Weight Room Title Bar

By WydeSyde

(Illustrated by the Author)

The meals seemed to go on forever, spoonful after forkful after handful. The meals seemed to go on forever, spoonful after forkful after handful. She couldn't seem to reach the point of being sated. How long had this been going on? Why did it feel so good, so "naughty"? Maybe with some serious examination she could answer the question. Was her life missing something, a deep seeded need for attention? Something psychological perhaps, addiction, maybe all these things. Whatever it was had made her the wom(e)n she is today, a perfect specimen of the goddess of plenty.

None of it mattered now. She had to have more. Much more. It was always like this. More than hunger. The urges to stuff her self were so much stronger each time. They were more akin to attacks. Oh the thought of excess. The tingles and impatience.

She hoists herself up off the bed with a familiar grunt and waddles into the pantry. Pulling down bag after bag of caloric heaven. Rip tear at the prizes that wait inside. Why did they always wrap such small morsels forcing her to make a frenzied pile of overindulgence?

She dives in without any candor right there on the floor. A table would never hold all this. She knows she is alone. What if she is being watched? Then so be it. She'll put on a show. He would like that wouldn't he? A performance that epitomizes total lack of control. He must. I wouldn't be here like this now if it were not the case.

Her hands are a flurry of action. Grabbing, stuffing. Grabbing bigger handfuls, shoveling. Over and over, again and again. Swallowing as if there is a vacuum inside pulling it all in. The vortex unceasing.

Then it starts. The soreness. Her jaw muscles grow tired and her arms are not used to the workout. She slowly carries on until she feels the elastic refusing you yield any more. "This dress will be done by the time I'm through," she vows. Aching yet almost finished with round one she lifts the last morsel.

Done. Slowly, she rolls over to her side. Her fat little feet find purchase and with a grunt and barely any balance manages to stand upright once more. "Someday this action will be a thing of the past," she fantasizes.

Another trip to the kitchen, her hand laid lazily on her stuffed belly. She slides her feet, scuffing the floor rather than walking, shoving aside the many empty containers. The tightness in her belly arouses her. With every step the jiggling and waving of her beautiful flesh sends waves of ecstasy through her.

She stops and holds herself up with the wall, shuddering and shaking waiting for the self-perpetuating climax to end. And when it does, the hunger returns. She continues to lumber closer to the treasure that awaits.

More... much more...

She gives a repeat performance. But slower this time. Determined to reach that point. One arm rises bringing deliciousness to her lips. Then the other. In a trance she reaches, grabs and literally stuffs her face. A look of pain and pleasure, she knows she is closer yet again. Barely chewing the softness of the cake or cookie dough or whatever it is. The menu is always the same. Whatever she likes. As much as she will. Never knowing full well how much until she looks back on the carnage. But not yet. There's more...

Handful after handful. She can feel herself slowly growing more round, fatter and fatter until. Oh there it is. It's taken longer this time. It always takes a little longer each time. The feeling of being too full. The pain of being glutted and beyond. The painful pleasure. How can she go on? She's made a vow. She'll be here until it's all gone. No matter how badly she's misjudged her own limits.

It comes again, quite unexpected. The ecstasy and waves of pleasure. It last for what seems like an eternity. Her whole form undulating like a Jell-O mold on bumpy ride. Uncontrolled. Every jiggle making it more intense. Every mouthful, fuel to the fire. More. Still more. The feeling finally subsides until the last morsel is finished. Her vow seemingly broken. Lying spread eagle and almost prone. Unable to move. Shallow pants are all she can handle. Just the thought of moving even a finger brings both a wince and a warm wet feeling. This is it for this time.

As she lies there, apologizing to herself for not having lived up to her promise. Panting is the only involuntary motion she makes. Anything else is a painful reminder of how much she has taken in. She's tired, satisfied beyond the dreams of avarice. Her head falls to the side. Lazily she looks through half-lidded and dazed eyes. There. Beyond the empty boxes it lies. Her salvation. One bowl of cheesecake pudding. She knows she can take no more. It is a fact and undeniable. But she long ago passed the point of having any control. Her body is in control now. Her vastness calls the shots. She reaches and strains, murmuring commands not to continue. But that signal has been broken and her over bloated form does not comply. It's almost out of reach. But determination wins over and with some slight but painful nudges of her massive fat laden form she grunts and moans. Slowly but surely, now seemingly possessed by the site of the unfinished dessert, her pudgy fingers fumble and grab hold. Almost frightened and nervously excited by what will most definitely occur the bowl, impossibly and without stopping, finds its way to her lips. No she is no longer in control of this scenario. She whimpers and pleads with herself until the sounds are muted, replaced by the gulping and shaking of her once again climaxing flesh, snapping the elastic and fabric of her tent like summer dress.

Hours pass. Dusk turns to night. She is awakened by the beeping sound of a caterer's delivery truck in reverse. As she lies there still unable to move. One thought comes to mind as a nervous smile creeps across her face.

My boyfriend is back. And I'm gonna be in trouble.