode. I take a deep breath, trying to get my supplemental oxygen deep into my lungs and then I reach for the bed remote. I've found that the most comfortable position for my body, or the least uncomfortable anyway. I stay at a 70 degree angle in the bed, this helps my lungs, but it's laid down enough that most of my weight is removed from my back. I sit the bed up as high as it will got and then lean forwards.

I try to slide my butt forwards but I can't budge it loose, my weight has pinned my ass to the bed. All I succeed in doing is forcing out a rancid fart. I'm already gasping. I pause to take another deep breath and then rock myself onto my side. In a desperate convulsive movement I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I push myself into a sitting position gasping for air. The fluid in my lungs from my congestive heart failure, and my lungs are already crushed by fat, is giving me trouble. I cough and some of the wet mucus comes up. My breathing is terrible, and my heart is pounding in my chest. I fucking hate having to move.

I push myself to the side of the bed, getting my feet on the ground. My belly flows over my knees and pulls my back forward, breasts loose and dangling. I take another deep breath and my bladder aches. I need to get onto the commode NOW. I grab the two multi point canes next to the bed and force myself to stand, but I can't do it. My legs just can't seem to do it. I'm going to pee in a moment, whether I want to or not, and I don't want to think of getting my sensitive overstretched skin on my legs getting pee on them, not to mention getting pee all over my bed. I rock back and forth and then, in one desperate convulsive motion, I begin to stand. My boobs slap together. It's slow for most people but terrifyingly fast for me. Another fart bursts out. Pain fills my body, and I take a step, crushing an abandoned chip bag. Agony shoots through my back and knees. I'm gasping, and practically crying in pain. I take a second step, turning slightly. I'm terrified of falling. My massive belly and atrophied legs make balancing difficult. I gasp, looking behind me, adjust my direction a bit, and then collapse onto the commode. My dangling breasts slap back against my chest. I'm practically crying from the pain. I allow my bladder to loosen and gasp in relief. I also decide to empty my bowels and feel the shit sliding out of my butt.

My fat belly is still dragging down on me, bending me forwards, and I'm still struggling to breath. That small amount of exercise has left me sweating and my heart is pounding in my chest. I gasp "I'm not sure how much longer I can keep doing this" to myself. I fart again, and realize that other then a few drops of pee I'm done. Which is good because the hard plastic of the commode is causing me more pain. I grab onto one of the bed rails and lean over on my left cheek. I take baby wipes and wipe as best as I can using a long stick made for the purpose, with the wipes secured to the end. I take a break on the commode for just a moment and then I use the bed remote to lay my bed flat. Its easier to get back into bed. I pick my butt up off the commode a couple inches and then pivot before sitting, half on the commode, partially on the bed. I adjust my footing and repeat till I'm sitting in bed. I then lay back and grab the bedrails and begin pulling myself up with my arms and pushing up with my legs. I can't roll onto my front because my belly's simply to big. So I drag myself up the bed. I can tell when I reach the perfect spot when my ass cheeks finally fit into the indentation they've worn in my mattress. I can't sit up anymore and begin to lift the bed, the fat in my chest and fluid in my lungs suficating me. Finally, once I'm back in my 70 degrees of comfort I allow a sob to escape my lips. I can smell the shit in the commode but I'm used to it. My folds chronically reek too so what difference does it make?

I can't believe I'm this out of shape that going to the toilet is nearly impossible. I rip open a bag of Cheetos and eat several handfuls. I'm starving from the exercise and... something else. I belch and then reach to the small bag on the bed railing holding several essentials, like my phone. I pull out my vibrator and then force my hand under my warm belly, smearing cheese across it. It's a struggle to find my clit because of all my built up fat but I force myself to continued. My immobility and just general obesity has really turned me on. I put another handful of Cheetos in my mouth with my left hand and then rub my left nipple with my stained hand. I gasp in pleasure, wheezing from the exertion. I'm practically immobile, extremely obese and unhealthy, potentially with mere months left in my life, and I'm loving every minute.

These four walls

For the last two years this room has been my world.

It's not a bad room, it's got windows that look over the park next door. It's painted a rather pleasant cream color, or it was the walls are now a rather tan/yellow. There's a flatscreen TV mounted to the wall with cable, and a video game console. I have a desktop computer, with the tower underneath my bedside table and the monitor mounted to a swingout arm on the wall next to my bed, and the bluetooth keyboard works pretty good.

I am massively obese. The last weight I had, two years ago when they put me in this bed was 711 pounds. I've probably put on at least a hundred more though. All I do is lay in this bed, and eat, and smoke, and eat. I probably don't have much longer left but I've accepted that. I actually enjoy being fat, being able to eat as much as I want, and having everything done for me.

All I've ever known my whole life was fat. I was born fat, to fat parents, in a fat Mississippi town, and then moved north to work in IT where I was surrounded by fat coworkers. Eventually I switched to online and phone tech support from my house because it was too hard to go outside and walk to my office. I downsized to an apartment. One day at my doctors, they found numerous fungal infections, and my blood pressure and blood sugar were out of control. I qualified for disability and moved into a different apartment, one in a handicap accessible building, where the rent is subsidized for disabled tenants. Needless to say about 2/3s of us were obese with 15% being disabled by their size.

The special day for me was when I found out my caregiver Macy was an FFA. One day she found me struggling to pleasure myself and just offered to help. Now she's my full time carer, lives with me, and takes care of everything. Macy is tiny, 5'0 and maybe 100 pounds.

Before she moved in full time, which was two months ago, I still moved around some, from my bed, to the living room, and the bathroom and kitchen. Most of the time I used my motorized wheelchair and limited my walking as much as possible. But one day I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't breath so good either and no matter what couldn't stand. Macy called 911 and I was dragged from bed, onto a too narrow stretcher and to the hospital. The doctors told me that everything was high that shouldn't be, from blood pressure and blood sugar to cholesterol. They told me that with my smoking I was lucky I could still breath. They told me to take my new doses of medication, quit smoking, and start loosing weight or I was living on borrowed time.
When the ambulance crew brought me back inside my apartment, with the new nasal cannula giving me oxygen and I saw my new bariatric bed against the wall I knew I wouldn't be loosing weight.

Now I lie here in my bed in the old living room, Macy has my old bedroom, and does all my cares. All I do for myself is eat and smoke. She wipes me, bathes me, gives me my insulin shots, and all the rest. She's small but muscular, and I get so hard when I feel her hard little body pressing into my  soft overflowing body. When I poop and she's wiping me with one tiny hand pressing into my massive butt cheeks I get sharp little pangs of pleasure in my chest. Every week she changes the catheter and that the day we make love. Sometimes its just a handjob, but sometimes she strips naked and lets me massage her tiny breasts, (Each one of my moobs is three times the size of her breasts) and she'll push my belly to the side and then rub her groin against my fatpad till my hidden penis become hard enough for her to find it. With only two inches exposed she has to do a lot of work for me to penetrate her.

Today I lie here, the smoke from my ever present cigarette drifting upwards, debris from my latest feast, which like all of them has a mix of good foods, like veggies (In massive amounts) and fattening deserts scattered about. The window is open, to try to let some of my funk out. Sweat pools in my folds, saturating into the rolled up towel under my massive gut. I pant, like I always do, and try not to worry about running out of food. Macy is off getting more food. I've shit myself, but I hardly notice anymore, Macy will come and wipe me down and change the chux pads, accidents happen. I belch and notice that it echos off of the four walls.

Hidden Away 1

"So you understand this requires the GREATEST of discretion."

Julie kept a straight face while internally rolling her eyes. Rich people more worried about their public image then their disabled relative. She responded "Sir I value your privacy but my first priority is always going to be the care of my patient. I promise that your privacy will be second only to that." So there, she thought. Julie was 25 years old, 5'-9" tall, curvy, with brown hair and honest brown eyes. She had 32D breasts and a tight wide ass. She was the embodiment of the perfect hourglass figure outside of a small belly, which was barely visible. She was currently single, and worked in healthcare first as a caregiver and now as a CNA (Certified Nursing Assistant) to make ends meet after she'd been kicked loose from her foster home at her 18th birthday. She had no family she knew about, although she'd been told her mother had been an alcoholic who'd abandoned her at the hospital. She had been told about this job by her boss at the Brooklyn Rehab Center.

"That's good." The man rubbed his forehead. "You see our current caregiver is leaving us in two days. It's our son." He paused again.

Julie forced herself not to roll her eyes. Did they think they were the only ones in the whole world with a disabled son?

"He's super morbidly obese, like to the point he can't walk very far, and needs assistance with just about everything. So..." Pause.

The woman stepped in. "Do you have any experience with heavier people?"

Julie said "Yes." Her mind changing gears from a severely disabled adult to one who was fat, "When I was working at Brooklyn Rehab I worked in the bariatric care section."

"Do you have any problems working alone?"

"No. Not if your son can stand and walk."

"He's extremely limited in his movements. It's a very difficult situation for us as a family."

"I understand. Are you currently working on a weight loss program?"

"NO!" The man snapped. "It's his choice."

"You see" the woman stepped in. "We don't want you to strain your relationship with the boy by pressuring him. That's our job as his parents. We just need you to help care for him since my husband and I have very full schedules."

"Not a problem." Julie said "If all I have to do is assist with personal care that makes my job much easier."

"Remember complete confidentiality. In the circles we move in our son's... condition would create many problems, including the bad publicity for my corporation."

"Not a problem" Julie answered.

"Good. Now some lifestyle questions. These have nothing to do with you getting the job or not. Do you drink alcohol?"

"Not often. Only socially and never very much."

"Do you smoke?"

"Yes."

"Did you take smoking breaks at your last job?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Have you ever tried drugs?"

"No, my family raised me very well in that regard."

"Okay. Are you married or in a relationship?"

"No."

"Religious?"

"Yes, but not often."

"Thank you for humoring me. In case you were wondering I was curious as to whether or not anything in your personal life would need... adjusting on our end. Childcare for instance. As it appears the only thing to do is to offer you the job. The hours are 8am to 6pm 5 days a week with Tuesdays and Saturdays off, although if you're in town we need you to be on call for an emergency."

*************
Madison was a heavyset African American woman in her 30s with slabs of excess poundage on her thighs and bottom giving her what would have been a majestic waddle if she didn't move so fast. Instead it was sort of a penguin looking waddle as she shuffled along rapidly, talking over her shoulder. "So Max is a very sweet guy. I really wish I could stay on but I got this great job offer with a good raise and they'll pay for my LPN license"

They were on the far wing of the mansion on the ground floor. The house, shaped like an 'L' was perched on top of a hill but then the builders had dug into the hill creating a large basement that opened onto a small gravel circle behind the main house looking over a river. They were in the bottom arm of the 'L', the part that opened onto the back of the house and a hidden driveway. It had been created, Madison explained, as a deluxe suite for either a live in servant, a temporary residence for corporation employees, or a family member who wanted to be partially separate from the rest of the family. Say an in-law. Now it was being used as the exclusive residence for Max. His bed, and indeed world, were in the living room, a massive room with floor to ceiling glass windows, his bed where he spent most of his time. To the right was a large open area. To the left of his bed was the commode he used, and next to it his oversized wheelchair. He was snoring and Madison led Julie back to the office that they had. It used to be the bedroom but now there was just a narrow bed, a small TV, a desk with PC, landline phone, and neat stacks of paper. Julie sat on the bed and Madison plopped into the chair and explained.

Max's Father owned a massive healthcare conglomeration. Everything from Medical Supply, to nursing homes, including Brooklyn Rehab, to an Ambulance/Wheelchair Van Transport company. Because of that word getting out that his son, who would have been the heir to the company, wasn't disabled, which was the unofficial story, but extremely life threatenly obese, BY CHOICE, and he'd be the laughing stock of the healthcare world. Or so he thought. Personally Madison didn't think anyone would care.

Madison showed her around the rest of the suite and told her that she should park her car on the gravel circle, (There was a wide spot specifically for the purpose), showed her the walk in closet with spare equipment, like a power wheelchair, and medical supplies, told her that deliveries came through the garage, and into the closet through a door put in specifically for the purpose. They weren't to see Max because word might get out. Inside the garage was a minivan with a wheelchair ramp. Madison explained that the vehicle's suspension had been modified to handle up to a thousand extra pounds. Madison also explained the weight limits. Max was believed to be in the neighborhood of 675-700 pounds. While the manual wheelchair next to the bed was rated up to 850lbs, the motorized one, the one he used if he went out in the van, or upstairs to spend time with his family, was rated at 650lbs which meant Max was at or above the maximum weight limit for the chair so she was to be very careful helping him into it. All this was explained to her outside, just around the corner from the top of the bottom arm of the "L." Essentially where the period is while they took a cigarette break. There was a picnic table and ashcan all set up.

As for food the kitchenette was stockpiled with snacks. Three meals a day for him were prepared by the cook in the kitchen but snacks in between and beverages were her responsibility. Madison advised her to check on the supplies and order replacements at least every other day. There was a pad of scratch paper next to a laminated list of what to have on hand.

Finally she introduced her to Max. She immediately liked him. He had a charming smile and was surprisingly clean, although he did have the smell her trained healthcare senses associated with super morbidly obese patients, the smell of old urine, feces, and sweat. He told her "you're in charge except for when I eat and when I go to the bathroom. Otherwise we do what you say."

Madison supervised her for the rest of the day. Julie handled it just fine. Max was strong enough to stand and pivoted to the commode by himself and only needed to be cleaned up afterwords, something he was incapable of doing. Julie could understand why he'd need help after number two but then she found that only the head of his penis was visible with the rest buried inside his pubic fat. Madison was going on to say "Occasionally he has... accidents..." When Max jumped in saying "Sometimes I stuff myself with so much food I can't move. Sometimes when I do that I piss or shit myself because I just can't hold it, I'm working to hard on not throwing up." And he winked at her. See what I mean about a sense of humor?

Outside as they were smoking one last cigarette together and Madison said "If you have any questions give me a call. I'll be happy to come back and cover for you on vacation or something."

"Who takes care of him on my days off?"

"I don't know. I believe his mother helps out although I don't know who cleans him."

********
Inside Max lay on his bed smiling. He couldn't believe it, he got a super hot care assistant to look after him. He couldn't wait!

Wilcox Farms 1

Amber's first appearance: http://fatallyobese.blogspot.com/2017/02/amber-at-home-fiction.html

Amber winced as the ambulance bounced again. It had been a rough thirty minutes for her. The EMTs had been nice but her oversized body was suffering. An EMT spoke "We're here." Amber signed the paperwork and they pulled into a garage.

She was taken out and then inside. A head poked out from the security office and gave them a Look. The EMT gave it her name, and the head disappeared. It appeared again a moment later and told them, "Intake 6." The EMTs turned corners, following the signs. They moved down wide hallways, past large common areas, and as they passed the cafeteria Amber's stomach growled. They turned another corner and they were in Unit 6. The intake room was right next to the Unit 6 entrance and they turned inside. It was a big bare room with expensive medical equipment lined against a wall. Several staff members breezed inside as the EMTs set their cot up next to a medical transport stretcher with built in scale. Someone tared it. While the scale was resetting A nurse introduced herself to Amber "Hi, I'm Ruby I'll be your nurse, okay?"

The scale beeped. The hovermatt air pump was hooked up and the mattress under Amber filled with air and the eight people in the room slid her from the ambulance stretcher to the hospital bed. The air was released with a rush and the EMTs stuck around long enough to copy down the weight before they vanished. "1410 kilograms" someone mummered. The door opened and a good looking curvy woman walked in. She walked over to her and said "I'm Doctor Marlow, I'm the admitting physician. Welcome to the Farms. We're going to run down a questionnaire with you, then we'll give you a little bit of a briefing on what is going to happen and give you something to eat. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

The first questions were pretty standard questions, past surgeries, allergies, both medications and food, and then the doctor stopped. "Okay so here's where you need to be completely accurate and honest with us. Include as many details as possible. The answers to these questions are the basis for your treatment plan here. Understood?"

"Yes."

"When was the last time you left your house alone?"

"2-3 years?"

"Are you currently able to walk by yourself, without any ambulatory aids?"

"No."

"Are you currently able to stand and pivot to a wheelchair or commode alone?"

"No."

"Are you currently able to bathe yourself?"

"No."

"Can you sit up by yourself?"

"Not really. I can do it occasionally but it tires me out. Usually I use the bed remote."

"Are you currently able to clean yourself after using the toilet?"

"No."

"Are you currently able to stand by yourself?"

"No."

"Would you say you are bed confined from your weight?"

"Yes."

"Are you able to stand at all? Even with help?"

"Maybe. I couldn't stand up from the commode that's why I went to the hospital."

"It says you use a CPAP at night. Can you breath on your own when lying flat on your back?"

"Not for long. After a couple minutes it gets very difficult."

"How much food do you eat on a daily basis?"

"I..."

"Take your time and try not to miss anything."

"I drink maybe two two liter bottles of soda a day, I eat like 3 or four big meals..."

"Specify please."

"Like a big omelette for breakfast, with 4 or 5 eggs, cheese, 5 sausage links, 5 slices of bacon, and yogurt." Amber paused for thought. "Then I have snacks for the morning, it varies but a bag of chips and some candy usually. Then lunch. My husband comes home. I'll eat like a couple foot long subs, chips, and an apple or something. Usually I make him leave me with some ice cream for desert. Then for dinner it's like 5 hot dogs, or like 3/4s of a meatloaf."

"If that a typical day?"

"Yes. But there's somedays I go on binges and just can't stop eating. I ate three half pound cheese burgers the day before I went to the hospital and..." Amber was tearing up.

"Don't worry about that right now. We'll work on that. We're just trying to get an idea of how much you eat so we know how much to feed you. We don't want you to starve."

"Who is your primary caretaker?"

"My husband."

"Any children?"

"No."

"Any family members who are morbidly obese."

"My mother was, and my sister is, but she's not as big as me."

"Alright. Now we're going to do the least favorite part of the intake for every one of our new residents. We're going to clean you and give you a physical exam. It's going to be very invasive and more then likely painful. You're going to be on the bath table flat on your back but Respiratory will have you on your CPAP. We're going to be getting rather rough with you because we don't want you to bring any bacteria in that may be on your skin from the hospital."

Amber took a deep breath. "Alright."

They used the hovermatt to slid her over to the bath table. It hard durable plastic, about 8 feet wide. There were tiny holes drilled into it underneath Amber and gutters ran alongside the table to collect water. There were railings that could go up and they helped her roll onto her right side, then to her left, long enough for them to get the hovermatt out. Then they began. Under the direction of Ruby, the CBRN (Certified Bariatric Registered Nurse) they began to clean Amber. Meanwhile Dr. Marlow, had been joined by Dr. Wilcox and they began to examine every inch of Amber while the nurses cleaned. First her hair, telling her to focus on her breathing, smiling at her from behind their face masks and eye protection, disposable gowns swishings as they moved. Hair, face, chin, arms. The doctors had her do dexterity tests. The CBRN and CNAs then started with her feet. The doctors were concerned about diabetic ulcers but there were none. The wounds on her legs, where fluid had built up and her skin had split from the strain, where cleaned and redressed. They stopped and spread her legs apart gently and then two lifted her heavy double belly. Marlow immediatly began palapting around her FUPA and gave her a brief vaginal exam. The CNAs continued cleaning, the smell of the deep fat folds that hadn't been adequately cleaned in months filled the room. Doctor Wilcox examined the underside of her belly inside the folds looking for fungal infections. Once they were finished they wiped down her saddlebags and the outside of her hips, where they flowed from underneath her belly.

Amber waved to get attention and Dr. Wilcox said "Yes?"

Amber tried to talk but could only wheeze as almost all of her 650 pounds pressed on her chest.

"Say again?"

"I need to" [gasp] "piss."

Wilcox waved the CNA who was about to move her leg back to the center away. "Just go. And if you need have a bowel movement now would work too."

So she did. While the CNAs washed the surface of her belly and her breasts she emptied her bowels and her bladder onto the table, although one CNA did grab some of the urine for a urine sample. She could feel her shit smearing underneath her and against the table. When they rolled her the table and her massive ass where rinsed first then carefully washed with them forcing the massive cheeks aside to clean deeply inside.

Bathing completed they then dried her, powdered every fold, and used antifungal cream under her breasts and inside a fold on her right leg. They rolled her back onto a hovermatt, not the same one the EMTs had used, and moved her back to the transport stretcher, sitting her up. She was taken back to the Admit room. She was disconnected from the CPAP and then they started doing everything else. Labs were drawn, an EKG preformed, blood pressures taken, and lungs listened too. Then her legs were tightly wrapped to force the liquid from her legs back into her abdomin. The plan was to force it up there where it could be eliminated natrually. She was then catherized, the plastic tube stuck up her urethra and into her bladder, where it was flushed with sterile water. It was all done rapidly and with her completely nude. Finally she was covered in a massive hospital gown and the team wheeled her down the hallway. Another move and she was in a massive comfortable bariatric bed. She was rolled to get the hovermatt out from underneath her, there was another between the fitted sheet and the mattress, and left alone for a few moments to catch her breath.

A knock on the door and Doctor Wilcox, in his late 30s, tall, and muscular, with glasses and a slight stoop, walked in, tailed by a younger man carrying a tray, and shook her hand. "I'm Doctor Wilcox the Director. Welcome."

"Thank you." Amber mummered, focusing on the tray as it was placed before her. The lid was removed revealing 3 large slabs of lasagna. The young man disappeared.

"Go ahead and eat." Wilcox said with a grin. "I'll get my speech out of the way while you do. We specialize in what we call Living Large. Our goal isn't to starve you until you loose weight. We're going to start you off at quantities of food that you're used to and we'll start to scale you back. It will be healthier food then you normally eat. I find that a lot of patient's are suffering from vitamin deficiencies and we're going to give you tablets at first, but we hope to maintain healthy vitamin levels by natural means. I've got a basic plan here and we'll adjust it as we move along. Basically we want to get you out of bed, just to stand at first, and eventually to turn and pivot to a wheelchair or commode. First with assistance and then alone. We'll also start managing your health problems better then before by adjusting your medications weekly. Our long term goal is for you to walk out of here to continue your weight loss at home. All this will start tomorrow. Starting tomorrow we'll be putting you on a fluid restriction as well so we can measure urinary output. Any questions?"

Amber shook her head, still devouring the lasagna. Wilcox smiled, taking in her massive pear shaped frame one last time before heading out of the room. He was going to meet his wife for dinner.