The Live Stream

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 
Posted on RunWarrior365's Socials:

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

The McLean Family 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."

Eating to Death - SSBHM

Life for me is a serious of constants. It never changes for me.

I wake up early, I don't know the time, in my bed. I use the remote to raise the bed up a little bit and take off my C-PAP mask. I switch over to my nasal cannula, to help with my breathing. My heart thumps away inside my chest, much faster then it should. I am starving, my massive stomach growls.

I don't know how much I weigh, I don't really care anymore. Somewhere over 800lbs. I was 780 when I left the hospital after my last heart attack. It had been my third. The next will probably kill me. I don't walk anymore, my hearts too weak, and I don't have the energy. I can't even raise myself into a sitting position anymore. I've got high blood pressure, heart failure, aggressive diabetes, and fatty liver. My body is failing me. My organs are overloaded with fat, my legs and arms swollen with fat and lympodema, and my massive belly covers everything in an ocean like layer of adipose tissue. Buried inside a huge fatpad is my penis which I haven't seen or been able to touch for years. I'm dependent on oxygen, but even with it I'm constantly panting.

None of that really matters to me. If it did I would've gotten healthy a long time ago. I need food. Constantly, I'm an addict. The unhealthier the better. Burgers, pizza, cake, ice cream, fries, sugary soda ANYTHING. I'm craving all of it all the time. Thankfully my feeder left me a box of donuts and a 2liter bottle of coke. I polish off the donuts and half the bottle of soda.

My feeder comes in with my breakfast, mounds of eggs, bacon, sausage, and biscuits. I plow through them, gasping and wheezing from the effort. After breakfast I get cleaned, with my waste cleaned from me. Usually the catheter gets emptied first, then I get rolled onto a bed pain and poop, then roll back to be wiped clean.

My bowels, like the rest of me, are destroyed. My dysfunctional digestive system can't keep up with my diet, and the result is disgusting. Flatulence that adds to the already putrid B.O. of my body. Usually I have a normal shit like everyone else, but sometimes I'll get runs of diarrhea that will last for days, or I'll get constipated and have to be administered an enema. My constant high blood sugar and high fluid intake leads to me urinating frequently so they used to install a foley catheter up my penis. But as I gained weight finding my penis became so difficult they went under the fold of my belly and installed a suprapubic catheter, through the skin and fat of my abdomen and into my bladder.

I usually snack my day away. Around dinner I start anxiously listening to the kitchen. Then I hear a cart. That means I'm going to be stuffed. I feel my buried dick get hard. My feeder comes in and the cart is loaded with foods. All fattening incredibly unhealthy food. I feel the sharp prinprick as they poke me with a dose of insulin and then I see the burger rise towards me.

During these stuffing sessions it's too exhausting for me to lift my heavy arms from plate to mouth so my feeder does it for me. Bite after bite, I feel the delicious food pour down my throat. It's washed down with sugary soda, both to bloat me, and hydrate my throat for more carbs. The main course is soon finished and then the massive pile of desserts. After nearly 40 minutes I gasp "I'm stuffed."

"No" my feeder replies "There's still some food." They edge a cookie towards my mouth, the smell and sight makes my mouth water. "There's not much, you're almost done." My stomach feels like it will burst but I continue to eat. Then it's gone.  My dick is rock hard inside my fatpad and I can hardly bear the pain in my stomach. My breathing is short, hard pants. My naked body quivers in agony as my abused stomach and intestines struggle to digest away the nearly 4000 calories. My heart pounds in my chest and I wheeze with the effort of breathing. I look up at my feeder, "One... Of... These... [Gasp] days... [wheeze] you're going... to kill me with that."

"It would be a wonderful way to die though." They don't wait for an answer knowing that I'll be unable to talk for quite some time. I lie there, stomach aching, trying to prevent my ruined body from failing, collapsing under the massive amount of food I just consumed. Deep inside I love the feeling and hope I can do it again tomorrow.

On Hospice - SSBHM

He was dying. The once pale white skin, pockmarked by stretch marks and occasional rashes was a sickly yellow color. His breathing was labored and he looked at the ceiling with dull eyes. Around him a huge mound of yellowed flab covered the large bed. His arms were huge and heavy, his legs shapeless, swollen to quadrulple their normal size by fluid and fat. So much so bandages covered his legs where the pressure had ripped skin. His belly covered his lower body, hiding a FUPA so big that it had swallowed his penis, making urination impossible without help. His moobs were big and flat, and there was a roll under them. His face was jaundiced, fat, and exhausted. It wasn't supposed to be like this.



He'd been rather thin but let himself go during highschool and his Freshman 15 was a freshman 50 in college. He went for 4 years and got a job in IT. And continued to let himself go. At 350lbs a websearch landed him in the world of fat fetishism. While not addicted to fat himself he'd discovered that he enjoyed his size. Soon he was piling on the pounds and posting pictures of himself online. That's how he'd met his feeder. A curvy brunette it had been her encouragement, with the help of those online, that had made him super obese. By the time he was 34 he was bed confined from his weight. He hadn't cared how fat he was, but his feeder did. He'd managed to walk till he was 780lbs.

Health problems had always been there, each one tackled squarely by him with new medications, and they'd doubled in 4 months after being bed confined. He'd ignored them. He wasn't delusional enough to pretend they weren't related to his weight, he was simply indifferent. A heavy drinker, he'd started experiencing stabbing abdominal pains and fatigue. The doctors had diagnosed him with Fatty Liver, and explained it was due to his heavy drinking and extreme obesity. Now with cirrhosis of the liver and heart failure he only had weeks to live. He was too obese for a transplant. He'd been transferred to Wilcox Farms, and placed in a quiet wing, overlooking a garden. They'd weighed him when he arrived. 902lbs. Oxygen was given for comfort, pain meds were plentiful, and the food wasn't unhealthy but it was good and their was plenty of it. After all it's not like a diet would help him any, not now.

His feeder sat next to him. She'd put on weight, making her curvy frame flabby. She was a BBW now in her own right. Her face was said. Finally she asked "How are you doing."

He huffed and then replied "I'm okay. Tired."

"They don't think you'll make it through the week." She said sadly. For himself he was surprised. He would've thought he was healthier then that. But he was relieved. The constant pain and hunger would go away, as would his horrible feelings of withdrawals from alcohol.

"Wow." He replied. "I didn't think I was so bad."

She wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry I did this too you."

He stroked her face. "Don't be. I loved every minute of it." A thought struck him. "Do you think... I know that I can't make love to you. Not anymore." He had to pant to catch his breath, it was so much harder then it used to be. "But do you think I could get a blowjob?" No way he could help her get his penis, so swallowed by fat that it was only two inches at most, inside her.

"Of course." She closed the door and climbed on the bed. Carefully to avoid hurting his swollen and painful legs she carefully moved them aside. She climbed between them and found his fat pad. His now tiny penis was erect but buried inside him. Rubbing the fat pad and digging at his buried cock she got to it and then started to move it in and out of her mouth. She was an expert on giving him head, and he was horny with pent up sexual frustration. It wasn't long before he exploded inside her mouth. She wiped her face on the bed and looked up. He smiled weakly at her. "Thanks [pant, wheeze] so much. I love you. I'm just [cough, wheeze, gasp] sorry I couldn't make it." He paused to breath.
"Make it to what?" She asked, concerned.

"Make it to 1000 [wet hack] pounds." And he drifted to sleep. He was 36 years old, on hospice, due to his massive unhealthy obesity.

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.

Wilcox Farms 1

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

"Yes."

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

"2-3 years?"

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

"No."

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

"No."

"Are you currently able to bathe yourself?"

"No."

"Can you sit up by yourself?"

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

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

"No."

"Are you currently able to stand by yourself?"

"No."

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

"I..."

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

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

"Specify please."

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

"If that a typical day?"

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

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

"Who is your primary caretaker?"

"My husband."

"Any children?"

"No."

"Any family members who are morbidly obese."

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

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

Amber took a deep breath. "Alright."

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

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

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

"Say again?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

How Long

NOTE: This is a complete fantasy, nothing is really supposed to be real or anything. I doubt that any human could actually live to be this big, but who knows, we may find out in a few years.

How much longer?

Some days, when I'm trying to sleep and failing, a rare occurance given how tired I constantly am I like to think. I think about my massive form lying helpless in my bed, unable to sit up, roll on my side, much less get up and walk.

As I'm thinking I think about my fat. I love my fat. The last weight we did was 1358lbs (616kg or 97 stone) but I'm sure it's over 1400 now. My massive belly, overflowing my body on both sides to rest on my hips, where the fat is spread out, although on the right it approaches the edge of the bed because my belly always hung lower on that side. My ass, which used to be very prominent, is now shapeless and flat from the years I've spent lying on it, and is also approaching the edge of the bariatric bed. My breasts droop low resting on my belly. My wrists are buried in fat, my forearms packed with flesh, and my upper arms droop. My legs are no longer definable as such, my inability to move has led to them swelling with fluid. My calves still touch even though my legs are the widest part of my body. I can't move my feet because the huge quantity of tissue down there has paralyzed my ankles. The size of my legs has forced the massive lymphodema on my right thigh off the side on the bed onto a cushion placed on a table to support it. I have several others, and they're always leaking. I'm 5'6" (66 inches) tall but my belly is 70 wide leaving me with two inches of room on the 72" wide bed.

I get aroused thinking of it and wish I was still able to pleasure myself. When He comes home he generally does it, but only after I've been a good Piggy and have stuffed myself to capacity, a number which gets higher each time. At 1400 pounds the combination of layers of flab, not to mention a sizable FUPA buried under my belly, makes sex extremely difficult. Since I'm unable to lift my massive belly at all, the caretakers have to help lifting it and gently moving my delicate legs so He can access my buried pussy and reward me for my hard work.

I wonder, how much longer will they be able to clean me? How much longer can they lift my massive rolls and roll my gargantuan frame to wash me and change my sheets? The caretakers clean me the same way, gently, and slowly, massaging lotion into each inch of my overstretched skin, and powdering every fold. They empty my urinary catheter as well as the fecal collection bag, before flushing sterile water up the tube. Since reaching my anus and urethra is such a chore with the layers of fat covering it we use the tubes and they work fairly well. They also change the oxygen cannula to keep bacteria from forming.

Which leads me to think of my health. My resting heart rate is around 120, my blood pressure in the high 190s to 200s, and that's WITH extremely strong medications to control both my heart rate and blood pressure. Even the shortest period of time without my oxygen makes me dizzy, and sometimes I require my CPAP. My cholesterol is always very high, even with multiple different pills to control it. My blood sugar requires quite an insane amount of insulin daily just to keep it within normal limits, due to my out of control diet and insulin resistant diabetes, but even with the strictest daily monitoring of my sugar levels the doctors still worry that my kidneys will be destroyed by my diabetes within a year or two requiring dialysis treatments. They also believe that my musculoskeletal system has been so damaged by my weight that even if I miraculously was able to drop my weight by say, 1200 pounds, the chances of me having a normal life, without significant confinement both to bed and a wheelchair, are very low. I take nearly 40 medications a day, from the blood pressure pills to the pain pills, insulin to nebulizers, I take practically one of everything in the pharmacy, just to keep me alive. Who knows how much longer though?

And I wonder, how much longer? How long until my heart gives out, finally overwhelmed by my diet and obesity. How much longer until my lungs can no longer expand against the pressure of my own weight? I come from a very athletic family and have a natural pulmonary and circulatory system that would be envied by professional athletes. Yet with a hundred stone of weight on my frame even my naturally superior internal systems can't survive much longer.

Generally, before I drift back to sleep, my thoughts come to a conclusion, realizing that the real question I'm asking myself is how much longer can I remain the massively obese sex and food consuming machine that I am before it kills me. Then I drift to sleep requiring only the certainty that I will consume massive amounts of carbs, and delicious trans fats tomorrow in my mind.

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.