You- the you you are now.
The one your friends and family know and recognize as you?
Let me stow you away from them, cozy and private, the sins we're about to put you through hidden from prying eyes. I'll start gently, and ease into the process of burying you under your own greed.
I'll ply you with treats, get what you need, make you cozy, relaxed. Why ever get up? There's always a meal on it's way, and snacks within your greedy reach between each and every one.
You know hunger only in the seconds after waking, before your lips are occupied with breakfast, dripping with grease and syrup. From the that moment on, you're either eating or full. I won't let you go hungry. I hardly let you leave a state of painfully stuffed stupor, cradling your belly while your next meal is prepared.
You need to stay hidden in your metamorphosis, you can't emerge until the transformation is complete. But don't worry: I'll get everything you need. I'll make you lazy, complacent. Your ass moulding your chair into the ever widening shape of your feels natural. It just makes sense, after all, it's basically where you live now.
Every night your greedy gut has been stuffed so sickeningly full you couldn't dream of moving. You have to recline to make room as I hand feed you more and more, getting every single calorie in your obese, desperate body that we possibly can. I want you stuffed into unconsciousness, so that your belly wakes up ravenous, craving that same brutal satiation.
It might feel silly to haul yourself to standing, only to immediately flop onto the wheeled office chair. It feels sillier to push yourself along toward the washroom. But don't you feel that? The crushing burden of your own immensity. You can feel the burden of this body we're building, your legs so tragically weak, your flesh so incredibly heavy.
Your feet are so soft, pampered, barely used. They're practically vestigial. This life of helpless indulgence hardly needs them- it hardly needs anything beyond your mouth and hands. We're making you useless: turning you into some impotent creature, capable of nothing more than indulging your desperate hunger and need to get fatter.
I insist that you use the shower seat. I insist I get you your food. I insist I get the remote. I insist you flop weakly onto your office chair and wheel yourself to the washroom. I'll make you helpless, dependant.
I know how much you can eat, and I won't let you stop until you've made me proud. One more cookie. That's a good girl. One more bite. One more. You're doing so good. I rub your belly, stroke your hair, and feed you another cookie, another chocolate bar.
Each of these before bed stuffings we cram down several day's calories for a normal girl. You're so far beyond being a normal girl, now. The shape of a normal girl is buried somewhere within you, under hundreds of pounds of rolling flesh. You're more fat than girl, now.
Standing has you out of breath. Feeding yourself has you out of breath. Holding up your belly so I can find my lips between your thighs and give you the reward you deserve has you gasping for air your overburdened lungs can hardly find.
Your underused legs struggle not to buckle under a weight you've protected them from for all but moments. Your weakness makes your weight all the more apparent. You've become so cripplingly fat that your body struggles to exist under the burden of you.
You're helpless, pathetic, incapable of taking care of yourself. Your body is a temple to indulgence, any semblance of a human form long buried in obesity, unable to do all but the simplest things without help. And you love it.
I whisper in your ear what a useless pig you've become, and grab the rolling expanse off your body, shaking you like a weighty tide. I need to help you get positioned for me to attend your womanhood deep between the cascading rolls of your body.
Then, just like that, I realize it. Watching you impotently wobble against the bulk of your belly to rise from the chair you've made your home, I know your metamorphosis is complete. You're ready.
You can leave now, and it won't make a difference.
When you finally leave, you know that I was true to my word. There's a long moment of confusion when you talk to those friends and family who once recognized you. They scan the bloated, red and panting face that speaks your voice in haggard breaths. They're desperately confused, unable to find you within the piles you've become.