The McLean Family 1 - Using the Bathroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Helper 2

CW Contains slob, bathroom themes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Helper 1

CW: Pretty significant slob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother/Son

 CW: Contains themes of incest and slob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wilcox Farms 2

In private staff called her Dr. Wilcox's biggest failure. 12 years ago she'd entered the 'farms as the first patient and she'd never left. Wilcox openly admitted it. He'd entirely failed to bring down her weight. He always said that possibly it was because she was his first patient and had been the "guinea pig" for his theories and treatments. Staff speculated on everything from genetic problems making it difficult to loose weight to stubbornness on her part. All were agreed that the failure of her respiratory system 5 years ago had made further progress much more difficult.

Haley had entered the facility 12 years ago as the first patient. She'd weighed 600lbs at 22 years old but had ballooned to over a thousand. Her peak weight had been measured at 1100. Her respiratory drive had failed and she'd almost suffocated. Wilcox had managed to intubate her and eventually she'd been surgically given a tracheostomy and placed on a ventilator. She'd been on a crash diet loosing nearly 300 pounds but it had been a fight to get her under 800. At least according to the official documentation. As of now she weighed 817lbs (58.4 stone) as of this morning's weighing. Unknown to all but a couple staff members, who'd also been here for those 12 years, and close family, Haley was married to Wilcox. And unknown to everyone but her and Wilcox was that she was incredibly turned on by her weight, and experienced almost orgasmic levels of pleasure when her massive stomach was stuffed with food.

Currently she was constantly being fed, 24/7/365, a caloric heavy, high nutrient feed through the tube to keep her gargantuan stomach at least somewhat filled so she didn't starve, and to give her the nutrients she needed to stay alive. Of course she still consumed food by mouth. The most amount of pleasure she received in her daily life was when she was eating food. But it was a lot of work for her and she only ate a couple meals a day now.

Haley couldn't talk anymore but she didn't need to. Her life was perfect for her, and she could communicate using her tablet. It was after 8 and she'd just finished her dinner when Wilcox came into her room the largest one in the Intensive Care Unit side. It was quiet and dark other then the soft lights bathing her body in yellow light. He closed the door and crossed to her bed. He touched her swollen cheek and they exchanged kisses.

Then he stepped back to admire his handiwork. No, their handiwork. Haley didn't overflow the Bariatric hospital bed but she filled it comfortably. Her face and head were fat, perched on a double chin that had been spread but now encompassed her trach. Formless breasts cascaded over fold after fold of fat to her massive belly which ran all the way to her knees. Her belly had always been her biggest asset but she didn't really have any small ones. Her legs were formless, deformed by fat, fluid retention, and muscle atrophy and small feet red, puffy, and unmoving, poked out the bottom. She was surrounded by tubes, the tube to breath for her, the tube to feed her, the tubes of the PICC line they administered medications through. The port for her to receive dialysis since her kidneys barely worked. The urinary catheter to take away urine, the rectal tube that took away her fecal matter.

They spent most evenings together, and all day Sundays. Most of it was just being close, watching TV or movies together. Once in a while, for old times sake, he'd feed her but it exhausted her easily. And once in a while, if she had the energy they'd...

Tonight he could tell, she had the energy. She confirmed it when he got close and she grabbed his crotch with her fat swollen fingers. He couldn't access her vagina anymore but he really didn't care. That's what vibrators are for. It was a bit of a struggle to get her's placed through the fat of her thighs and belly but he manged it and turned it on. Then he got undressed and started to fuck her belly button. She had a big deep belly button and he loved it. The huge expanse of her belly flowed around him, jiggling with each thrust.

When he'd finished, and gotten her cleaned up he relaxed in the chair listening to the hiss hiss of the ventilator breathing for her. And contemplated. Her health was bad, terminally bad, but he didn't really know how long she could live like this. Everything was stable. Her heart was the only organ he couldn't really treat and it was still going strong, with no evidence of problems. Unlike so many of his patients. He was interrupted by the tablet's computerized "I want to show you something"

He got up and looked. The tablet read:
"I want to be 1000lbs again. There's something magical about being half a ton, 4 figures. I miss it. I want to try. Do you want me to?"
Wilcox didn't say anything at first. There was no reason too. He turned up the speed that the tube feeding was being administered to her by and gave her a kiss. "Yes." He said. "But I need you to eat three meals a day like the good little land whale you are."
That got him a heavy nod and a tight smile.

Family Traditions

Present Day Christmas:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas, 20 years in the past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas, Present Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas, 6 years in the past

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

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

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

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

Christmas, Present Day

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

Christmas, Near Future

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

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

Practically Immobile

CW: Scat, obesity related health issues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These four walls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.