Technically, I’m free to come and go as I please. My chaser doesn’t keep me under lock and key. There’s no gainer sex dungeon, no bed with handcuffs built into it, no livestock feeding machine with a harness he lashes me into. Anybody could come up and knock on the door, and there’s a decent chance my 800 pounds would even waddle up to the door to greet them. I’m not a captive. I’m not even hidden. I’m just… in the middle of nowhere.
At first, the idea of a farmhouse way out in the country seemed idyllic. Peace, quiet, privacy, and the miles of fields and plains stretching far away. It didn’t hurt that, in a rural place like where I was from, there was virtually nobody interested in feeding and growing someone — except for him, and he was surprisingly close. We met for the first time at the diner in town, but it didn’t take long for the discussion to turn to where he lived — miles away, miles down a dirt road cutting off from the already desolate rural route running along the edge of his land. Nobody around to spy or judge. Someplace where we could be ourselves.
I jumped at the chance to move in with him, and I started blowing up almost immediately. I had the opportunity to indulge myself, and I took it — while he’d be out at work, I’d be sitting around his farmhouse, always eating or snacking between meals, never having to stop and go anywhere. I went from my original fat body to morbidly obese in a matter of weeks, and in six months nearly doubled my weight. He bought me clothes with room to grow, but faster than either of us expected my belly was fully hanging out the bottom of my shirts, resting on the thighs that were stretching my formerly baggy pants to the bursting point. My newly flabbier arms bulged out of the sleeves, flexing the fabric as they lifted more food into my waiting mouth. I didn’t strictly need clothes, since I never went anywhere, but we both liked to keep up the pretense that I was living something of a normal life.
There was no question that he wanted to see me fatter; but he never forced me to eat, never got angry when I said I wanted to slow down or try to eat a little healthier. He just kept cooking, kept serving, kept making sure everything I couldn’t resist was always in reach. That was all it took. It wasn’t long before my belly and arms made me far too large to fit in the small cab of his old pickup. The discovery that I was now isolated here — completely under his power and dependent on him to leave, confined as effectually as if I were chained — took my breath away. Even if I could somehow squeeze behind the wheel, the fat bulging out around it was enough to keep me from turning it or reaching the pedals, however much I might push against that resistance. At that point, my only real means of leaving became tantalizingly close but forever out of reach. I could see it, touch it, get as close as I wanted; but I could never use it to save myself again.
I did try to walk away once. When I hit 500 pounds and he made an entire cake for me to finish to celebrate, I had a minor freak out at just how big I was getting and decided I had to get out. So I started walking in the middle of the night. But at a very sedentary quarter-ton, it didn’t take long before I had burned through the panic adrenaline and started getting winded hauling so much fat around. My back ached from holding up my juggling belly, my thighs burned from the unfamiliar friction of walking a long distance, and my chest clenched tight from exertion and the struggle to breathe. I collapsed about a half-mile toward the road, a sweaty, blubbery heap; and early in the morning I heard his pickup chugging up behind me. Without a word, with no reproach, he helped me up, hoisting my bulbous ass into the cab of the truck. He drove us both back toward the house, my body jiggling with every bump and dip. A pound of bacon and a plate of chocolate pancakes calmed me down just fine.
Things only accelerated from there. Early on, I’d been able to take a snack out to the yard and walk along the fence to get some fresh air. Now, I’m barely able to waddle out to the porch and plop down on the bench, my overhang bumping against my knees with each step. I’ll go out with a plate of food, my ass filling the two-seater bench in its entirety, and watch the occasional car glide by on the distant road, as remote and unreachable to me as the moon. Even if I really did want to leave — even if I thought I could go somewhere, ignore my hunger long enough to get down to a “normal” size, and go back to my life as it was — how would I do it? I’m not struggling for miles to the road carrying nearly a half-ton of blubber, if I could even make it down the driveway on my own without getting completely winded; and even if I did, nobody is picking up a hitchhiker who can barely fit into a pickup bed.
Who could I call for help, then? The police? And tell them what, that they should arrest my roommate because I ate myself to the size of a small elephant? This is the midwest; there’s a decent chance I wouldn’t even be the fattest person they’ve dealt with that week. And there’s nobody here driving for Uber, no cab company within a hundred miles, even if I could fit in their car. I could hire an ambulance, but with what money? And anyway, I’m not ready for the shame of being strapped into a gurney and bundled away by a troupe of men, all gawking at how much lard I’d been able to pack onto my frame and tut-tutting at the fat cow who let their indulgence and morbid obesity get so out of control. That might come whether I want it to or not someday, but not yet.
So here I sit — chewing, swallowing, consuming. Eating so much I can almost feel my body expanding with new fat every day. More weight pressing me down, making the distant road that much further away. My thighs and calves jiggling more, my pudge-filled arms swinging more to balance my weight, my belly hanging lower every day. And he sits here with me — smiling, complimenting, admiring my growing rolls and tighter clothes and slower steps and heavier breaths. Watching as I build my own prison, bite by bite.
It won’t be long before the dozen or so steps to the porch and the now-too-narrow front door are more trouble than they’re worth. Then more and more of my meals will be taken on the couch because it’s not worth my fat-laden frame hobbling over to the dining table. Then eventually, maybe, I stop getting up at all, and just let my fat swell and grow in place. How much bigger will I get then, I wonder.
He doesn’t have to keep me locked up, because I’m doing the job well enough on my own. And I know he’ll never stop wanting me bigger. I can see it in his eyes when he imagines my body under another hundred, five hundred, thousand pounds of fat, wobbling pitifully amidst a pile of unmoving lard and struggling desperately to function at all. What is he going to do to get me there? What’s going to happen to me when I’m too big to go anywhere and he has me, in the middle of nowhere, all to himself?
I guess all I can do is keep eating and find out.
