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.

Family Traditions

Present Day Christmas:

"Kylie are you ready?" I ask sticking my head into the bedroom. A look tells me she's almost ready. Her massive cellulite ridden ass is covered in a threadbare pair of panties, and she's working on sitting on the edge of our sagging queen sized bed to start on her pants.

"I'll be done faster if you give me a hand." She pants. "But why do we need to go to your parents for Christmas?" She whines the last sentence.

I bend down, get her pants around her ankles and then up. I offer her a hand and she heavily pulls herself to her feet and pulls her pants up the rest of the way. She takes a few breaths and says "I'm too fat for this shit. That's all."

I come close to her and pull her close for a hug. She knows what I like, and she rarely gets bothered by her size. But she's at a weight now where going out and doing things is a lot of work and she hates physical activity. "Kylie." I hold her. "I love every inch and ounce of you." All 5'6" (167cm) and 482lbs (218kg) of her. "You're perfect."

Still a little huffy, either with me or the situation, Kylie takes her cane and leaning on it slowly starts to waddle towards the front door. I follow behind enjoying the sight of her massive ass cheeks jiggling in her pants. Kylie takes the ramp leading down to the sidewalk slowly and carefully, as it's a bit steep.

We make it out to the car and Kylie gingerly gets into the car, panting heavily, her belly and saggy breasts rising and falling under the tent like hoodie she's wearing. I get in the drivers seat and head to McDonalds to get Kylie some lunch to tide her over till dinner time, while Kylie removes a cigarette from a battered pack, and lights up, taking a drag. About twenty minutes later, as we're driving down the highway and Kylie swallows her last bite of Big Mac she says "You never answered my question."

I blink at the road and then at her. She's lighting another cigarette. "I'm sorry?" I ask. "What question."

No longer annoyed, thanks to food in her belly, nicotine in her blood stream (with more on the way) and the knowledge that we'll have an excellent meal, she exhales a drag, hacks once, and wheezes slightly while she takes a couple deep breaths. Finally she says "I asked, why do we have to go to your parents for Thanksgiving? Why can't they come to our place for once?"

Christmas, 20 years in the past

I remember being ten years old and showing up to my Aunt and Uncle's. I'm carrying our contribution to the feast, as is Dad and brother. Mom is carrying herself, a little out of breath from the short walk from the car to the door. Uncle Don is in his Big Chair, big enough for me and my brother to sit in side by side. He fills it completely, his big belly not only rounding out his shirt, but his overstretched sweatpants, and he overflows the sides of his massive armchair. He's out of breath and I wonder if he just got back from the bathroom. He only goes two places, the bathroom or his chair.

Mom gets settled on the couch and we go off to play with our cousins. Eventually my brother disappears upstairs too. Like all family meals there's plenty of food from the moment you walk in the door, but you're expected to clean your plate at dinner too.

When they call us I find my brother finishing a plate of snacks. Uncle Don and Mom are going to sit in the living room with Aunt Clara and Dad. And my adult Cousin Shelly and her husband.

Shelly is sitting in a large wheelchair, her legs are swollen and huge, and her gut fills her lap under a large blouse. Her face is a round fat circle, with a fat forehead and double chin.

I watch Dad bring mom a plate completely loaded down with food, and watch as Mom's eyes widen and sparkle, and she kisses dad. Uncle Don is getting two plates, one completely full of mashed potatoes. He's still out of breath and he tucks into his food between grunts. By the time dinner is done I'm full, and Uncle Don is sweating slightly. He belches and looks at Aunt Clara. "Pie?"

While in the kitchen helping my Dad plate pie for Mom and Uncle Don I ask "Why do we always have Christmas at Uncle Don's and Aunt Clara's?"

Dad pauses for a moment and looks at me. "Well you see" he says "It's hard for your Uncle to get around. So when you were really little we decided that whoever had the most trouble getting around would host. That way they could still see everyone."

Christmas, Present Day

Kylie pulls herself out of the car with a grunt. She'd accepted my explanation but had immediately lit up another cigarette afterwards. I'd found that odd. Years of smoking, not to mention her weight and associated health problems, have ruined Kylie's endurance and it's extremely rare for her to smoke two or more cigarettes in a row. One of the things I love about Kylie is that she just doesn't care. Her favorite saying is "I'm here for a good time, not a long time."

The house smells of food. Mom's propped up in her bed completely supported by pillows and the back of the hospital bed. She's 56 now and looks like hell. All of us know Mom doesn't have much longer, and have known it since her first heart attack 5 years ago. I'm not sure if this is the last Christmas here or if we've got another year. Unlike Cousin Shelly and her husband who hosted for 14 years, 9 of them featuring a bedbound Shelly, Mom's health has been getting worse since she was rendered immobile after they placed several more stents a year ago following another heart attack. She's pale with dark circles around her eyes, she's gasping for air despite wearing a nasal cannula, and her voice is distorted, in the way only a massively fat person's voice can be. It's a mumble, hard to understand, like fat is pressing on her windpipe. When Shelly died unexpectedly she had become quite heavy, but Mom is almost a blob in the bed. She's covered with a sheet, and is completely motionless except for her head and forearms which are bringing snacks or her drink to her mouth.

We're the last to arrive. My brother is there already, sitting on the couch with his wife. She's probably closing in on 350lbs (158kg). My sister waddles out from the kitchen carrying cookies. She's been helping care for mom these last few years, and sharing mom's diet hasn't made her thinner. My sister's told me that Mom's gained almost 60lbs (27kg), and almost all of it's gone into her massive belly, which rolls out from in front of her. Kylie gratefully sinks into Mom's old standing assist recliner, her huge ass filling it completely. Aunt Clara is there talking quietly with Shelly's husband Chuck.

I get up and get some snacks for Kylie who's chatting with Mom and my sister in law. I'm watching Kylie of course. She's snacking constantly with mom, even outpacing her, although that might have to do with Mom's difficulty breathing. Dad announces a half hour to dinner and Kylie reaches for the chair's remote control. "Can you help me stand?" She asks. I go and give her a hand and Kylie says "I'll be right back in." I follow Kylie out to the porch, knowing she'll need help off the bench.

Kylie takes out a prerolled blunt and takes a hit. "Mmmmmm." She sighs and then she opens her eyes again. She offers me the blunt and I take a hit myself before handing it back. Kylie takes another hit and then asks "Can we host next?"

I hesitate and then I look at her. She's smiling at me, giving me a glimpse of her yellowed teeth. And I realize she knew.

Christmas, 6 years in the past

"Merry Christmas!" Shelly greets us from her bed. We're early and her husband is still finishing up getting her clean. Apparently Shelly had to use the bathroom right before we got there. Shelly grins at Mom. "You look wonderful!"

Shelly has been bedbound for 5 years now and every time I see her she looks more and more filled out. Her legs have developed into formless blobs from fat and lymphodema. One huge mass at her thigh is red and angry, and one of her calves is bandaged tightly. Shelly is covered back up for modesty sake. Not really her's since she doesn't really have any.

I introduce Kylie, who sits her 280lbs (127kg) on a kitchen chair. Her butt slightly overlaps at the edges. Shelly, a sort of stoner type, is clearly high. Kylie and her start talking quietly. I go to help in the kitchen and as I walk out I see Kylie and her with their heads together. 

We eat dinner, and I help clean up. Aunt Clara gets up and leaves early, citing a long drive home. But when she's gone we speculate as to whether it's her new boyfriend, a man who lives in the bariatric wing of a nursing home near her house.
Mom and Dad leave early with my brother, his fiance, and my sister. Shelly glances at me and says "Why don't you help Chuck put the leftovers away." I take the hint and I leave them alone. I glance over my shoulder before stepping through the kitchen door and Kylie is leaning towards Shelly, who's actually pushed herself off the supporting pillows and is leaning forward. 

Christmas, Present Day

I look at Kylie. "It's almost considered a curse."  I say. "The family that hosts... Well their the ones who're going to have the next loss."
Kylie, opens her mouth, closes it, and starts coughing. It's a painful sounding, wet cough, and she spits over the porch. Then she says "Bullshit, Shelly hosted for how long?" She reaches and takes my hand. "I'm your little piggy remember. And I want to be shown off, in my home pen someday." She's smiling her naughty smile, the smile that made me fall in love with her, and she's deliberately using fetish talk to drive me up the wall. Her hand grips my crotch. "Besides my love, I'm in no rush. But if you make me come all the way to your parents when I'm past 600lbs I'll never forgive you."
"You don't need to keep gaining if..."
"Oh shut it." Kylie says, her hand still rubbing my crotch. "We both know I'm never going to be able to stop and I really don't care. I'm hear for a good time, not a long time, remember?"

Christmas, Near Future

"They're here!" I announce to Kylie. I return the Nitro to my pocket, having given one to Kylie. She's been experiencing chest pains lately, and the nitro's become important to keeping her healthy. She's sitting upright in her bariatric hospital bed, her ass spread out under the sheets, her legs with their fat swollen thighs in front of her. Her belly, never her best feature has grown into it's own in the last two years and fills her lap completely with stretchmarked flab. Two hours of hard work and Kylie smells of baby powder and deodorant instead of her usual sweat, BO, and piss. Kylie smiles broadly and holds out a hand with nicotine stained fingers to greet Susan, my brother's wife, and my sister, with her new boyfriend. Sarah's painstakingly waddling towards Kylie, her massive belly filling the front of her pants, and I can see exposed skin where her shirt is supposed to overlap her pants. My sister turns her bariatric rollator walker around and carefully sits down for a breather, the ramp into the house is steep. Everyone starts to get seated, with us feeders and enablers, filling plates with snacks for our gainers and feedees. Kylie reaches for a cookie, and takes a few deep breaths off her nasal cannula.

As the meal concludes and people start to drift out soon it's only Kylie and Sarah. Kylie looks at me with a twinkle in her eye. "Why don't you men go clean up, and get us some pie." She says. I see my sister look up and smile. And I know that Sarah is about to be let in on the family secret. I beckon to the room at large. "Come on guys, let's go get dessert ready." As I look back, Kylie is sitting forward, panting with the exertion of moving by herself. Her cannula is out of her nose, and she has a lit cigarette in her hand. Before I step into the kitchen I can see them with their heads together.

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.

Past and Present - SSBBW

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

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

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

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

Trailer Park Love

2008:

I got the job as manager of the Wyatt Estates through my cousin, who was basically a slumlord without the intelligence to be successful at it. I was out of work at the time and the offer of free housing with a small salary and benefits was to much for a high school dropout with minimal skills.

I'd grown up in a grimy little apartment in a grimy little beach city on the coast of Connecticut. My mother was a recovering heroin addict and former prostitute who fell off the wagon and wasn't around much after I turned 7 so I was pretty much raised on fast food by my much older sister. While my metabolism could handle the poor diet her's couldn't and she was at least 350 pounds by the time I turned 16 and she turned 26. Perhaps that's where my love of large women came from. Now that's I'm an adult I realize that my sister probably ate to excess, just like her smoking, both cigarettes and marijuana, to help with the stress of being a teenager with school, a full time type job at a fast food place, and raising a younger brother. I had started working at a cruddy little gas station/convenience store, where I would stay for 8 years, and dropped out of High School to make more money, although I did eventually get a GED. In 2008 when the recession hit the gas station did poorly and 4 months before the job offer at the trailer park I came to work to discover it in flames and the owner in custody for arson.

When I accepted the job for my cousin I had been out of work and borderline homeless since the my last job had gone up in smoke. My sister was in Bridgeport with a husband, twin babies, and a nice job as an assistant manager at a grocery store. I did odd jobs until my cousin called me up. Apparently the old manager had been arrested in a neighboring town selling stolen property. If you're getting the impression this wasn't the classiest of locations you'd be correct. I of course moved my belongings into the manager's single wide, located on the edge of the estate. It was pretty well hidden with trees and bushes on three sides and the office facing the driveway on the other.

The day after I moved in I was practically deluged in irritated tenants angry about everything from structural and plumbing problems to complaints about the tenants in 4SW. Apparently they had loud parties with people going in and out all night. I fixed holes in floors, cleared clogged drains, discovered the residents in 8NW had weed growing behind their place, and that the tenants at 10NE never walked their trash to the dumpsters.

I was wrapping up work on the wheelchair ramp to 12SE where a rather formidable woman lived with a severely disabled adult son. They had arrived back from somewhere by wheelchair van as I finished, and as I threw my tools into the back of the beat to hell club cart we used when I saw her. I hadn't seen her before.

She was Latina, 5'5" tall, and at least 350lbs. She was standing in the doorway of 11SE, wearing stretched leggings and a too small tee shirt that let her belly escape and flop over the top of her waistband. She had wide hips and big saggy boobs. She waddled out and I revised my estimate. At least 400. She was carrying a small child, maybe one year old, and waddled slowly down the four stairs to the level road and then waddled across. She ignored me and I forced my eyes down to my tool box. I looked up again though after she passed to see a beautiful round ass. The leggings were too small and the top of her ass crack showed as she slowly climbed the wheelchair ramp to knock on 12SE's door.

I made a point of looking up the resident of 11SE. It was occupied by a Regina Gomez and son. She was my age, 24, and behind on the rent several months worth. I flipped through the rest. One payment was delayed, but that address was also listed in the vacation ledger for the next two weeks, so I had been assuming they'd forgotten to pay before leaving. There were two others, one was the woman with the disabled son in 12SE and the other was the man in 5NE. The back cover had a single sheet of note paper, presumably for my cousin, One "12SE. Ejecting a disabled tenant is bad press." Two, "5NE, has 3 kids, and has been working around the park to help pay his rent." Three, "11SE, single mom with a sick baby and no where to go, what am I supposed to do throw her out!?" The note was clearly old and the entries had been made at different times, considering the 5NE one was in a different colored ink. I flipped back to the book. 12SE had payed her rent for this month, 5NE had paid a reduced amount and I'd seen a slip with his hours of work put in there, but11SE hadn't paid anything. I grinned impishly, and the next morning I grabbed the book and walked down the court to the southeastern road and then went to 11.

When she answered she was panting and sweating. She was wearing a too small shirt that exposed her midriff, which displayed stretchmarks, new and old, before running into her pants. Behind her heat rolled out of the trailer along with a stale dirty smell, a mix of sweat and stale cigarettes. I asked if I could come in and talk about the rent. She became very nervous and quiet. She waddled back inside the sweltering trailer, unfortunately these pants fit better then the ones from before, and sat in an huge armchair covered in an old sheet. I sat on a kitchen chair facing her.

It was messy but not like a hoarder house. It had been properly baby proofed and there weren't any bugs, or excessive dirt around. Several ashtrays were full of cigarettes. The packs read American Legend, the cheapest cigarettes locally available. She picked up the cigarette and asked "what about it?

"It's late" I said "I understand you have a child but surely you can arrange childcare for them for a few hours a day. We can work something out, a reduction in rent..." I trailed off.

She'd been watching me closely, and I'd been watching her. Watching the sizeable belly slopping inside her pants, her nice, but no where near as grand as her ass, breasts, large and saggy inside her shirt. She smiled at me. "I do some work for the woman across the road, but she only pays me $15 a day. I think we can work out another arrangement, help me up." I stood and she grasped my hand with a small fat and moist hand pulled herself to her feet and pulled off her top. She didn't have a bra on. She grabbed me and pulled me close. I had about 6 inches on her and I got hard against her belly as she kissed my chest.

We wound up in the back bedroom with her massive ass in the air while she gasped and wheezed like a stuck pig and I slammed into her watching the beautiful ass ripple with each thrust. The smell of sweat and general unwashed fat person were stronger, but even that added to the sexiness. Both of us came and I more or less fell onto her soft form. She scrabbled for a pack of cigarettes and I light her cigarette before placing one of my camels in my own mouth. The baby started crying in the other room and she waddled out, still naked, to deal with him. I dressed.

The next day I began reinforcing the floor under my single wide my placing cinderblocks underneath it hoping against hope.

Present: 
I was in the office when my cell phone rang. "Come over here I need to take a piss."
I left the office and crossed through the small yard to the trailer zigzagging around my stepson's bike. That's what I called him anyway, since we were married in all but name and walked up the concrete stairs and walked in.

She was propped up on the bariatric bed. She'd prepared by putting her cannula in her nose, and I pulled her legs to the floor while she pushed herself to the edge of the bed. She put her left hand on the bed rail and I pulled up with my left hand while she braced herself on my right and pushed. All 650+ pounds of glorious obesity stood and she waddled the five steps to the commode leaning on her walker. She urinated and then I helped her to her feet. She leaned on the walker and bent over, exposing the much wider, somewhat flatter, but still glorious expanse of flesh in front of me. I wiped quickly and then caressed it as she slowly stood up and waddled to the bed. She slumped into it. "Before you go would you mind getting me some chips, and maybe a soda or something?" she asked between breaths.

I left her with three bags of chips and a 2 liter of Coke before crossing the yard. I paused outside the door to let my erection subside again and went back to work, hoping to finish before our kids returned from school so I could "ride the whale" as she called it.

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.