You roll into the parking lot with six oreos left in the package. The package hasn't been yours for long. You bought it about an hour ago at the gas station - family size, they called it. You circle around the lot, looking for a close parking spot with half of an oreo wedged between your sticky lips. There aren't any spaces... not any within 20 feet of the doors, anyways. With a sigh, you pull into the handicap spot. Whatever. You were visiting the doctor for a reason, right? 5 minutes left until the appointment. Enough time to finish this package, probably. You cram the oreos into your mouth two at a time, getting just a hit of their sugary taste before swallowing. 4 and a half minutes until the appointment, and six fewer oreos in the package. That, of course, makes zero. Turning off the car, you fumble to unbuckle your seatbelt, pushing aside the plump roll of your fat that was laying over it. As your legs struggle to drag your heavy body out of the car, you feel that familiar twinge of pain in your abdomen that accompanied just about any physical activity. That is, of course, if you consider very slow walking - no, not walking, waddling - to be physical activity. This is the reason for your visit to to the doctor. You aren't sure why it's happening, but it seems to be related to the weird rashes that keep showing up on your gut. Waddling towards the door, you feel your round belly wobbling and jiggling with each heavy step. You haven't ever been this big. Other people might look at your bloated, overfed body and say you've let yourself go. But you know the truth. You've gotten hopelessly addicted to food, constantly gorging yourself on thousands and thousands of calories of junk food every day.
You didn't gain all this fat on purpose, but now it's time to face the consequences. You've known your doctor long enough to know that she's very strict with you about your weight. After you gained ten pounds last year, she berated you for your gluttony and laziness. You're not sure what she'll say now, since you're a full one hundred pounds heavier than last year. Or at least you were before the holidays. You haven't checked your weight since thanksgiving, mostly because you're afraid of breaking your mother's bathroom scale. But you couldn't have gained THAT much, right? It's a rhetorical question, of course, because you can feel your soft body filling up your previously loose clothing more and more with every calorie-rich meal. You pass through the lobby, looking longingly at the wheelchairs by the door. Your legs are awfully tired, but it might raise a few eyebrows if you roll into the examination room on a wheelchair. Starting to breathe heavily from all of the walking, you finally find the elevator. Or at least the sign informing you that the elevator is out of order. Looks like you're taking the stairs. The second floor seems a lot farther away when it takes stairs to get to it. Finally arriving at the top, you're sweaty and gasping for breath. A concerned-looking nurse helps you out of the elevator. She leads you into an examination room, having to stop a few times along the way to wait for you to catch up. Looking at your watch, you realize with mild embarrassment that you're six minutes late. The stairs did take a while, after all. The nurse asks you to step on the scale, and does a double take when she sees the number. Two hundred and eighty seven pounds. That means you've put on...how many... thirty-five pounds since thanksgiving. It's not even February yet. You knew you'd been overeating, and probably not exercising enough, but 135 pounds in a single year was absolutely ridiculous. Your belly gurgles hungrily as if to remind you how you got here. The nurse asks you to try the scale again, clearly in disbelief of your massive weight gain. No such luck, though. The scale reads 287 once again. Excusing herself, the nurse leaves you to put on your gown. You peel off your shirt, feeling it ride up the pronounced curvature of your gut. Your jeans are trickier, though. Sitting down on the floor, you fight your way out of them, squirming around enough to get yourself out of breath all of again. As you get finally get them off, the doctor knocks and enters. She's greeted with a pitiful sight. You're trying with little success to get back up from the floor. You struggle to even sit up, demonstrating how weak your abdomen is under all of that belly fat. You can only imagine what it looks like from her point of view. A bloated, obese pig of a girl, spilling out of her outgrown underwear, too fat to get up off the ground. The doctor emits a noise that can only be interpreted as one of incredible shock. She offers you a hand and pulls your hefty body off the ground. Red-faced from the exertion and a fair share of embarrassment, you're very glad the doctor is in good enough shape to help you get up. She's a young woman, slender and toned. You're about the same age as her, but that's where the similarities stop. There's a brief silence before she speaks. "Haven't been missing many meals, have we?" You sheepishly respond, "... I.... the holidays...", noticing with horror that your belly gently wobbles with even the slightest of your movements. She pats your exposed waistline, transforming the wobble into a flurry of flabby jiggling that continues for a second or two longer than you'd like. "We'll talk about THIS later." she says, eyeing the pillowy mound of blubber that your belly has become. "In the meantime, let's do some standard checkup stuff." She puts on her stethoscope and pushes it into the soft flesh covering your chest. It sinks deep into your fat, and you cringe at the sensation of your body absorbing the cold metal. The doctor chuckles. "Well, your heart is beating incredibly fast, but I think it might have something to do with how out of breath you seem to be. Is it that difficult to undress yourself?" You stammer and blurt out something about the elevator being broken, which the doctor raises an eyebrow at. "Right... because the single flight of stairs between my office and the first floor is a real workout." You blush more. With a sigh, she removes the stethoscope. "We'll check your heart again after you've recovered a little bit from all that exercise." She gets ready to check your blood pressure, wrapping a velcro band around your flabby arm. It barely fits, and you can see plush bulges of fat sticking out of both sides of the band. She notices too, and pokes her finger into the soft tissue. "This measurement gets to be a little inaccurate on people with really large arms - you know, people who lift weights a lot, or people who overeat a lot. You're pretty clearly the latter." She was relentless. "Okay... 150 over 100. That means you have high blood pressure. Normal for someone your size, but your size isn't exactly normal." She rests her slender fingers on you, pressing them into your doughy chest. "Hopefully your heart holds up alright under all that extra strain." She looks down at the oversized bulge of your belly. "So, your chart tells me that you had a BMI of 24.5 last time. A little on the high side, but still within the bounds of what would be considered healthy. With your new weight, your BMI is gonna be... let's see..." She glances at her computer monitor. "That's 46.3, which we consider Class IV Obesity. You're morbidly obese. And you came in here today complaining of rashes on your stomach." The doctor glances again at your swollen body. You can feel her gaze examining every roll and bulge. "I can tell you what the rashes are right away. They're stretchmarks. It's normal for pregnant people to get them. Essentially, your body is expanding faster than your skin can grow to cover it. This shouldn't be news to you, but you're not meant to gain 135 pounds in a single year. At some point, your skin is going to struggle to contain all of that new extra belly fat." You look at the floor, embarrassed. You had hoped it was some sort of acne. After all, you did eat a lot of pretty greasy food. The doctor strides over to you and places a hand on your blimp of a belly. Without warning, she grabs a handful of your extra fat and shakes it vigorously. "Look at all this. It's disgusting. Do you have any idea how much of a lazy pig you have to be to gain all this lard in a single year?" You don't have a good answer. There's a second of silence punctuated by your stomach growling. "Oh, you're hungry." the doctor says menacingly. "Even after that big, fattening cheeseburger you had for lunch?" You're at a loss for words. You manage to mumble "...How did you...?" The doctor laughs and gets uncomfortably close to you. You can feel her breath on your chubby cheeks. She breathes in through her nose, long and comically loud. "Smell that? Probably not, since I'm sure you're used to it. But, hon, you absolutely reek of greasy fast food." Her face is contorted into a fake pouting expression, and she continues sarcastically "Aw, you must be so embarrassed. I'm sorry. It's just you've turned into such a big heavy girl, and I can't imagine why..." She reaches towards your mouth and picks an oreo crumb off of your lips, popping it into her mouth. "Oh... so sugary... I'd better mark you down for a blood test, too. I think I'm looking at a future diabetic." She issues a fake smile and makes a few notes on her clipboard. Without warning, she sticks her thumb into your belly button and wraps her fingers around your bulging overhang. You practically squeal in surprise as she leads you into another room, pulling you forward with your own fat-filled gut. "I think we need to do an aerobic test." she whispers to you. Her hands find their way into the crevasses of your back fat, and she pushes you onto a treadmill. She starts it moving at a walking pace, but you can still feel the strain on your legs. Your plush thighs rub against each other with each heavy step. The doctor turns the speed up higher. 3.0... 4.0... 5.0... You have to jog now, for the first time in over a year. She's laughing at you now, at your complete lack of fitness. Your belly bounces up and down, throwing off your balance with its mass. You're wheezing for breath. The speed climbs higher, and the doctor just keeps laughing. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest like an enormous drum. Your whole body is rippling with fat. As the treadmill continues to accelerate, you feel yourself misstep. Just a little too far to one side. But your thighs are just too big and heavy to adjust, and your feet fly out from under you. With a heavy thud, you find yourself lying on the ground, gasping for air. The doctor leans over you. "Look at you! You made it almost a whole minute! But you'll have to excuse me for a moment, I need to grab something from the other room." She exits the room, leaving you feeling disgusting and helpless on the ground. There's nothing to grab onto, so you try to use the wall to help yourself stand up. It's no use, your legs hurt too much. You realize with horror that you might not be able to get up. You roll over onto your stomach, feeling your soft belly fat spreading across the cold tile floor. Suddenly, the door bursts open. The doctor is standing there, holding a box of donuts. "Since you're such a hungry girl and you've had such a big workout today, I think you might enjoy some of these. I borrowed them from the break room." She rolls you onto your back again and shakes your belly. "Such a big, blubbery piggy... You must be soooo hungry for more sugar and fat...." You start to object, but she forces a donut into your mouth before you can utter a word. She climbs on top of you, sinking into your fatty midsection. You groan as she pushes another donut between your lips. It's so sweet... so delicious. You try to push her off, but she's too strong. "Keep eating, you big fucking whale. You're weak and helpless. And oh, so hungry. How about another?" You groan, overcome with the taste of the donuts and the sensation of being force fed. You feel your body relax, and you let the doctor push another donut into you. "That's it, pig. You're a disgusting, unhealthy, garbage disposal. You're just gonna keep piling on the pounds. So blubbery and weak..." As you swallow the final pastry, she grabs your belly. "Poor, helpless fatty. You're a slave to your own obesity. Now, was there anything else you wanted to see me about today?"
Thank you so much for 1,000 followers! You're all absolute deviants and I love you. Hopefully you enjoyed this piece - it's got a little something for everyone. If you did, leave a like! Maybe reblog! Maybe comment! Follow me! Leave an ask! Buy me a coffee (link in bio)!
You don't actually have to do all of those things. A few would be nice, though. Thanks again for all of your support.
-R
