The Helper 2

CW Contains slob, bathroom themes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Helper 1

CW: Pretty significant slob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother/Son

 CW: Contains themes of incest and slob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Wilcox Farms Introduction

Doctor Henry Wilcox had abandoned the historic family occupation of dairy farming and gone into medicine. Specifically bariatrics. As Doctor Wilcox had proceeded through his medical career he'd discovered a market niche.

Super morbidly obese people, one's who could barely walk, were immobile, or needed nursing support, were residing either at home, dependent on family with no medical training, or nursing facilities with limited bariatric experience and equipment. This resulted in increased hospitalizations of super obese patients. So Dr. Wilcox decided to open his own Residence and Nursing Facility specializing in morbidly obese patients. For insurance purposes, and because there needed to be quite a few medical professionals on site a standard Skilled Nursing Facility would never have, it was opened and classified as a subacute hospital. He could get away with it because the Center for Disease Control classified Obesity as a disease.

Since it had opened in 2005 it had done exceedingly well. Dr. Wilcox had focused his efforts on making it easier for his patients to live their day to day lives, rather then straight weight loss. In an effort to avoid patients, who'd been used to large quantities of unhealthy food for years, bringing unhealthy food in from the outside out of desperation he provided good tasting healthy food, in large quantities at first, then scaled back the amount of food slowly over time. Delicious, healthy snacks were also provided. Calories, carbs, and fats were tracked for record keeping purposes only and the diet was only incidental. Physical therapy played a huge role in his facility too. It was not unheard of for a 500lbs patient to enter his facility bed confined and leave, only 100lbs lighter but walking out.

He'd built the facility from the ground up on a corner of the family property, overlooking woods, hills, and dairy cows peacefully grazing.  He was also only 20 miles from the city limits of the fattest city in his state. It started as a 50 bed facility but was soon upgraded and expanded, year after year, till he had almost 200 beds. He also had a specialized 50 bed ventilator unit (located in the original building) for bariatric vent patients, an in house operating room, ambulance bay with EMT office, and cafeteria for visitors and ambulatory patients. It also featured the largest and best bariatric showering room, a research and development office for the development of bariatric mobility devices, and outpatient services, including psychiatric, life coaching, personal finance training, and healthy cooking classes. Wilcox had realized that for many of his patients the first months or even years of their residences at his facility would be spent confined by their weight to the rooms so the rooms were comfortable, large and airy, yet warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Windows could be opened onto individual porches so the fresh country air could permiate the rooms and visitors, or ambulatory patients could step outside.

Wilcox had a secret though, a secret that only his wife (More on her later) knew. Wilcox was an FA. It was a secret because if it had been known the rising star in the American Society for Metabolic and Bariatric Surgery had been attracted to fat men and women (Wilcox is bisexual) it would have been a disaster, not only for Wilcox but for the society and all the doctors and healthcare professionals that sang his praises to their obese patients. For Wilcox his entire treatment plan, emphasising what he called "Living Large" over dramatic weight loss, was the result of his fetish.

Pinned By Lard - Henri

Henrietta was tired. She'd just worked a 12 hour day shift at a long term care/skilled nursing facility. Henri, as she was called by her boyfriend, the love of her life, was 29, about 5'3" tall, 180 pounds, and not very attractive. Her breasts were small, droopy, and shapeless, her face plump, pale, with acne scaring, and dark rings around her eyes. Her hair was always messy looking, and she smoked around two packs of cigarettes a day which gave her a raspy smokers voice and a chronic cough. Her best asset was her butt but it's large curvy shape of a few years ago was gone leaving it to look wide, flabby, and droopy.

Their rundown looking townhouse occupied the middle of the block. In the front window two window units hummed. Henri took a deep drag off of her cigarette and unlocked the door. The warm humid air and the familiar smell washed over her.

In the dim smog, lit by only a couple lights and the TV, she observed Eric, huge, immobile, sexy Eric. He was lying, as always, in bed, his massive body splayed around him, pinning him to the bed in what used to be the dining room. Currently he was taking short sporadic drags on a cigarette, another bad habit of his. Sweat beaded his forehead and she could smell urine through Eric's ever present BO. She stepped up to the bed grinding her cigarette out into the full ashtray just as Eric, with a final gasp, expelled the last of the smoke, stubbed his out, and carefully replaced his cannula in his nose. "How are you dear?" She asked and they kissed. She put her arms around his neck feeling her breasts pressing into his huge soft chest. He didn't reciprocate, his arms had long since gotten to heavy for him to go to the effort required hug her in return at that angle, where there was no support for the weight of his arm flab. As she released him he smiled at her, exposing his yellow teeth and said "Hungry."

She laughed. "You're always hungry."

He laughed back breathlessly. "Damn right Henri."

Henri headed to the kitchen and grabbed a container of cookies. She brought them to him and then asked "Do you still need to pee or can I clean you up?"

Through a mouthful of cookie he replied "I could piss."

Henri stepped across to the beautiful built in china cabinets, now full of various care products.The one on the left was full of bathroom care supplies. Henri pulled on a pair of gloves and grabbed a urinal and extra disposable chux pad. She stepped back across and pushed Eric's belly up. She pulled the used Chux pad out and then bracing the underside of his belly with her arm forced his FUPA back until she found his penis, uselessly buried inside his fat pad. She pressed the urinal against it and Eric emptied his bladder. Henri capped the urinal and quickly wiped down the area to prevent infection.

Henri dumped the urinal into the toilet and then got into the shower. She bathed herself as quickly as possible, changed into sweat pants and a tee shirt and started dinner. As soon as the chicken was out of the fridge she grabbed two bags of chips and a bottle of soda and walked it into Eric to give him something to snack on while she prepared dinner. Fried chicken and french fries tonight, along with the nearly dozen medications Eric took at night.

Henri ate her comparatively small portion in the kitchen while Eric devoured his in his bed, scarfing at the pile of chicken and fries. Henri finished and began the dishes. She stepped into Eric's room and found him looking satisfied, with grease on his face and hands, lighting his after dinner cigarette. She gathered the dishes and he breathlessly thanked her. Henri smiled the warm feeling of pleasing Eric filling her stomach. She started the dishwasher and stepped back into Eric's room. She opened one of the cabinets, got Eric's breathing treatment out, and filled the nebulizer. While Eric's lungs were bathed in medication to open them up so he could breathe, Henri filled a bucket with warm water, gathered the soup and bed pan and then headed back into Eric's room.

Eric hated this part of the day. His intestines were shot, so overloaded with fat that they had trouble moving his shit. They were helped somewhat by a large dose of laxatives. Every night after he was full and his breathing treatment was finished he would be rolled onto his side. Henri would remove the chux pads from his butt crack and he would roll onto his back again and start bearing down. Usually it wasn't to difficult but it was the hardest physical exercise he did all day. After he had emptied his bowels he then had to roll back on his side so Henri could remove the waste and clean him up. After she cleaned up his waste she then washed down his back quickly. He'd roll back to where he belonged and she'd do a quick wash and dry.

Henri watched Eric's back roll away from her. A mound of shit lay piled in the bed pan. She removed it and began cleaning his backside and back. She dried it quickly and he rolled back onto his back. Using the bed remote he raised his head so he could breathe properly. His face was red and he was wheezing. Eric took a washcloth and washed the surface of his form as far as he could reach while Henri worked up from his legs. Then she tackled the folds and crevices. Just a quick wipe and dry. Then she powdered inside his folds to try to keep it somewhat dry to prevent infection. Last she helps his use urinal again and cleans his fat pad and as much of his penis as she can find. Henri replaced the powder in the bathing supplies cabinet, carried the bucket to the bathroom and dumped it. She stripped off her pants and shirt and returned to Eric's room with more food and soda. It is understood that this is her time. She places the food on Eric's table, puts the soda in the fridge, and then takes off her panties and bra.

She climbs naked into Eric's bed and lays against him. Eric feels himself grow hard deep underneath all his folds. He drapes a huge fat arm across her shoulders and cups one of her breasts. Henri sighs. No words are exchanged. Eric switches the TV over to HGTV, her favorite network, and she snuggles in closer to him pressing as much of her curvy body into his soft flesh as possible. Sometimes she gets out lotion and tenderly lotions and massages his body. But tonight she's to tired. She lights a cigarette and takes a drag, the smoke and nicotine warming her insides. She finishes the cigarette and falls asleep next to Eric, head leaning on his shoulder.