The strained sound emanates from under you. The reclining armchair beneath your bulk groans again as you shift your weight, trying to find some position that doesn’t make the frame protest. The creaking is constant now, a familiar little chorus that plays every time you settle your body deeper into this well-worn seat. You’ve grown used to it, but not numb. It still lands on your ears like a warning, a warning that you’re still yet to heed.
You exhale, long and slow, feeling the heavy rise and fall of your chest, the way your gut balloons upward with the motion and then slumps heavily back into your lap. Twenty-five pounds? Fifty? A hundred? You wonder just how many it will take before you either break this chair or simply can’t fit into it anymore. You imagine it—your flesh overflowing the padded arms, the wood beneath you finally splintering with a sharp, humiliating crack. Or maybe it’ll happen more subtly. Maybe one day you’ll lower yourself down and realize, quietly, that you simply don’t fit anymore. No pop, no spectacle. Just the slow, undeniable truth that your body has outgrown it. That you’ve let it outgrow it.
You catch yourself before the thought spirals further. It won’t come to that, you think to yourself. You have plans to stop gaining—the same plans you’ve had for…what? Years now? They rattle around in the back of your mind like forgotten New Year’s resolutions. They always felt real when you made them. In the mirror. After a weigh-in. After a binge.
You never meant to get this big. It just sort of happened.
Well, not really. You knew who she was when you met her. And you knew what her plans were for you. The look in her eyes when she first ran her hands over your belly, back when it was soft but modest. “Just a few pounds,” she’d said. “It’ll be fun.”
And it was fun, at first.
The little games, the “rewards” she offered whenever you cleaned your plate. The way she’d touch you more the fuller you were. Greasy breakfasts in bed, surprise takeout feasts at midnight, the caring way she would refill your bowl without asking. She called it spoiling you. And you were spoiled. You ate whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. You just didn’t notice when what you wanted started to blur into what she wanted for you.
Your hand—thick, dimpled, the fingers pudgy with fat—slides over the large dome of your belly. Your full belly. Your fingers sink slightly into the puffed flesh at the top, then glide lower to where the weight pools heavily into your lap, spreading out against your thick thighs. Heat radiates from it, from digestion, from overuse.
Was there ever a moment nowadays where it wasn’t full? You try to remember the last time your stomach grumbled with hunger, but nothing comes. You can’t think of the last time you were legitimately hungry. Hunger had no place in her world. She made sure of that. Hunger meant space. Hunger meant potential, and potential was meant to be filled.
You can hear the sound of her in the kitchen, preparing something. Always preparing something. The clink of utensils. The soft shuffle of her feet across tile. Her peaceful hums mingling with the hum of the fridge door opening and closing. If she wasn’t cooking, she was feeding. And if she wasn’t feeding—well, there are really only those two. Pretty much everything she does is in an effort to get you to eat more.
You shift in your seat again, the effort awkward and sluggish, your heavy middle resisting movement as you twist your body to reach for the last half of what was two large Monte Cristo sandwiches on the side table next to you. Your elbow brushes the soft armrest, your breath catching slightly from the exertion. The plate clinks as your fingers grasp the edge and drag it toward you, the half sandwich still glistening with melted cheese and fried grease. You already finished the first, and your stomach’s protesting from the strain, but here you are again, eyeing the remains like it’s something earned.
You lift it, the bread warm and limp in your palm, weighed down by an obscene amount of oozing, melted cheese. A thick ribbon of it clings stubbornly to the plate, stretching before finally snapping and recoiling back onto your fingers. Your skin shines with grease, butter slicking your fingertips as you bring the sandwich to your mouth.
The bite is heavy—thick-cut meat, hot cheese, the faint tang of mustard. You groan through the mouthful, cheeks puffed out, jaw working to break down the overload of fat and richness. The meat is stacked high, juicy and salty and so fucking unhealthy, you think to yourself. You can feel the fat blooming across your tongue, taste the way it sinks into every crevice of your mouth.
But it doesn’t stop you from taking another bite. And another.
This is your second dinner. You always have second dinners now, and you’re not even sure when that became normal. She used to check. You remember that—her hand grazing your belly, pressing gently into the upper curve of it to test the give, her voice low as she asked if you were full, if you really had room. Sometimes she’d stop when you didn’t. Sometimes.
But somewhere along the way, she stopped asking.
Now, it’s routine. A first dinner, big enough for anyone else to call a binge, and then an hour or two later, the second appears, as if it didn’t even really matter whether you had room or not. As if fullness wasn’t a factor. As if the only question that mattered was whether she had more to give.
Maybe it’s your fault for always eating it. Maybe it’s hers for always giving it to you, knowing that you will.
You moan a bit as your fullness catches up to you, the sound low and involuntary, escaping your lips as your overburdened belly surges outward with a throb. You lean your head back and close your eyes, trying to ride out the discomfort, sinking deeper into your seat as if that will somehow ease the pressure. But the chair creaks again—louder this time—complaining right along with your full stomach.
It groans beneath your weight like it’s reaching its limit, its strained frame shifting under you as your girth settles heavily into the cushions. Everything about this chair feels wrong on your body now. It was starting to get uncomfortable months ago—now it’s barely tolerable.
The rigid arms press into your sides, digging into the soft, yielding flesh that spills over them. There's a dull, constant pressure where your love handles meet the padded wood, but there isn’t much space to move around. None at all, if you’re honest with yourself. Your hips are pressed tight against the frame, your belly spread so wide across your lap that your thighs are barely visible beneath it.
You should transfer to the sofa. You know this. She’s told you so herself—more than once. She says it gently, like it’s a suggestion, but you can tell she knows. She’s seen how hard it is for you to shift in this chair, how carefully you have to wedge yourself into it now. The way you grunt just getting out.
But that would be like admitting defeat.
You haven’t outgrown this chair yet, and you won’t. You promise yourself you won’t. But the promise feels weak even in your mind, a flicker of pride clinging to something that feels increasingly out of reach. You don’t have any evidence to point to that says you’re even remotely capable of the restraint you’d need to slow down. You can’t remember the last time you said no to seconds. Or thirds. You can’t remember the last time you left a plate unfinished.
But it isn’t really restraint that you need, is it? It’s a backbone.
She’s the one who cooks. She’s the one who feeds. All you’d have to do is say no. Just a simple word. You could have said it at dinner. Or at second dinner. Or last week when she baked that triple-layer cake “just because.” You could’ve said no a thousand times by now.
You wanted this too, sure, but not this much. Nowhere near this much. This wasn’t the plan. You just kept going. And now you don’t even know where the plan went.
But even as your belly spills further and further into your lap, a heavy, drooping mass that rises and falls with every strained breath… even as the simplest of tasks—bending over, putting on socks, getting up without bracing yourself—get harder and harder to do… even as you grow closer and closer to outgrowing this chair entirely…
You’re getting too big, too fat. You know it. You’ve known it for a while. Every step reminds you. Every breath. Every button you’ve had to retire. But somehow you still convince yourself that you can turn back. That it’s not too late. That if you really tried—really pushed—you could still regain control.
You don’t know what the point of no return is. You don’t know when it is. But a nagging voice at the back of your head says it’s soon. Really soon, if you don’t do something.
The sound of her voice cuts through your thoughts, startling you. You hadn’t even heard her come in. Lost in your own spiraling guilt and swollen discomfort, you hadn’t noticed her presence until now—until her words curled gently into your ear, soft and sweet like the rest of her, dangerous in their ease.
She perches on the arm of the chair beside you, the very same arm that’s been pressing into your side all night. Her presence pushes you in even deeper, compressing your already-squeezed frame, but you say nothing. You never do. You feel her thigh against your upper arm, the casual dominance of her posture, half-sitting, half-leaning into you, like you’re an extension of the furniture beneath her.
She plucks the remaining half of the sandwich from your thick, sluggish fingers. “Open up,” she says, smiling, the command as casual as it is inevitable.
You're already so full, but you do. You’re already so massive. But you obey. The bloated mass of your stomach groans beneath the strain as you shift slightly, trying to make room, as if there were any left to be made.
With her other hand, she rubs the crest of your belly, her palm slow and warm, stroking the skin where it peaks highest. Her fingers move in circles, each motion pressing gently into the fat beneath. The touch is intimate, familiar, loving, possessive.
This body isn’t mine, you think. It’s hers.
If it were truly yours, you might have more control. You might not be slouched into a recliner that’s half-collapsing under your bulk, submitting to yet another bite. You might not be this big. This soft. This slow.
“There you go,” she coos, ever the encourager. Gentle praise, so easy to sink into. So hard to resist.
Every thought you’ve had still plays in your mind—your quiet, desperate warnings, the panic, the aching sense that you’re running out of time. But they don’t move you. You don’t act on them.
You sit there, heavy and silent, a willing body, a stuffed vessel. And you let her do as she pleases with it.
The sandwich disappears bite by bite into your gut, joining the mountain of food already sitting heavy inside you. You feel every inch of it. The sluggish churn. The way your stomach now feels not just full, but overfilled, like it’s been pushed into its limits.
“Good job,” she says, still stroking your belly like you’ve done something worth celebrating. Like this quiet submission, this surrender of control, is something to be proud of. Like you should feel accomplished to be one more meal deeper into extreme obesity.
“Ready for dessert?” she asks, and her voice is all honey and softness, the kind that pretends to offer a choice. But it’s not really a question. You both know that. She’ll bring it either way.
You lick the grease on your lips, feel the butter cling to the corner of your mouth. You shouldn’t. God, you really shouldn’t. But you nod. You’ve never said no before, and you don’t know why you would start now.
“Okay,” she says, and her smile blooms wide as she leans down, planting a gentle kiss on your cheek. Her lips are warm, her breath sweet. You feel your skin tingle where she touched you.
She leaves, and you’re left on your own again, with your thoughts, your doubts, your heaviness. Your fat-swollen arms feel like sandbags as you lift them to rub over your gut. You groan quietly as you press in, feeling the firm swell of your belly rise and fall beneath your palms. It's trying, struggling, to digest, to make space for what it somehow already knows is coming.
And your mind feels just as bloated as your body. Sluggish, thick, dragging behind itself as you sift through the timeline of your life and try to make sense of how this happened. How did a few harmless pounds turn into hundreds? How did something that started off light and playful—something meant to be fun, indulgent, temporary—wrap itself around your life so thoroughly, so completely, that you barely recognize yourself anymore.
You shift, and let out a soft burp. Then another. They escape lazily, bubbling up from the pressure inside you like reminders of everything you’ve swallowed down today, everything she’s fed you.
It’s not your fault, really. It’s her.
You didn’t know it would go this way. Not this far. Maybe if you had known, you would’ve done something sooner. Maybe. But now? Now it feels too big to undo. The reasonable part of you, what’s left of it, still says you could stop. You could change. But the thought of giving all this up, this life of softness and ease, the endless comfort food, the constant attention, feels bleak. What would be left, if you stripped it all away?
So you delay. You justify. It’s always just one more day. One more meal. One more dessert.
And then she returns. With her, the scents of warm vanilla, caramelized sugar, and melting chocolate. The scent wraps around you, and your stomach clenches involuntarily, greedy even through its fullness. She walks in holding a plate stacked high with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, still warm, the tops golden, the chocolate glistening where it hasn’t fully set.
You sigh, licking your lips, already anticipating the first bite. This—this, in particular—you know you can’t give up. Her bakes.
Cookies, cakes, pastries made with what she teasingly calls “extra love.” But you know what that really means. More butter. Sugar. Cream. More of everything. And somehow, even knowing that, you don’t care. Because it’s what makes them so good. So rich. So soft. Damn near addicting.
And you’re already preparing to reach for one, to open up again. To keep going.
She sets the plate down on the side table. Just the sight of them makes your mouth water, even through the dense pressure sitting heavy in your gut. You shift, instinctively trying to sit up straighter, to adjust your position. But as you press your palms down to push yourself up, there's a dull, muffled thump beneath you. And then a sinking.
You drop lower. Deeper. The chair groans, then stills. Something underneath has given out.
You freeze for a second, heart sinking just as fast.
You glance up at her, and she’s staring at you, startled. Caught somewhere between concern and calculation. You brace again, try to sit up, but it’s worse than before. You’ve sunk deeper into the frame, the seat now sloping beneath you in a way that traps your hips even tighter than before. You twist, grimacing, trying to get some leverage, but you can’t. Your hips are wedged firm. The chair was already too narrow, too rigid for your size, and now what little wiggle room you had is gone.
You grunt, grabbing at the armrests with thick, trembling arms. You try to rock, to hoist yourself up, to do something, but every part of you works against the rest. Your belly crushes down into your lap when you lean forward, the pressure sharp and overwhelming. Your thighs are pinned, your love handles press into the unyielding sides, and your arms—soft, overgrown, unused to effort—can’t do what you need them to.
Your breath quickens. You try again. And again.
You collapse back into the sunken chair, chest heaving, your forehead damp with sweat. Your whole body radiates heat, embarrassment, exertion, discomfort.
You look up at her, defeated. “Are you stuck?” she asks, voice light, though she’s clearly seen you struggling for minutes now.
You nod, panting, unable to answer right away. You shift again to show her, lifting your arms slightly, defeated by even that.
“Want me to help you?” she asks, tilting her head. Her brow is drawn, concern written there. But there’s something else in her eyes, something that flickers behind it.
“Yes,” you manage, voice hoarse. “Please.”
She smiles softly, and her lip curls inward for a second, like she’s thinking.
Then she reaches for the plate of cookies. Picks one up.
She leans down over you, close enough that the scent of chocolate and butter hits you like a wave. She holds the cookie to your mouth, eyes flicking down to your lips.
“Finish these off,” she says sweetly, “and I will.”
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