Weight Room Title Bar

The Card
By More Wider


I live alone and like it that way. My job driving a panel van for a manufacturing company entails my interacting with people six days a week, so I relish my solitude. Living alone I can indulge in any behavior I wish with no one to ridicule me. For instance, although I weigh a tubby 157 lbs and my jeans are so tight across my pudgy belly I have to undo the snap after eating, I sometimes enjoy weight gain fantasies, reaching orgasm as I imagine my body being fattened to three hundred, or four hundred, or even five hundred pounds. After such a fantasy I often eat more than I need, filling my stomach until it crampingly complains. I don't allow myself to gorge very often: clothes cost money and I am saving up for a swanky cruise, one where I imagine I can eat 24/7 with no one telling me to stop pigging out.

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One day I come home with a ton of extra groceries. I haven't had a gorge in a long while and my body craves it. I haul the sacks in to my first floor apartment and go back for the mail in my box. Bills, junk mail, newspaper, a envelope with my name on it and no return address. Inside the envelope is a greeting card with the words, Your wish is our command, written in loopy rainbow script on the face.

The card giggled as I opened it. Truly, it giggled. Then the face crudely drawn on the inside said, "You have won one free wish to have for three months. At the end of that time the wish will expire. You may have any wish you like for yourself. Start wishing now."

A beep sounded. I thought about what I would wish for if wishes could come true: wealth; power. The card sighed, "Please wish out loud. I am not a mind reader!"

The beep sounded again. I saw the waiting junk food. Without censoring my thoughts, I said flippantly, "I wish I could be a fat woman. The kind that waddles around the grocery store in leggings that are about to burst their seams and a tunic top that fits like a too small t-shirt, riding up to show off her belly. I want to eat all the time, large calorie-heavy meals and snacks, without thinking about calories or obsessing about gaining weight. I don't want to notice how fat I am getting, nor be concerned in any way about my weight. At " The Beep sounded.

"Time's up," said the card. "Nice wishing."

"But I was going to say that I didn't want any weight gain to last after the end of the wish," I objected.

"Too bad," said the card. "What you wish for is what you get. Happy gaining."

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I drive about a hundred miles a day between my employer's manufacturing plants delivering the parts each one needs for the day. I don't have to get out of the panel van. I just beep and the guys collect my delivery and re-load the van.

On my twenty mile drive to work I always stop for a breakfast sandwich and coffee. The morning after my wish I go through the drive-in window instead of getting out of the car. Feeling hungry after I finish the sandwich, I go to a donut place, picking up two cream filled donuts and a supersized blueberry muffin and another coffee with triple cream and sugar.

My stomach is pleasantly full when I arrive at the plant to sign in for work. The secretaries always have donuts and I snare a couple on my way out. By mid-morning I am hungry so I stop for pastries and a soda. Shortly afterwards my eyes are so heavy I pull over in a rest area and take a nap.

Lunch is a supersized cheeseburger, supersized soda, supersized fries, a slice of pie. A few miles later an ice cream place beckons and I top off my stomach with a large hot fudge sundae. Finding my eyes heavy, my belly complaining, I again pull over for a nap.

Nachos and fries and a milkshake make a satisfying snack. On my way home I collect a bucket of fried chicken with all the fixings: potato salad, gravy, cheese biscuits with butter, a six-pack of beer. I fall asleep during a sitcom, and awake surrounded by the wrappers from my dinner. By the time I clean up I am hungry again, and consume a pint of premium ice cream for desert. Despite my lack of exercise I sleep very soundly, waking hungry in the morning and microwaving myself a prepackaged meal before going to work.

Every workday I repeat the pattern, my stops at fast food joints increasing as my expanding body demands more calories. On Sunday I go grocery and clothes shopping, since I can no longer zip my jeans, let alone snap them. I eat on the way to and fro, and nibble my way through the supermarket. Not being much of a cook, I bring home lots of prepackaged meals, and spend the rest of the day eating, sleeping, and eating some more. My new leggings and loose over-shirts are none too loose, but they stretch and I bought them in a variety of increasing sizes.

Monday morning I discover that the waistband of my leggings constricts my protruding abdomen, so I roll it down and go off to work that way. No one will see me as I drive, and besides, the top, tight across my hips and breasts, covers me just fine. I almost notice that by the end of the day my belly is feeling confined by my top and aches when it bumps against the steering wheel of my car, but I am fixated on the fast food feast I have next to me on the passenger seat and forget the discomfort.

Nor do I notice the mocking looks the guys at the plants are giving me when I show up fatter every day. They take to offering me candy bars, bags of snack food, and cans of soda, nudging each other when I eagerly accept, the extra calories welcome, the bulk negligent inside my expanded stomach. The fast food window workers have gotten to know me, and they sneer when they hand me the bulging bags of food. When the check out ladies in the supermarket openly comment on my fattening food choices, I add a handful of candy to the pile.

Never once during the three months do I notice my increasing weight and size. I discard clothing with the thought that the washer and dryer shrank it. I never notice that the small bathroom in my apartment is getting tiny and I have to squeeze through the narrow doorway. When I find myself confined by an armchair, I simply stop using it. When leaning on a cart does not keep me from getting sweatily out of breath in the grocery store, I find a store that will deliver my weekly order.

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On the last day of the three months, I have to struggle to get out of bed, my abdomen and breasts weighing me down. My stretch leggings appear capacious, but I can hardly stuff my fat broadened ass inside, and I cannot tug the front up over the apron of fat that covers my loins. My largest shirt is stretched to the maximum trying to contain my fat-pillowed breasts and it doesn't quite reach the bottom of my paunch, exposing a few inches of jiggly stretch-marked flesh. But since I never look in the mirror, I do not notice.

Breakfast is four microwaved burritos washed down by heavily sweetened cream flavored with a jigger of coffee. By the time I have waddled to my car (parked directly in front of my ground floor apartment), sweat runs down my face and I am huffing. My car seat is pushed as far back as it will go, and the guys I work for have installed blocks on the gas and brake pedals so my short fat-swollen legs can operate them. Even so my belly shoves against the steering wheel, hampering my driving.

I have two fast food meals and a nap before I get to work. Half a dozen donuts from the secretary's stash. Giant candy bars and cans of soda from the guys. Two snacks and two naps before lunch, which is supersized to the max. Two afternoon snacks, interspersed with two naps and more candy and soda from the guys. I should be so gorged and stuffed by dinnertime that the mere idea of food makes me nauseous. But it is the idea of skipping a meal that makes my stomach turn over, so I bring home my favorite gargantuan pizza with everything on it, a case of tall beers, and a gallon of premium ice cream.

By midnight all the food is gone. I recline on the sofa dozing through a talk show, my shirt rolled up under my breasts, my leggings rolled down under my fat apron to reveal a belly so stuffed the skin is shiny and hard enough to bounce a coin off of. Despite the coolness of the spring evening my skin is beaded with sweat. I won't try to go to bed for some time yet, having learned that it is more comfortable to sit up to digest such a stupendous quantity of food.

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A beep awakens me. I haven't turned off the living room lights, and the television is spewing an infomercial about a new diet system. I hear the beep again and suddenly remember the wishing card. Where is it?

When I try to sit up I discover that my abdomen is huge. Not only does it push out a couple of feet, but it sags across my spread thighs and nestles between them. It is as if a hundred pound sack of grain has been attached to my front. As I struggle to shift position and sit upright enough to at least have a chance of getting to my feet, I remember what I have been doing for the past three months. My breasts, always large and droopy, are now enormous. Unconstrained by a bra, they hang down on either side of my upper belly and would easily stretch past my waist if I still had such a thing and if the uppermost bulge of my gut didn't get in the way.

My arms, swagged with fat, and repelled by the rolls of flesh under my arms, won't hang straight by my sides. They are so weak that pushing against the sofa cushions produces no movement of my massive body. At last, after much sifting of my weight from side to side and rocking forwards and back, I am able to grab the arm of the sofa and stand up, my legs spread but my thighs still touching from crotch to inflexible knees. I hear myself grunt like a hog and feel rivulets of sweat run into the quadruple double chins that ring my bloated face and droop almost to the top of my engorged breasts.

The insistent beep sounds again from the kitchen where I have dumped the day's mail. My feet feel as if they are rooted to the floor, but I manage to make my left leg move forward, aware that it is pushing against my paunch, which hangs half way to my knees. Then I make my right leg shift. As I take one slow step after another, I feel my lower belly begin to sway from side to side, the fat engorged flesh wobbling and moving in lazy waves. My breasts jiggle in time. I have gotten so little exercise that despite my immensely slow waddle I begin to pant in earnest before I reach the kitchen.

The card is on the kitchen table. So is a bag of giant-sized candy bars I've forgotten I brought home. I grab a bar and wolf it down before locating the noisy card. The candy tastes so good I have another before I am aware I am eating it. My feet protest being forced to support my blubber, and I subside into a chair, my breath coming in hoarse wheezes. The sixth candy bar is half gone before I remember why I am in the kitchen and root out the card. My chocolate smeared fingers leave brown marks on the white cardboard.

"You time is up," chirps the card. "Your free wish has expired. Do you wish to buy a new one?" When I don't say anything because my mouth is crammed with candy, the card continues, "Do you need examples of acceptable wishes? You could ask for money enough so you don't ever have to work again. Or you can ask to be slender again. Or you could ask to continue gaining weight. You may not ask for world peace or an end to world hunger. I will give you three minutes to decide if you want to buy a new wish."

All the blocks the free wish have placed on my consciousness have been lifted. I remember the endless gorging. The outfatting of my clothes. The sneery looks and comments. The danger of driving with a massive gut trying to immobilize the steering wheel. The difficulties with personal hygiene. The unignorable craving for more and more food to pack into my stomach.

I have gone from a plump 157 lbs. to a rotund 333 lbs. I am morbidly obese. Unable to see my own feet. Unable to find a bra with a cup size large enough to contain my tremendous breasts. My bust is 58 inches; my waist 59; my hips a full six feet. I am mammoth by any definition.

I should buy a wish. Ask to be slender, and stay slender for life. As I think out the wording to my new wish I notice a six-pack of tall beers. I do not notice drinking them, my belly purring as I pour the foamy fluid in, filling every last crack in my stomach, spreading my legs as wide as possible and leaning back to create more room for expansion.

The card chimes, "Two minutes left before this offer permanently expires."

I run my hands over my swollen sides. The flesh is firm, soft but not giving. I am truly engorged with fat. My stomach rumbles, demanding something salted, and I reach for the enormous can of Macadamia nuts. They go down in greedy gobbles. My salty fingers cradle my pendulous breasts. They feel like milk-engorged udders. The nipples spring erect as I rub them, sending spurts of pleasure through me.

If I get any fatter I won't be able to keep my job. Already my boss is hinting that I must lose weight or he will fire me. This has been the perfect job for me. I can't afford to lose it. I imagine losing weight, getting slender, and feel my sexual excitement subside. I fantasize about staying obese; perhaps even gaining weight; and feel my body purr.

I finish the Macadamias. Chug another tall one. My stomach complains about being distended with food. I rub it with little circular motions. It feels so good my loins twinge. I can feel the sex juices begin to flow.

"One minute left," says the card, sounding testy. "Don't you at least want to know the price of a wish?"

"Okay," I agree, concentrating on the pleasurable feelings building inside my skin.

The card names the exact amount I have saved. It isn't much more than the cost of a good vacation. On a cruise ship. With unlimited meals. I salivate, am disappointed to discover no food within reach. I hold my pendulous breasts. Tweak the nipples. Hover on the verge of orgasm. "I will buy a wish," I tell the card. "For the rest of my life I want to have enough money that I never have to worry about working. All my bills will be paid, no matter how many or how large. I will always have at least a thousand dollars in my purse."

"Done," says the card as I reach orgasm, intense pleasure bursting through my immense quaking body.