The McLean Family 2 - Actively Enabling

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

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

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

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

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

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

The McLean Family 1 - Using the Bathroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Personal Care Assistant Part One: Meeting Galena

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"You reek like cigarettes."

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

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

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!

Past and Present - SSBBW

Past:
    She grew up in a small cheap apartment complex in a rough neighborhood. Her life revolved around food. Her father lusted after her mother, with her wide hips and sagging gut, her painfully stiff waddle. When he came home he’d make sure she and her daughters had plenty to eat then he ate a small portion and drank himself oblivious, chainsmoking cheap cigarillos throughout. More often then not when drunk he’d become aroused, he’d come up behind her mother, with his zipper open and member posed, then pull down her pants or lift up her dress and bend her over the counter, or a table, whichever was handiest, and he’d proceed to have intercourse. Having gained release he’d stagger into the bedroom to pass out. Her mother never complained, never wearing underwear at home, and usually wearing dresses for ease of access.
    Her parents were incredible chainsmokers, which contributed to the funk of the house. All her early memories feature her massively obese mother squinting through clouds of tobacco smoke from the eternal cigarette in the corner of her mouth, that only disappeared when she ate.
    Her father was a good provider, food was never scarce and the girls were encouraged to eat their fill. His sons were encouraged to eat the minimum, to save more for their mother, who ate the most, and their sisters, and to “keep them in trim to be good strong providers” someday.
    Her mother was a short but incredibly wide woman. Her hips, legs, butt, upper arms, belly and thighs made her practically circular. Her belly reached to her knees but her butt provided a good counterweight. As the years passed and the weight bore on her frame she began to stay in bed or sit on the couch all day snacking. The couch was never preferred as her father would come home and after drinking himself oblivious and then her father would struggle to find her holes and be unable to preform. But as she lay in bed, he could early lift one of her legs, lift her belly, or have her roll over, and then “use her as providence intended” as he always said.

Present:
    She lives in a small crummy house on the edge of a bad neighborhood. Food is everything. Fast food, traditional ethnic food, homemade food, anything edible, she needs to eat. Only then can she reward her feeder with hard work, at least in a way that’s comfortable for them, as she is no longer able to get wet without a full stomach. Originally, probably like her mother, the simple touch to her privates would get her dripping. Access is a challenge now as she’s plagued by lymphoma in her legs, her stomach pools in her lap, and folds from her thighs and butt intertwine around her pussy.
    Her feeder is a good provider to her with a good job, good benefits, and enough money to keep good food, medications, cigarettes and hygiene supplies well stocked, their job pays them well and her feeder can do much of it from home, allowing them to assist her as she needs them.
    Like her parents she’s a heavy smoker, unlike her mother she smokes to take the edge off her incredibly strong food addiction and her health has suffered. She consumes cigarettes like food, not merely puffing on them, but dragging on them like they’re in short supply. She started much earlier then her mother too and her lungs have been subsequently trashed.
    She’s beautifully pear shaped, although every surface is riddled with stretch marks and cellulite, a belly to the mid thigh level, and massive thick thighs. Her ass is huge, larger then her mothers, and would make a fine shelf if she could stand long enough. Her balance is dreadful as her belly reaches only halfway to her knees, unlike her mothers and the sheer amount of her weight leaves her breathless and gasping in pain with every step.

Past:
    For as long as she can remember her mom needed help. Washing herself, wiping, and getting dressed. She was simply too fat, and too lazy to do them herself. Watching her father washing under her mom’s breasts, caressing her heavy gut as her worked, gave her her definition of true love.
    Her Mothers final years were spent in bed, with her husband, who’d used her and used her, time and again, in private, in front of their children, wherever, as her primary caretaker. Food was still never scarce and her weight ballooned till her cardio-pulmonary system simply gave out from the weight and several undiagnosed medical conditions.   

Present:
    Getting out of bed is no longer feasible. She’s much larger then her mother was, and unlike her mother, since most of her weight is carried in her hips and butt, standing puts her dangerously off balance. Her feeder does everything for her, bathing her rolls, applying lotion to her flesh, and cleaning up her waste. Unlike her mom her medical conditions have been diagnosed and the prognosis is grime. 5-7 years left in her life if she doesn’t turn her life around, the Congestive heart failure, Emphysema, hypertension, and diabetes are killing her. But it hasn’t stopped her from lying back in her bed and stuffing her face with junk food.
    Right now, as her death caused by her unhealthy lifestyle approaches, she’s completely dependent on her feeder. She’s all but immobile, capable of standing and taking a couple steps when she absolutely has too. Her feeder bathes her, powers the folds and spreads lotion across her titanic mountain of flab. Her feeder changes her chux pads and bed pan, wiping her enormous private parts with care while she lies there like a massive mountain of flab, struggling to breath so she can eat that next donut or smoke that next cigarette. It’s her definition of true love.

Past and Present - SSBHM

    His younger sister was born 9 months after Mom and Dad’s 400lbs celebration sex.
    He grew up watching Mom as she lusted after the way Dad moved, his arms held away from his body, belly swaying, wheezing for breath, taking it step by step, thinking “I want my wife to watch me like that.”
    He “shared” some of Dad’s “Snacks” as they sat together on the couch, Dads belly jutting between his massive thighs. 
    He grew up breathing in his father’s smell, the smell of sweat and B.O. that couldn’t seem to get washed away.
    But the scene that probably had the greatest impact on his life happened when he was 13. He was around 140lbs then and sitting in the kitchen. He glanced up as he saw his father scooting forwards on the couch. He saw his father take the plastic urinal and begin fishing around under his belly, gasping from the effort. Finally with a wheeze of success he got the urinal in place and drained his bladder before scooting back on the couch and resuming where he’d left off on a bag of Doritos. It wasn’t till years later that he realized that his father had been struggling to find his penis which was buried deep within his folds having been swallowed inside his father’s fatpad.

Present:

    An overworked GI tract, leading to incredible amounts of flatulence, constant warmth, leading to constant sweating, and the simple mass of fat packed onto his frame making bodily functions difficult, leading to difficulty wiping, have given him a smell all his own.
    He lives for the gentle caresses, ass smacks, and jiggles from his feeder. And when he waddled around a lot more feeling his feeder’s eyes on his massive jiggle ass could make him erect.
    He eats four meals a day, with constant grazing in between. Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, and Supper. Breakfast at 8am, Lunch at 1, Dinner at 5, supper at 8pm. Supper is usually the biggest while dinner is the lightest.
    He’s much fatter then his father. At his Father’s largest he was able to walk from his bed to the bathroom in the corner of his room but for him getting from the bed to the commode next to the bed presents an almost insurmountable challenge.
    At his current size reaching his penis for pleasure or relief is impossible. Even if it wasn't buried deep inside his fatpad his massive belly, which jets out in front of him, pooling around his knees would make it impossible for him to reach with his own hands leaving it to his feeder to dig around under his belly and find it. His feeder has to massage the fat to make it erect so they can find it and that’s how they change the catheter. He’s been to fat for urinals for at least 3 years.

Past:
    Watching his Dad eat was like watching a man at work. Serious, dedicated, a task to be completed. That didn’t stop him from overindulging in delicious mountains of food. To him, food was work, and his work was to become incredibly fat to satisfy the insatiable appetite for massive obesity possessed by his wife.
    At night, unless he was sleeping sitting up on the sofa, a more common sight the heavier he got, his father used a CPAP system to keep his airway open at night. The massive amount of weight in his body had distorted his anatomy making it easy for his airway to close.

Present:

    For him food holds an almost orgasmic pleasure. Each bite lights a spark within him, a warmth, that he needs. Physically this addiction to the orgasmic pleasure he derives from food has destroyed him, with a life expectancy of less then a decade, heart problems and aggressive diabetes, but he still feels the shifting inside his immobile fatpad of his penis becoming erect as he chokes a whole cake down his maw in an effort to satisfy his insatiable addiction to feeling full
    His body lies in its bed, almost too fat even for the two steps to the commode, leaving him to soil himself with the undigested remains of his food. Breathing is a struggle even at the best of times and an oxygen concentrator constantly hums, giving him a stream of life giving oxygen, compensating for the fat that is crushing his lungs making breathing without it almost impossible. He knows, daily, that his death is near, similar to his fathers, a heart attack in bed after a massive meal but inside him the knowledge, and what a scary thought it is, keeps coming up. “What if I never feel full again? I’ll go crazy and die! My feeder might leave me!” Those thoughts, and the instinct of a man born to be a Goliath of adipose drive him to food.

Pinned By Lard - Introduction

Eric, age 30, lay in his bed breathing heavily. Around him the detritus of his day lay scattered. He was in what was formerly the ground floor dining room of a small townhouse, Eric was completely immobile, pinned to his bed by his enormous obesity. Three months ago he'd managed to briefly stand on a scale and it had put his weight at 800lbs even. A week later he'd tried to stand again and been unable to do so. Eric's life expectancy with his weight and health issues was 37 years old.

Eric's body was a shapeless blob. His feet were swollen with fat, his thighs and shins swollen with lyphedema. His hands and arms were weighed down with so much excess adipose tissue that even lifting his hand to his mouth, his only true physical exercise, was a workout. His belly was massive, sitting on his thighs, it would have reached to his knees if he could have stood, covered in stretch marks and discolored skin. His "moobs" perched on top, with a thick layer of excess tissue circling under his arms to his back. Underneath his massive belly his "fat pad" had completely swallowed his penis. His head was sunk into his chest, and his face was completely shapeless. Pale, blotchy, with dark circles under his eyes. He kept his head shaved, and a nasal cannula ran from the oxygen cylinder in the corner of the room, to his shapeless nose. If he were to roll over his back would feature rolls of fat and his buttocks would be a mere shapeless mass of flesh.

Eric had given into the inevitable. He'd allowed his already precarious health to deteriorate completely. Instead of the health of a 30 year old his health was worse then many people three times his age. His list of medical conditions included High Blood Pressure, Rapid Heart Rate, Type 2 Diabetes, Sleep Apnea, Asthma, Gout, Osteoarthritis, Congestive Heart Failure, Lymphedema, Obesity Hypoventilation Syndrome, COPD/Emphysema, fatty liver disease, and Cellulitis. His blood pressure was chronically high, averaging at 170/90, (Normal 120/80) his resting pulse was around 90-100 beats per minute (Normal is 80 BPM) and even on 3 liters per minute of oxygen being delivered through his nasal cannula his blood oxygen level in his extremities hovered around 89-90% (Normal 95%-100%) due to his pack to two pack a day smoking habit and perfusion problems. His diabetes which was barely controlled by his medications was putting stress on his kidneys and his liver was so overloaded with fat that it was 50% functional or even less.

Eric's skin, overstretched by his obesity, was an additional constant source of issues for Eric. It was discolored and stretched so tight that if to much pressure was put on any part of it it could tear. Since his body weight had climbed faster then his skin could keep up so his fat was pressed into his body cavity, putting pressure on his internal organs. This led to increased difficulty breathing, as his diaphragm and lungs fought to expand against his own fat, decreased bladder capacity as the pressure onto the organ forced urine either back up into his kidney's or down his urethra. He had constipation issues due to high fat content in the organ itself and pressing against it from the outside.

Eric's challenges were not limited to the physiological. Unable to walk he was confined to a bed for everything. His girlfriend, Henrietta, who he called Henri, had to bathe him there and take care of his bodily functions too. Both were a challenge. For defecation if Henri was there he could roll on his side, roll back, and use a bed pan. If she wasn't he would simply go onto a chux pad that had been tucked into his rolls to try to create some sort of a diaper for him. For urination Henri would force the rolls of fat aside until she got to his penis, and he would go into a male urinal, Henri would then dry any urine that had dribbled from his useless dick into his fat folds. On the occasions she wasn't there he went into a chux pad, folded into his fat pad to hold it's position.

Cleaning Eric was a problem because Henrietta had to work 40-50 hours a week as a nursing assistant, Eric, who really should have been cleaned well daily with special attention to his folds, was bathed completely and totally, only about twice a week. Daily Henri would clean every crevice and surface around his ass and fat pad, but for everything else she could only do a quick wash, dry, and powder. Twice a week, on her days off, she would fill several buckets with soapy water, pile up a bunch of towels, and get to work, digging gloved hands deep into his folds, applying copious amounts of baby powder, and then massage lotion every inch of Eric's massive form. Eric hated these days but accepted them as a necessary evil to keep the stench, bacteria, and fungal infections at bay.

Eric smelled. Bad. Especially in summer Eric would smell bad as the oppressive heat overwhelmed the small window units that cooled his room. Because Eric's gargantuan form produced tons of heat and sweat, Eric was constantly hot and sweaty. The sweat, coupled with difficulties cleaning up after he used the bathroom, the enclosed space of the room, the smoke from his cigarettes, and the garbage he accumulated, added up to quite the smell. Henri had built up an immunity to it, but an outsider would have been knocked flat on their back.

Of course Eric's weight wouldn't have been a problem if it hadn't been for his eating. Eric always ate three large meals a day. But someday's he would eat only those three meals, sometimes he would eat breakfast, snack slowly through to lunch, (grazing) eat lunch, and slowly snack through to dinner. But sometimes he would stuff himself for hours, eating everything he could, wheezing through full mouthfuls, as his body struggled to keep pace with his colossal appetite. Henri always kept tons of snacks and liquids within Eric's reach because when "the hunger," as she jokingly referred to it, struck, he could eat pounds of food. For a while she kept track of the calories he consumed in a day. At the very least he consumed about 3'000, in the big meals she cooked for him. On those days he smoked 30-40 cigarettes, painstakingly removing his oxygen and trying to breath without it for each one. On his bad days he would smoke almost nothing but once consumed nearly 80'000 calories worth of snacks and soda. Henri would come home and find that the floor was covered in wrappers, empty chip bags, crumbs, empty soda bottles, and Eric, lying wheezing and gasping, covered in crumbs and stains, rubbing his belly.

Video Series

In which a woman dying of her obesity documents it with her FA husband

Video One - Introduction

Lena lay in the massive bed exhausted. She'd spent the day drinking soda and struggling to the bariatric commode only a few steps away way almost to much for her. Her hand went unconsciously to the box next to her and she started consuming the slice of pizza. She gulped another swallow of soda and glanced out the window. Outside rain gushed down. A breeze blew in the open window bringing a chill and she shivered. Her massive frame quivered.

Lena weighed about 600 pounds. She was long past caring. Her daily life was an endless cycle of food, struggling to move, and catnaps with actual sleep at night. She was on a dozen different medications and was constantly hungry. Today as she finished the last pizza and listened to the rain drumming outside and she realized that she was dying. Slowly yes, but faster then she should be at her age.

Lena was not turned on by her size. She was accepting of it and too lazy to make a change. She decided, purely to herself, to create a youtube page and blog to tell her story. Within 15 minutes she had a plan laid out on her laptop.

Her husband came home and found her sitting up in bed looking more lively then she had for days. Todd was a Chemist and secretly turned on by his wife's incredible weight and, even more secretly, her health issues.

"What's going on sweetie?" He asked his incredulous face taking in the unopened bag of chips on the bed next to her, the other unopened containers of saturated fats that fed her during the day he was at work and the only partially completed pack of cigarettes.

Lena looked up at him her eyes sparkling. "Todd" she breathed heavily "I had a great idea. First though," She paused for breath, "I'm dying from all this fat, you'll admit that right."

Todd sat down in a chair facing the bed his penis growing hard. "Darling you're always perfect to me."

Lena rolled her eyes "Physically Todd my weight is killing me. Literally. My blood pressures high, my sugars are messed up, I can't move without oxygen, my organs are buried in fat and are failing, and my heart never drops below a hundred beats a minute. I'm fucking DYING."

Todd said "Look if you want to get healthy..."

"Todd I'm done for. In three years you'll be single. Less. But I want your help creating a video series and youtube channel and website to warn people about being so fat."

Todd clicked. "Alright but you know that show my 600lbs life? Maybe we could get you..."

"No Todd." Lena said "I don't want to change I just want to make my mark on the world."


VIDEO ONE:
"Hello everyone" Lena said "My name is Lena and I am super morbidly obese.  I'm so obese that it's killing me. This isn't a cry for help its a warning to you, loose weight and shape up." Todd panned the camera over her massive frame. Her calves, thick and red from exertion and fluid build up, her thighs, thick as Todd's waist, with folds, and covered in cellulite, with a bandage on the right one where her overstretched skin had burst. Her legs as a unit had been deformed as her weight had given her knock knees sending her legs off at the sides. Her butt was squashed flat as the bottom layer of blubber. Her belly, the biggest asset was in two folds, the bottom liquid one covering her pelvis and the top one overflowed at the sides and perched on top. Her belly button had been pushed off center by the massive amount of tissue in her abdomen. Her gut was carpeted in stretch marks, old and new, and the underside of her belly was the brown color of toughed chaffed skin. Her breasts were tucked up and covered by a sheet.

Lena continued "I'm going to be posting videos on how I live, if you an call it living, at this size, and what little life hacks my husband and I have discovered to help me survive."

They watched as it uploaded and then went to bed not expecting very much.

But out there in the world of the internet a person with a certain type of woman stumbled onto the video and posted it to a certain page where a bunch more people watched it.

Amber At Home - (Fiction)

Amber glared up at the 4 men and a woman clustered around her. One was her husband, Frank, and he looked worried. She wanted to smack him. He should know what was going on, hell everyone there except him knew it. The EMTs knew it. She could see it in their eyes.

Her husband had called Julian Ambulance directly because the surrounding neighbors were used to them by now. Last week it had been for severe back pain. The week before had included 4 days of transports counting one to the doctor, a doctor who'd despaired of her health and wrote prescriptions to try to extend her useless life. Today she couldn't get off the toilet. Well not the toilet she hadn't sat on that porcelain monstrosity in over 3 years. It was her bariatric commode. She had know this day would come ever since she'd given up on loosing weight 2 years back and had watched her health get worse.

Simply she was too fat to stand up. Her body couldn't support her weight. In fact she was amazed she'd made it to the commode. She'd barely been able to take the three steps. She'd urinated and tried to pull herself up with her walker but her legs wouldn't obey. She'd waited a minute, taking deep breaths through her nasal cannula and tried again. She'd gotten her husband in and they'd tried but it was no use. So now the EMTs, all of them looked to be slightly younger then she was at 30. One of them, a sandy haired guy who needed a hair cut and a shave, crouched down to get to her eye level. "So we're going to help you stand up. Do you think you can pivot?"

Amber, still catching her breath took a deep breath in through her nasal cannula sucking oxygen through the thin plastic. "No." She said.

The EMT nodded. "Ok. We're going to stand you up, move the commode, and slide the cot behind you in it's place."

Amber didn't like that. Sitting, with her mass of flesh at rest was bad enough she didn't even want to think about getting to her feet. But she had no choice. Three of the EMTs braced themselves. One took her hands and the other two got under each arm with their gloved hands. She bit her lip and their hands dug into her overstretched sensitive skin compressing the fat of her upper arms. Frank got a hold of the commode and on a three count she tried to push off the floor. The EMTs pulled her to her feet and she stood there gasping her knees, ankles, hips, and back filled with shooting pain. She felt her nipples harden. Her knees were on the verge of giving out as the scrapping of the commode being dragged back came through and she felt the stretcher of the metal bump into the back of her thighs. She slowly collapsed backwards wheezing. Everyone took a break and then she was helped into a lying down position with her two swollen legs as close together as possible. The EMTs strapped her tightly to the cot so she didn't lean to one side. Her oxygen got switched over and she was taken outside.

One of the EMTs opened the back of the ambulance pulling out a sort of claw. It was a "powerload" which, according to the companies website, could lift a total of 700lbs. The hydraulic lift raised her inside with two EMTs helping lift, and they headed for the hospital.

Propped up in bed, her folds washed and dried, she tried not to cry. Frank was currently talking with a doctor outside and as usual she felt so guilty that she'd put him through this. Instead of living in a wonderful house on his salary he made as a lawyer they lived in a small bungalow with the living room converted to a sick room with a bariatric hospital bed, oxygen concentrator, commode, and piles of supplies with his paycheck going to the massive expense of keeping her alive.

The doctor turned leaving Frank by himself. Frank had given to doctor the impression he was a dimwitted enabler who didn't have the heart to deny his wife anything she wanted. Which was another reason he suspected the doctor was recommending this. He probably figured some separation would help Frank get out from being an enabler. Guilt knawed at him. Unknown to everyone Frank was incredibly turned on by his wife's increasing helplessness and, yes, he could admit it to himself, impending death. To Frank the unhealthier his wife was the better.

The doctor left the room and Amber lay stunned. Congestive Heart Failure? But how! It was controlled, she was taking numerous water pills, she shouldn't be having this problem. But she knew it was what the doctor had said. Her uncontrolled diet was causing liquid retention causing increased pressure on her heart and lungs and swelling in her legs. They wanted to move her to a Nursing Home for rehab. Mostly to control her diet. She hated the thought of controlled intake, no, she thought, not hated, FEARED, not getting food when she felt hungry. Nevertheless that was how it was going to be. Frank hugged her and she started crying. At age 32 all 641 pounds of her were being admitted to a nursing home.