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story I found on DA absolute goals…

“Rise and shine, fatass!”

The shrill voice of your cousin Felicia penetrated your ears, snapping you out of a peaceful slumber and back into cold, harsh reality. Your eyes groggily fluttered open, and laid upon them was the familiar sight of a vast, immobile sea of flesh. Starting from the bottom, a flap of sweaty skin covered your feet. You could feel it rubbing against your toes when you wiggled them — one of the few movements your body was still capable of. Your legs, saddled with sacs of fat, spread out and measured several feet wide. They stood no chance of ever supporting your weight again. Flabby moobs rested haphazardly on your chest. Above that, a collection of rolls concealed the neck that connected your head to the rest of your morbidly obese frame.

Your belly, however, was by far the most dominant feature of this corpulent landscape. It swooped outward and covered an enormous area like a blanket of heavy, oily skin. Its surface was lumpy with cellulite and riddled with stretch marks. Most importantly, your belly was strategically slung to the side. Its enormity bulged and flowed, ultimately collecting on the floor in a pile of worthless flesh. You had to lay on your side like this, otherwise your gut’s unimaginable weight would crush your lungs. Your belly itself probably weighed as much as three normal people, and the weak muscles of your diaphragm just couldn’t work against it to fill your lungs. Laying on your back would quite literally be a death sentence, that’s how catastrophically obese you were.

As of late, however, you’ve been finding it hard to breathe even with your belly slinging rightwards. To remedy this, plastic oxygen tubes were jammed in your nostrils. The tubing ran its way up and around your ears, then down around your neck rolls before running off to an oxygen tank somewhere. This cannula delivered oxygen in greater quantities than your pathetic body was capable of sucking in.

Felicia sauntered into the room, naked like always. She may have been your cousin, but you couldn’t deny she was pretty hot. The fact that she was the only woman you’d seen in years probably had something to do with it. Wide, juicy hips swayed, and thick thighs jiggled with every step. Her perky tits were on the smaller side, and they stayed firm as she approached you, pushing a cart full of breakfast.

“Morning, hope you’re hungry!” she exclaimed. “Oh, who am I kidding. Just look at all this lard. Of course you’re hungry!”

She grabbed a handful of flab and shook it around. The couple of squeezes turned into a little massage. Her hands rubbed and pushed your squishy fat, then they grabbed your moobs and played with them a bit. She always treated your body like her own personal plaything. Your weakened muscles were never going to be able to fight back, so you had no choice but to lay there and take it.

As she caressed and fondled your ample rolls, you felt the oxygen tube digging into your neck. It consisted of four or five extra chins on the front and various other sweaty pockets of flesh on the sides and back. It was easy for stuff to get lost in there. In fact, sometimes Felicia would hide things between the flaps of lard just to watch you struggle to dig them out.

Your arms weren’t capable of much, but with great effort, you could lift them a bit and tug on the oxygen line, pulling the life-sustaining plastic out from your flab and back on top of your pale skin. The tube wrapped around your neck like a leash. It was an appropriate analogy; you often felt more like an animal than a person at this point. The tube was your leash and the bed was your enclosure, a prison you’d seemingly never leave for the rest of your life. And Felicia was like an abusive zookeeper. She delivered your slop and forced you to perform tricks. There was little she seemed to enjoy more than watching you struggle.

With the cart rolled up to your bed, Felicia clambered right up next to your face. Well, it wasn’t a bed so much as it was a couple mattresses lying on the floor. Your bed frame broke a long, long time ago.

“Can’t believe you let yourself get this big,” she said, pinching your chubby cheeks. “You’re so fucking fat… And yet, you’re just gonna keep getting bigger. Open wide, fatso!”

“Wait, Felicia,” you whined. “I really gotta pee. Can you grab the bedpan before we do breakfast?”

A scowl formed on her face. “Now, now,” she chided. “You know the rules. You’re not allowed to go until you eat every last bite.”

“Please…” you whispered desperately. “I really, really need to—”

You were unable to finish the last sentence. Felicia stuffed a chocolate muffin in your mouth, interrupting your plea. The saccharine bread landed on your tongue, and any self-control you thought you had melted away. With smacking lips and animalistic grunting, you gobbled down the delicious chocolate quickly. Felicia yanked her hand away to make sure her fingers didn’t get bit.

The great contradiction of it all was that you didn’t want to eat. You didn’t want to be immobile, morbidly obese, or even just fat. You desperately wished that something could save you from this lifestyle, but in that moment, it seemed hopeless. Despite your begging otherwise, Felicia shoved muffin after muffin in your face, and you truly couldn’t help but choke down every single one.

When the muffins were gone, she moved on to breakfast burritos. Felicia wasn’t really much of a cook, so most of the food you ate was processed junk from restaurants or the grocery store. Those muffins came from the Walmart bakery, and these greasy wraps came from Taco Bell. Felicia had a big grin on her face as she crammed them down your gullet.

Your relationship with food was complicated to say the least. But your relationship with your cousin made even less sense. In many senses, she was your captor. An abuser. Physically, emotionally, sexually, you were subject to her terror on a daily basis. One thing you were fairly certain you didn’t like was how worked up she got feeding you.

“God, you’re such a fat fuck~” she whispered in a husky tone. “So massively obese… And helpless.” She crammed another burrito in your mouth. “You just keep eating and eating and eating. Nothing you can do about it, lard-ass.”

Despite the fact that she was insulting you, her tone of voice got more and more sultry as she went on. She was completely nude, so the ultimate proof that she was horny as hell was her pussy — it glistened as the dim lights of your room reflected off its wetness. With only a few burritos left, she shifted to feeding with one hand and stimulating her soaking cunt with the other. Between each hurtful comment about your weight, she let out a breathy moan.

The worst part was that you couldn’t help but get hard. Buried deep, deep in the depths of your lard-encased nether regions, your tiny cock was standing at full mast. The tingling sensation down there also served to remind you how much you needed to relieve yourself.

“C-can I please pee now?”

“Nnngh — Gimme a minute,” she grunted in response.

“Please!” you cried. “I’m gonna pee myself if you don’t grab the bedpan!”

“Awww, and get piss all over your chubby little fatpad? If only you weren’t such a useless pile of lard!”

Tears started to well up in your eyes. “Please!” you begged with great intensity. “I-if I pee myself, it’s gonna get infected, and then what’re you gonna do?”

It was a valid concern. Without Felicia’s help to move fat out of the way and collect the urine in a bedpan, your piss would simply puddle up around your crotch. Festering in the deepest, darkest reaches, the pool of your fetid emiction would surely be a breeding ground for bacteria. And of course, you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Felicia would have to be the one to nurse your wounds. But she didn’t seem to care one bit. Instead, she completely ignored your pleas, and her masturbation only got faster and faster. It was absolutely terrifying to you how she blatantly disregarded any health problems that might come with your size.

“Such a fat fuck… huff… You’re too fucking obese to get to the bathroom yourself… huff… No choice but to piss yourself unless I help!”

With a repetitive schlick schlick schlick, her fingers slid in and out of her sopping pussy at a breakneck pace. Natural lubrication dripped from between her legs onto your bed. While she was in some kind of depraved nirvana, you were in agony. The pressure had already reached the point of painfulness in your bladder, and now a similar pressure was building in your balls.

Felicia only let you cum around once a week. Meanwhile, she came to the sight of your overfed mass multiple times a day, which of course drove you mad. Your cock would get hard and rub against the acres of fat surrounding it, soaking your fatpad with precum. But you had absolutely no shot of reaching down there and finishing yourself off. No, you had to rely on Felicia for that, like seemingly everything in your life these days. The result is that you spent most of your time being blueballed.

“Felicia, it hurts!” you cried, referring to both your bladder and your aching balls.

She probably didn’t even hear you as she crested the hill of orgasm and squirted right in your face. As humiliating as it was, at least you knew it was finally time for some relief. Not before she gave your drenched face a nice, sloppy kiss, though. While she jammed her tongue down your throat, you were using every fiber of your massive being to hold your bladder shut.

“You’ve been a good boy for me this morning,” she huffed. “I’ll get the bedpan for you.”

And with that, she leisurely climbed off the bed, clearly unconcerned with the fact that you were only hanging on by a thread. The bedpan was kept under the bed. She slid it out and worked her way between your thighs, being sure to grab and play with plenty of your fat along the way. As much as you hated it, the stimulation only turned you on further. Your belly being slung to the side not only made it possible for you to breathe, it also made it easier for her to go spelunking in your crotch. There was no fear of her being crushed by that absurdly massive gut hanging off the side of the bed.

“Let’s see, where could it be?” she wondered aloud as she dug around your endless crural fat deposits. “Oop, there it is! Awww, look at your tiny little cock! It’s so pathetic!”

She always said these types of things even though she saw your dick every single day. Either way, she wasn’t wrong. Even fully erect, your member was so buried that it was little more than a nub projecting hardly an inch out of your fatpad. As she shoved lard out of the way to get the pan in position, she made sure to take a moment to stroke your cock a bit. She grasped it with just two fingers, sliding up and down a couple times. Each stroke caused her digits to rub against your ultra-sensitive head, sending bolts of agonizing pleasure coursing through your veins. Your heart began to beat even faster, forcing you to gasp for breath. Thankfully, the oxygen tube continued doing its job. You knew that she wasn’t going to let you cum today, which meant Felicia was ultimately only adding to the pain in your scrotum.

With the bedpan finally in place, you were given permission to urinate. Instantly, you stopped holding it in, sending a powerful, warm stream of golden piss bursting from your tiny, buried dick. The feeling of pressure in your bladder finally being relieved was the most pleasurable thing you’d felt all day. The delicious food was undercut by the fact that it was being forced upon you. And all the sexual pleasure was downright painful because of how pent-up you were. This was the first genuine positive thing you’d experienced today.

When it was all said and done, she gave your micropenis another couple strokes before removing the filled bedpan from your cavernous crotch. She made sure to let you know how helpless you were, and how great she was for selflessly taking care of you.

“Boy, what would you do without me?” she asked rhetorically. “You wouldn’t be able to eat if I didn’t feed you. You’d be forced to piss yourself, since you can’t walk to the bathroom. You’d be absolutely filthy if I didn’t bathe you. You’re so lucky to have a cousin like me!”

She clambered off the mattresses, carrying the metal bedpan off to be emptied. It was filled to the brim with your dark yellow secretion. Before exiting the room, she turned around and bragged a little more about how great she was.

“Do you remember what your life was like before I came along? So helpless, so worthless. Just remember that your life would be nothing without me!”

The truth is, you could hardly recall what things were like pre-Felicia. One detail you could recall was your parents dropping you off here one summer. It wasn’t uncommon for them to dump you on family members for a summer at a time while they went off and did god knows what. You couldn’t remember how long ago that was. You weren’t even sure of how old you were at this point.

Felicia told you so many conflicting things about your life, it made your memories very, very foggy. Sometimes, she acted like you’d always been a useless, immobile pile. Other times, she made it seem like you’d fattened yourself up and made yourself useless over the years. Like you’d thrown your life away. That was something you were certain of; whether it was your fault or not, your life was ruined thanks to all this extra poundage.

As you drifted off to sleep with a belly stuffed to the brim, your brain replayed what little it could recall of the past. You could distinctly remember the ample supply of junk food available when you first walked into Felicia’s house that fateful summer. On the contrary, what was especially fuzzy was exactly how big you were when you arrived. Your memories indicated that you were a fairly normal size, but Felicia would have you believe you were already morbidly obese. You were definitely certain that she encouraged you to eat as much of that cornucopia of fattening snacks as you could.

With no shortage of sugary and greasy junk and no responsible caretaker to stop you, it should be no surprise that you stuffed your face morning, noon, and night. And who could blame you? Who wouldn’t want to eat candy and pizza and chug can after can of soda all day, every day? Of course, the reason most people don’t eat like that is because there are consequences.

Everything that happened next was a blur. Before you knew it, summer was over. You were suddenly quite overweight. Exactly how fat you were, you couldn’t recall, but it was pretty goddamn big. And on top of that, you couldn’t stop cramming all that unhealthy garbage down your throat. While you’d originally indulged because you wanted to and because it tasted good, by the end of the summer, you were grazing constantly on junk just because. Just to pass the time. Because it was just what you did. It was like a muscle memory, almost.

It wasn’t until the seasons had finished their transition from summer to autumn that you even realized your parents never came to pick you up. You were fairly sure that, even today, you hadn’t seen them since they dropped you off. But Felicia would have you believe otherwise.

“Your parents just visited last week!” she always exclaimed when you brought it up. “Don’t you remember? You’re such a forgetful fatty~” she’d tease. But that’s when the hurtful comments would start to come in. “I can’t believe you don’t remember your parents visiting. You must not love them very much,” she’d say bluntly. “Fortunately, I love you more than them. More than anyone on earth loves this massive, useless blob you call a body. You’re so lucky to have me!”

Your nutrition-free diet left you feeling so lethargic, so unenergetic, that your thoughts constantly felt fuzzy. Just thinking was almost more effort than you could bear. That, in combination with all the contradicting things Felicia told you, is why it was so hard to remember anything. But one thing you did remember pretty clearly was the last time you ever got out of bed on your own. In fact, you even knew your exact weight — 728.2 pounds. It was a number that would be burned into your brain forever.

Getting up at that size was an ordeal, not the least bit because Felicia refused to help. She thought you should just sit and eat constantly, never moving for any reason at all. In order to stand, you first had to sit up. That was hard enough, but the next step was even harder — swinging your massive, fat-swaddled legs around and dangling them off the bed. Then came the hardest part, where, with a great heave, you managed to put that 700-pound frame on the ground, entirely under the support of its own musculature. A pipe dream now.

When you awoke from your nap, you found that you were still in a lying position with your belly off to the side. And of course, leaving that position was impossible. It might be doable if Felicia helped, but she would never do that. The second you became unable to lift your body under your own power was the second you became immobile. Never once did she try to help you maneuver the unimaginable weight of your considerable body fat around.

One other thing that struck you after waking up was the sharp pains in your chest. They were even stronger than they were earlier, when you were all worked up. You tried to take in a deep breath and yawn, but something strange, yet familiar happened. The air just wasn’t coming in. You couldn’t fill your lungs entirely. It was similar to what breathing was like before you cast your belly aside, except now it was happening even with all that weight dangling off the bed.

“Felicia!”

You tried to yell, but all that came out was a hoarse wheeze. The sound probably wasn’t loud enough to travel even the length of your massive body.

“Help!” you cried. It was a bit louder this time. With great effort, you sucked in all the air your damaged lungs could handle and bellowed, “FEEELICIIAAA!”

That seemed to get her attention. Once again, that fertility goddess-like figure of hers strolled through the doorway with no sense of urgency. She had a bag of chips in each hand.

“Already hungry again, fatass?” she asked snidely. “Not surprised. I got some chips for you.”

“I-I-I-I can't… can’t breathe,” you managed to huff. Calling for Felicia really knocked the wind out of you. “My chest… really hurts.”

“Oh, quit being such a baby!” she scolded. “Here, you just need a snack.”

She opened a bag of chips as she approached your face. Meanwhile, you started coughing and hacking. Each cough felt like a dagger stabbing through your chest.

“S-seriously,” you wheezed once the coughing subsided. “You n-need… to call… 9-1-1! I c-can’t… fucking… breathe!”

As you got more worked up, existence only got more painful. More coughing followed your defiant exclamation, but Felicia wasn’t having any of it.

“Nonsense! You have this oxygen supply for a reason. See?” she said, ripping the cannula from your nose.

Instantly, you were unable to pull even a single puff of air through your nose. The extent to which your lungs were completely ruined was now becoming incredibly apparent. Hundreds of pounds of pure lard subsumed your respiratory system, and your weak, useless diaphragm stood no chance of allowing you to inhale. You tried and tried to suck in some air, but nothing happened. It was as if your body was in a vacuum.

As one does when they’re suffocating, you freaked out. But while your brain was trying to flail your limbs wildly, in reality, they barely moved an inch. The wheezing stopped, as there was no longer air traveling up and down your windpipe. It was replaced by the usual intense gasping vocalizations that accompany asphyxiation. After a few seconds (though it felt like centuries) of agony, Felicia jammed the nubs back in your nose. Instantly, the oxygen pump, much stronger than your muscles, began doing its job, and the feeling of relief washed over you.

“See? All better now!”

Your breathing was even heavier than usual as you tried to replenish your lungs with oxygen. While you continued your wheezing, Felicia walked down the side of your mattress, running her fingers along your sweat-stained body.

“It’s still… really hard… to breathe!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know what’s wrong with your body, that’s why you need me to take care of it!” she exclaimed in a jovial tone. You couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “What you need is a happy ending. I know I shouldn’t let you cum for another couple days, but… what the hell? You’re clearly very pent-up, and you need some release~”

You didn’t bother trying to argue; there was no chance you’d change her mind. But the thought that your body was this close to the brink of total collapse, and she refused to do anything about it was terrifying. These scary, morbid thoughts clashed with the pleasurable sensation between your legs as Felicia once again dug her way towards your fatpad.

She hocked a ball of spit onto the little nub of cock sticking out of your lard before wrapping her lips around it. Her face pressed into your pad as she did so. Your heart rate climbed even higher as she bobbed her head up and down and slid her tongue all over your tiny little dick. As she began to move faster and faster, that same feeling of suffocation from earlier started to come back. Your body was unable to take in enough air to serve the increased volume of blood pumping through your cholesterol-ridden, overworked heart.

Suddenly, an indescribable pain hit your shoulder and arm. You couldn’t even tell if it was a sharp, piercing pain or more of a burning sensation, it was so overwhelmingly painful. The only thing you knew was that you’d never felt anything that hurt this bad in your life. You cried out in pain, but Felicia just kept sucking.

“H-h-h-h… Heart… H-heart at-tack!”

You didn’t manage to spit out any more words before a fit of violent hacking overtook your respiratory system. The few days worth of pent-up sexual tension was finally released at the same time. Felicia deep-throated your nub of a cock, jamming her face against your soft, fleshy crotch as your member spurted a pathetic few drops of cum in her mouth. But you only felt the orgasmic pleasure for a moment before everything went black.

You awoke god knows how many minutes or hours later to the sound of voices other than Felicia’s and your own. An unfamiliar sound, to be sure. Felicia turned and gestured towards you before realizing you’d woken up. She was conversing with a couple EMTs, who are now approaching you.

“So… You suffered a massive heart attack,” said one of them bluntly. “One of the worst I’ve ever seen. I mean, you’re lucky to be alive.”

“It’s a good thing Felicia was here to quickly call 9-1-1,” one chimed in. “Sounds like she’s doing an amazing job taking care of you.”

You didn't have the energy to argue. No will to explain that this was all her fault. Her fault you were so big, so addicted to grease. Her fault for cramming slop down your throat 24/7. Her fault for ignoring every last health issue until the very last second. Everything that your body had become was her doing, and now it was far, far too late to do something about it.

“Yeah, it’s a miracle that Felicia recognized something was wrong quickly, despite being busy cleaning your, uh, nether regions,” spouted a third EMT. Clearly, she’d told them all kinds of lies. “We were able to get you stabilized without issue. Just waiting on backup so we can lift you onto a stretcher and get you to the hospital for observation. Couldn’t quite lift all of you with just the four of us,” he chuckled.

Right on cue, half a dozen firefighters burst into the room. Their eyes immediately fixated on the mountain of blubber in the center of it all.

“Good lord,” one of them said out loud, perhaps before realizing you were conscious.

Or perhaps he wasn’t afraid to insult you to your face. Perhaps he regarded you as less than human because of your weight. A worthless pile that only existed to make his job harder. After looking you over, inspecting every fold and crevice, violating you with his eyeballs, he turned to Felicia.

“Ma’am, you’re a real hero for dealing with all this. I dunno how you do it,” he said with a hint of contempt that was clearly aimed at you.

They sat around for a minute before devising a plan. The goal was to slide a tarp under your colossal ass. In theory, they could use that to lift you onto a bariatric stretcher and into the ambulance. In practice, however, just getting the tarp under your body proved to be impossible. Sure, they could lift handful after handful of flab around your perimeter. But how were they going to get it underneath the center of your incomprehensible mass? The only answer was to call in more backup. Ten people just couldn’t do it.

“How heavy are you?” asked one of the EMTs.

“S-seven hundred pounds…” you muttered with great embarrassment.

The truth is, that was just the last weight you remembered. You knew you’d put on a bit of weight since then. But no more than a hundred pounds, you hoped.

“God, how do you let it get this bad?” the rude firefighter sneered.

Before you could say anything, Felicia stepped in. “His family abandoned him because of his weight,” she said with faux sadness in her voice. “I-I’m the only one who can take care of him. It’s just… it’s just so hard!”

Her crocodile tears didn’t move you, for you knew it was all an act. But any reverence the first responders had for Felicia just grew tenfold. And simultaneously, their dislike of you for being such a massive burden on this poor woman only became more intense. If only they knew the truth… But you knew there was no sense in arguing. Ultimately, you were still okay with this sequence of events. Maybe some time in the hospital would do you some good.

Another half dozen firemen showed up after a few more minutes of stomach-churning pity for Felicia. Their plan was simple; a massive tarp was placed on the ground next to your mattresses, and the twelve burly firemen and four EMTs would work together to roll you onto it. Of course, rolling your body wasn’t exactly easy. Any given area of your figure behaved more like a blanket than a human body. The endless flaps of squishy adipose tissue just wanted to deform and fold on top of one another.

The other issue with rolling your body was the way all your body weight was going to be placed on your lungs. It was already hard to breathe when you did everything in your power to ameliorate that issue. But the first responders felt they didn’t have a choice. When you landed on your back briefly, sure enough, it was like all the air got sucked out of your lungs. It was almost exactly like when Felicia removed the cannula earlier. But fortunately, it didn’t last too long. The ample muscle of the firemen allowed them to get you flipped back in a more comfortable position on the tarp after only a couple seconds of excruciating asphyxiation.

Even more challenging than rolling your hundreds and hundreds of pounds onto the tarp was lifting that mass onto a stretcher, but they managed it. The trials and tribulations didn’t end there, however. The firefighters had to widen each doorway with their axes. It turns out that even if you could walk, your body had become too wide to ever leave your room without outside help. The excitement of it all caused more pains in your chest, and you blacked out as they slammed the ambulance door against your flesh; it was crammed in there so tight that much of it was pressed against the walls and door.

When you came to, a team of people was pushing your bloated body down hospital hallways. They had to squeeze your fat together, compacting you to lower the footprint of your vast surface area in order to fit through the door to the room. In said room was a massive bariatric bed, probably roughly the size of the several mattresses you lay on back at Felicia’s house. Speaking of Felicia, she was nowhere to be found. Not that you really cared; you hoped that, with any luck, a stay in the hospital would keep you free from her abuse for a while.

A large crane with a massive strap sat next to the bed. Its steel arm was attached to a base which was bolted to the floor. A label on it read “WEIGHT LIMIT: 2000 LBS.” The label appeared to be accurate — it held strong as it lifted your enormity off the stretcher and onto the bed. However, the bed clearly did not have as high a weight limit. Its frame was made of plastic, which instantly cracked when met with the challenge of supporting your incredible mass. Fortunately, the crane’s strap was still underneath your titanic ass, and it lifted you right back onto the stretcher while the orderlies figured something else out.

The painkillers given to you in the ambulance were starting to wear off. That all too familiar stabbing pain in your chest was starting to come back. Fortunately, there was an oxygen tank attached to the stretcher that was hard at work keeping you alive. Another stroke of luck was that the hospital had a small number of steel-reinforced beds for hopelessly obese patients like you.

They quickly got you settled into a reinforced bed with the help of another crane. After that, your cannula was removed and replaced with an oxygen mask. As you took in your first breath with the mask, it was astonishing just how much better you could breathe. An industrial-strength ventilator roared to life and did the work your muscles couldn’t, supplying your body with more oxygen than it had experienced in months. Maybe longer, you weren’t sure.

Nurses attached EKG pads to various spots on your sweaty expanse. The monitor began its rhythmic beeping, reporting a resting heart rate of 130 BPM.

“My god…” muttered a nurse.

“W-what is it?” you asked, gulping nervously.

“Oh no, it’s just… I’ve never seen one this high before.”

“Wait ‘til you see his blood pressure,” said another nurse, who had just finished wrapping the strap around your arm. The extra-extra-large strap compressed the thick, squishy layer of fat that coated your arm.

Suddenly, a doctor walked into the room. He had a solemn look on his face and a sheet of paper in his hands. As he looked over your colossal body, the pity he felt for you was palpable. Better than the outright contempt most have for you, at least.

“So, let’s start with your weight,” he began. “Nine hundred and thirteen point seven pounds.” He drew out each number slowly, underscoring the magnitude of your obscene weight. “You are, by a large margin, the heaviest patient I’ve ever had.”

It took a moment for the number to sink in. But when it hit you, it hit like a truck. Or perhaps like a 913.7-pound stone being dropped on you. Tears immediately welled up as the sheer scale of your obesity was finally quantified. In that moment, the ruination of your body and your life felt more extreme than ever. It was a number that inspired nothing other than hopelessness and depression.

“I understand,” was all the doctor said as salty tears streaked down your chipmunk-like cheeks.

“I… I thought I was closer to 700 pounds,” you admitted. “B-but I suppose that was just the last time I stepped on a scale.”

“And how long ago was that?” asked the doctor.

Even with your brain finally receiving enough oxygen to function properly, you still couldn’t recall. And this only made you cry harder.

“I can’t remember!” you cried. “I just… can’t.”

“That’s fine, it’s okay,” lied the doctor. “I know this isn’t the right time, but… I would be remiss if I didn’t inform you of the fact that you have diabetes, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and an absolutely revoltingly unhealthy diet.”

The words stung harder than a knife to the chest — a sensation you were surprisingly familiar with. However, through it all, you actually found yourself looking on the bright side. The doctor certainly made it seem like you weren’t too far gone. So maybe given a few months in the hospital, you could regain some independence and control, ending this spiral of obesity that only had one possible outcome. Even when Felicia finally walked into the room a few hours later, these optimistic feelings weren’t subdued.

“Looks like you’re doing a lot better!” She sounded uncharacteristically upbeat.

“Y-yeah…” you stuttered, surprised by her attitude.

“I know that was a bit of a scare,” she said, tone turning a bit more serious, but without that usual hint of degradation. “And I know your life is really hard. So for real, I’m just so glad you’re doing better.”

“Well, uh… thanks, Felicia.” You weren’t really sure what to say. “That really means a lot to me.”

“Of course! My cousin deserves to be happy, that’s why I brought these!”

Suddenly, it all started to make a bit more sense. She unzipped her bag, and instantly, that greasy scent of fast food wafted towards your face. You thought the oxygen mask would protect you, but somehow, a few particles of fried junk aroma slipped past, and that’s all it took. Your mouth watered, and your stomach rumbled, but your brain was still able to understand that it didn’t want this. Of course, when it came to Felicia, very rarely was it about what you wanted.

“Please, no. I really want to stop eating shit like this.”

She said nothing, tossing bag after grease-soaked bag onto your ample chest. Your belly was still slung to the side off the hospital bed. The nurse who had to help with that certainly regretted going into this line of work. But your bloated, flabby moobs created a large landing area for the paper bags, heavy with the weight of burgers and fries.

You stood your ground. “I’m not going to do it. This is an opportunity to actually lose some weight, to get my body, my health, my life under control. I’m not gonna throw that away just for some…” Your mind came to a screeching halt when forced to actually think about the food in front of you. “Some greasy, delicious food. Tasty, delectable, mouthwatering, satisfying. Fuck,” you whispered before shaking some sense into yourself. “No! I won’t do it!”

Felicia had a familiar look in her eye. Suddenly it occurred to you that even in this setting, you had no control. When you get this uselessly fat, there’s nothing you can do to stand up for yourself.

“Please don’t force-feed this to me,” you begged. “Please. Don’t take this opportunity from me like you took the rest of my life away.”

Finally, she spoke. “I’m not going to force you to eat it.”

And with that, she walked away. The bags were still strewn across your expanse, letting their fumes off in your face. You saw this as a win; a doctor would surely come in here and dispose of the unhealthy foodstuffs. But you waited and waited, and one never came. All the while, the scent was starting to get to you. Your belly roared, begging you to indulge. It did everything in its power to tell your brain that it needed that food inside of it, stat.

Your brain, for its part, wasn’t doing so hot. Your deep-seated addiction to artery-clogging grease didn’t just disappear after a few hours in the hospital. Sweat beaded on your forehead and your lard-swaddled hands felt clammy. Drool built up in your mouth and started to pool in the oxygen mask. Internally, a war raged between the logical part of your brain and the much larger part that was hopelessly addicted. It was like carrying a weight that just kept getting heavier and heavier. Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore. You were crushed under your unconquerable addiction.

Greedily, you tore open the greasy bag, spilling four or five wrapped-up cheeseburgers across your chest. Your arms moved as quickly as they could, which, of course, wasn’t very fast. With surprising dexterity, your sausage-like fingers tore open the tinfoil wrapping around the first burger. But when you brought it up to your face, you realized that the mask was obscuring your mouth.

Suddenly, you were at a crossroads. Clearly, Felicia chose the cannula for you because it allowed her to stuff your face. With the mask, it was a choice between breathing and eating. Unfortunately, your dependence on food won that battle, too. You removed the mask, instantly suffocating yourself as you stuffed the burger in your mouth. For as long as you could hold your breath, you crammed heart-stopping garbage down your gullet. Only when you started to feel lightheaded did you put the mask back on and recover while you chewed and swallowed.

Over and over, this process of asphyxiation and consumption continued. Thousands and thousands of calories were shoveled in. Enough food for two dozen people. Yet, you didn’t feel satisfied when it was over and done with. You still wanted more. Your greedy gluttony knew no bounds, and knew no barriers. It was so bad that you were willing to temporarily cease breathing if it meant you could get a few more morsels of grease.

The chest pains came back. The arm pain came back. You thought for sure you were having another heart attack, but that truly intense agony that you’ll never forget didn’t return, at least not this time. You swore that the ventilator sounded louder, like it had to work even harder just to keep this worthless husk of a human alive. So addicted to food, so helplessly obese that you were less a person and more just a repository for lard.

As you started to actually comprehend what just happened, the tears started to well up again. A tsunami of salty discharge flowed as you bawled. It suddenly felt so hopeless. That optimism you felt not fifteen minutes prior was dead and gone. Felicia didn’t even have to force you. It suddenly dawned on you that you were perfectly capable of ruining yourself all on your own. You were never, ever going to lose this weight. It was impossible. You were in too deep. And this was the most devastating moment of your entire life. Yet, through it all, your belly still rumbled.

#feedeeism #death feeder #looking for a feeder #usbhm #gaining weight on purpose #immobility #Feedism #death feederism #Feederism

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