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|07-31-2012, 09:36 PM||#1|
Join Date: Nov 2006
Her Family by Scx (~BBW, ~XWG)
Her Family (~BBW, ~XWG)
Not a whole lot of plot, just a few thousand words on some seriously overweight women. Scx.
My Dad, he's really the only one in good shape. He works out, and is really strong, which is a good thing, as us girls really need the help!
Mom was a distinctly chubby eighteen year old when she married him. Since then she's gone through three pregnancies and a lifetime of overeating and idleness. We have a maid come in and do the cleaning. All Mom has to do is heave her bulk out of bed, to the bathroom, and down the hall into the kitchen for something to eat. When her belly is comfortably stuffed, she waddles back into the living room with her belly apron bouncing off her knees and butt wobbling like jello, to slump into a couch and doze off in front of the TV. A few hours later, she heaves herself up again and goes to eat some more, sleep some more, eat some more... It's no wonder she's gotten quite fat.
My oldest sister, Maya, though, is even fatter. She's the only one of us with a job (except for Dad, of course) as a CPA for a small insurance company. She gets up at six am in order to have a truly monstrous breakfast, a giant stack of pancakes dripping in maple syrup and butter, a full pound of bacon, a pound of sausages, hash browns, half a dozen eggs all scrambled up together... And she parks herself at the table and starts gulping it down, until she's stowed away enough fat and grease and calories for six lumberjacks, before Dad helps his thoroughly bloated daughter out to her car.
It's not much of a car, just a little Tercel. When my sister heaves herself into the seat, the springs groan under the load and the car visibly sags. With the seat all the way back, her belly still rubs against the steering wheel, at the limit of how far her flabby arms can reach. The pedals have extenders, and still she can only reach them with the tips of her toes. Her width bulges over the center console and is squeezed against the door. She has trouble rolling the window down because her belly is squished up against the handle. If she gets much fatter, she won't be able to drive at all, and it's likely that she will – get very much fatter. It runs in the family, you know.
Part of her job involves getting doughnuts for the office, and although there's only four or five people there, she gets four or five dozen at a drive-thru on the way, and they're mostly for her. At work, she just sits at a computer, her belly pressed against the desk so she can reach the keys, and types in numbers with one hand while stuffing doughnuts into her mouth with the other.
For lunch she and her friend, another fatty, go out to a restaurant for lunch, usually the buffet, and make absolute pigs of themselves, forcing as much as possible as fast as possible into their guts before they have to be back at the office. Then they sit at their desks in a glutted stupor, trying not to actually fall asleep as their bodies process it all into more fat. There's always a snack time later in the afternoon, delivered sandwiches or a pizza, just to tide them over before she has to make her way home again, squashed back into her car, for the monstrous dinner Dad will have made.
Even when we were little kids, we had enormous dinners. We were fat little babies, generously supplied from Mom's soccer-ball breasts, and when we moved onto solid food we didn't slow down eating at all. There was some sibling rivalry, I guess, and we would always try to out-eat each other. Dinner usually ended with Dad doing the dishes, Mom asleep in her chair, and the three of us lying back as far as we could, groaning under the fantastic bulk of our bellies. Far too full to get up, or even move, we would just sit there and between moaning in pain from the pressure inside, grunting and burping as we tried to shift our weight, we'd argue about who ate more or whose belly was bigger, until we all joined Mom in slipping into overfed unconsciousness
As a result of that kind of gluttony morning, noon, and night, we didn't get any thinner. We never really lost our 'baby fat', and seemed to get wider just as fast as we got taller. As kids we were very much plump, as tweens we had swollen pot-bellies and thick waistlines. As teenagers we got even fatter, sporting enormous stomachs protruding feet in front of us. We grew giant asses and enormous tits from all the extra flab we had, ponderously wobbling and waddling around, and were easily exhausted by the shortest walk. Sure, in public they made fun of us, but at home we still wanted more, to eat more, to get bigger and fatter and heavier.
Maribelle, the middle sister, we all call her Belle, got bigger and fatter and heavier than Maya. She's taking some online courses at the local community college, but she never goes to the campus. She doesn't go because she's much too fat. Seated, her belly pushes her breasts up into her face, floods over her lap, and rolls forward over her knees so far she can't reach her own bellybutton, a gigantic ball of fat, a grossly inflated mass testifying to her unremitting eating.
Her eating is constant, decadent, and filling. She sits sideways to the computer so she can reach the keyboard with one fat-laden arm, pecking out letters one at a time with a pencil because her fingers are so swollen it's hard to type. But her other arm, despite being as swaddled in lard as the first, holds a large wooden spoon, and on her other side is always a huge bowl of something powerfully fattening. Potato salad, pasta, sometimes just a big bowl of ground beef she can shovel into her mouth with that big spoon.
Shovel she does. Incessantly the spoon digs into the bowl beside her, soars over the mountains of her breasts, and slides down into her yawning maw with its high calorie load, only to reappear a moment later licked clean and starting its voyage again. Cheeks bulging full she swallows it all and opens her mouth for more. You can tell when she's hungry, because the pencil gets dropped, the computer forgotten, the spoon digs deeper and moves faster. Her free hand helps to force the ridiculous bites into her squirrel cheeks and she moans in dismay at every crumb or drop that falls early onto her belly or breast, her flabby fingers scrabbling for every tasty morsel she can reach.
Only when she has devoured a dozen or more great big bowls of food does she slow down, her gurgling and groaning belly loaded to capacity. But even then she doesn't stop, the spoon still arriving with load after load for her practically insatiable appetite. Once she's gotten stuffed, she has to stay stuffed, and that means swallowing more, eating more, digesting more, stretching her already enormously overstretched capacity still further as it all gets digested into more and more fat.
Belle is already so fat she can barely stand, and she's getting much fatter. She has a cart to get around the house, and hoists and handles to support and lift her, and she has no intention of stopping eating. For the last few months she's hardly bothered with going to bed, just passing out in the gigantic custom chair by the computer that she is rapidly overflowing, then waking up a few hours later and starting right back up again from the fresh bowl beside her.
In fact, she might very well be too fat for her bedroom door now. She had to turn and force herself through one bloated part at a time the last time, many pounds and many meals ago. The bathroom door has been widened twice already, yet it too is becoming a squeeze for her gargantuan rump, and turning sideways is completely ruled out by her immense belly.
Belle is as fat as my mother and Maya put together, yet she insists she's not stopping, not dieting, she's going to go as far and get as fat as she wants, and when her mouth's not too full to talk, she says only “Fatter!”.
But me, Marie, I'm the fattest. Those belly comparison contests? No contest. I guess as the youngest, I had a competitive streak, and Belle had gotten more than a year's head start on me, Maya two, but I caught up with Maya when I was twelve, and Belle when I was fourteen, and my appetite had grown even further than theirs. Then I started pulling away, getting bigger, eating more, swelling up even further, getting even hungrier, becoming more and more buried underneath great thick blankets and blobs of fat.
Maya was a great blimp of a young woman when she graduated high school, and Belle was even bigger, only barely surviving the effort of waddling from class to class by the end of her senior year, but I had to drop out before graduation. I was much fatter. I got stuck in classroom doors. I couldn't use the desks. I couldn't stagger from class to class without feeling like I would die from exhaustion, my atrophied muscles completely incapable of handling my vastly excessive weight.
My appetite couldn't handle it either. No food was allowed in the classrooms, and I just couldn't go an hour without eating. Sitting in the back of the room because I had to have a separate table and chair to fit my gigantic gut didn't help, and I always got caught sneaking food into class and into my belly, as it gasped out its desperate hunger for anything I could possibly put into it.
Sending me to the principal's office was its own problem, because I just had to stop by my locker to get something to eat. I always crammed my locker full of food in the mornings, but it was all crammed into me by the afternoon. That and the glacial pace of my waddling walk, taking only short shuffling steps with my legs splayed wide to accommodate their own bulk, and my belly proudly leading the way three feet in front of me, would mean it took me half an hour to navigate the halls to his office, and then I'd deliberately get myself firmly stuck in the door.
It was my little way of getting back at them, as once stuck I would just girlishly giggle. “Oopsie, look! my poor little tummy has gotten stuck! Won't someone please help me?” Then I'd helplessly flap my sausage-shaped arms, uselessly push at the doorframe, and giggle some more. To get me unstuck, they had to get cooking oil from the cafeteria, and with two school nurses pulling and the principal, trapped in his office, pushing, my lubricated waistline would slip and squeeze and then pop back out into the hall.
One parent/teacher/principal conference later, after getting stuck in the office door for the third time, it was agreed by all that I should be home schooled from there on out, and I turned my freakishly fat (and now, shiny with grease) ass to that school and never turned back.
I should have known. In fact, I probably did know, if subconsciously, that staying home would be less about schooling and more about eating. That was just fine with me, because nothing could get in the way of my belly now. It could only get bigger, much bigger, much faster, until I was truly mammoth.
In just a few months the pretense of school fell by the wayside, and it was all eating, all the time. I got myself a cart like the one Belle would need in a couple years. I got too fat to cook for myself because even with my stomach squashed against the counter my arms couldn't reach. Dad had the maid come in more often to cook, and sometimes even feed me, because my arms were so flabby and inflated and heavy it was difficult even to feed myself. For the days she wasn't working, she would prepare in advance thick heavy soups, sauces, milkshakes, practically pure liquid calories.
At first I would be able to lift the giant tureens to my mouth, rest it on the valley between my beachball breasts, and tilt it towards me. Opening wide, I could just pour it in. But that wasn't perfect, though, because I was always so hungry I poured too fast, and made a mess. The bowls and vats were heavy, and I was too fat to reach the tables they rested on, let alone get them out of the fridge. Long before I could reach the handle to open the door my stomach was pressing it firmly closed.
It was Mom who got the idea of using a funnel on me. She had just gotten me a big bowl of gravy and was watching me make a mess of trying to get it all inside me, immediately, as I needed it inside my belly right then. I hadn't noticed her leaving, but when the gravy ship – much too much to call a mere boat – was empty, and I was frantically wiping up the spills with blimpy fingers and licking them clean again, she came back, with the next bowl, and a funnel.
“Here” she suggested, and leaning over me, slipped the funnel into my mouth. I sealed my lips around it, and looked up. Her belly pressed heavily into my side as leaned in, pinning one arm completely, but my other could reach up and stabilize the funnel as she began to pour.
It worked wonderfully. The warm soup just flowed into me. She topped off the funnel again and again, and I just sat there, eyes tightly shut, concentrating only on the steady flow entering me, flooding me, filling me up, swelling my already gargantuan belly to new stunning sizes, inflating me like a human water balloon.
Several hours and many gallons later, for the first time in months my growling hunger was satisfied. If my belly wasn't so tight from containing all those delicious concoctions I'm sure I would have sloshed like a waterbed. Finally, delightfully stuffed to the brink of bursting, I drifted off to sleep, still with the funnel lolling between my teeth.
Of course, that was so amazing I had to do it again when I woke up, and again, and again, all day long. I knew my stomach would stretch to accommodate it, and my hunger grow to surpass it, and I'd be left desperately cramming again except even bigger and fatter and even less able to feed myself. I didn't care. My consumption doubled and kept increasing. My weight swept upwards. It seemed my already monstrous belly grew larger every day. It bulged over my knees and crept down over my calves steadily towards my flipper-like feet, and I knew walking, or even just standing up, would soon become a memory.
It did. When heaved to my feet, I couldn't move. My belly rested heavily on the floor. I was much too heavy to even consider lifting one foot, even if I could raise the meaty masses that were my obese legs. One day, struggling to get from the cart onto the toilet, I realized I just couldn't do it. My arms were too weak to operate the hoist, and my flab wasn't helping, just getting in the way. I cried for help, and it took both Mom and Dad to get me lifted up and onto our special toilet. I needed special help every day after that, because I was still getting fatter.
I sucked on that funnel every waiting moment. Mom and the maid sweated bullets trying to keep up with my staggering appetite. The cart strained under my redoubled growth, then died one day. I was far too fat for it, far too fat for everything, helpless under my own huge mounds of flab. And I was still tightly in the grip of my insatiable hunger, needing to eat, to consume, to devour continuously anything and everything fattening I can get inside me. Immobility would be my future.
I climbed into this bed, and haven't gotten up since. As you can tell, it's got plumbing, so I never have to leave it. It's supposed to be jumbo King sized, but look at my ass flowing over the edges, my belly pouring over the end. You'll have to look for me, because my belly and breasts have swelled up so much I couldn't see over them even if my cheeks weren't so round I can hardly open my eyes at all. I'm much too fat to do anything. My fingers are so plumped out I can hardly wiggle them. I'm as fat as my whole family put together, more, and I intend to just keep on eating.
I know I'm gigantically fat, but I'm still so so hungry. Only that high-volume pump in the corner, with that big hopper, can keep up with me know. I might just be the fattest woman in the world now – I don't know, and I don't care. Go write it all down if you want to. All I know is I'm starving. Turn up the pump! Give me back that hose! Plug it back into me, back between my fat greedy li... mmh ooh. Mmmmmm. Oooohhh...
|08-06-2012, 01:00 PM||#4|
Join Date: Feb 2006
Wow! Short, but it has everything I like in weight gain stories:
Girls in different stages of obesity, all highly decadent and gluttonous, all willing to become unbelievably fat to immobility and beyond with not a single concern, suportive familiy.
A little more description of the girls, their look and their wobbling fat bodies would have been nice, but except that this was wonderful to read and I am really looking foward to some more of your work.
Belly-tops are for girls with a belly!
|08-07-2012, 03:15 AM||#5|
Join Date: Nov 2006
Thanks to all
I appreciate kudoes. Thanks again.
This story could have been longer, but I was running out of adjectives, and I hate to repeat myself (well, too much, anyhow...
More detailed descriptions tend to get X-rated in a big hurry (at least for me), and I deliberately avoided that for this one.
PS - Koudelka: I am aware of your work on DeviantArt, and I think it's darn keen. Carry on, please!! S.
|08-14-2012, 05:03 PM||#7|
Join Date: Apr 2008
Location: Heart's in San Francisco
Similar to PRPR Academy, but a good story in itself. Sometimes you just want a series of descriptions of increasingly fatter women who own and love their gluttony.
EDIT: Oh, duh. You wrote PRPR Academy.