SSBBW, Eating, Stuckage, ~XWG - A formerly housebound woman relates her journey in the style of Edgar Alan Poe
“It started a long time ago” she began quietly, not looking at me, almost talking to herself, “when, uh, well, when I became a prisoner of my tummy.”
“I was a little girl at the time, ten turning eleven, and I guess my step-mother decided I needed to lose a little baby fat. My stepmom put me on a diet, and suddenly, after a childhood of being able to eat anything I wanted, I was starving all the time. I guess I was pretty chubby, having pigged out a lot as a kid…”
“Then suddenly it was ‘diet diet diet’. I didn’t like it at all, and neither did my tummy. It softly moaned to me, in hunger pangs, and begged me for something, anything, I could put in it. And I would. I’d sneak off to the store, and buy some cheap candy bars, and stuff them into my mouth. Then my tummy would be happy and be my friend again.”
“The cheating didn’t help my diet any, of course. I probably lost some weight every now and then, and gained a little more when I had a little more money, but Mom talked and talked at me, making me do things like situps, jumping jacks, and feeding me only green lettuce for dinner. Fortunately for my tummy, Mom left us a couple years later, and six months after that Daddy was single again. I stayed on with him.”
“Dad didn’t really care what I ate. He had a woman come in and do the cooking and cleaning, and she made meals for all of us. She was a good cook. I often asked for seconds. Um, well, I didn’t always ask for seconds. My tummy would ask me for seconds, and since we were friends, I’d always get it some.”
“My tummy asked for other things, too, always nicely, always rewarding me with a good feeling when I gave it what it asked for. Ice-cream, candy bars, hamburgers in the afternoon after school. Whatever I’d been giving it all day, my little tummy was always greedy for dinner afterwards. I never ruined my appetite.”
“Soon it was asking me for things all the time. In school, out of school, anywhere there was something to eat, it would ask for it. And get it. I gave my friendly little tummy anything it wanted.”
“As a result, soon it wasn’t very little anymore. I wore large loose sweatpants and Daddy’s shirts most of the time.”
“Everything was getting bigger. I was going through puberty, and my breasts were swelling quickly. My butt widened and my thighs thickened. But it was still mostly my tummy that was taking over. It stuck out forwards far past my big round boobs, with a deep navel and a roll of ‘spare tire’ all the way around the back.”
“I didn’t care. I was comfortable, and my friend my tummy was happy. But I guess this was the start of the trouble. My tummy was asking for everything in sight, and becoming more insistent. My constant caring for its demands was starting to come between me and my other friends. They didn’t want to hang out with me because of my big round tummy. I went up to talk to Joyce in the hall one day, and before I was close enough to whisper my belly smacked up against hers, leaving us six inches apart even squished together! It really was ‘coming between me and my other friends’. I never tried to whisper to Joyce again, even though she’d been my best pal since the second grade.”
“Finally it was just me and my tummy. I did everything it asked for. I put into it gallons of milk, soda pop, and my Dad’s liquor. I put into it doughnuts in the morning, candy for lunch, and hamburgers, sometimes two, in the afternoon. I’d go to one burger joint, eat a jumbo meal, and then just down the street to the other one, and another supersized meal later I’d continue staggering home. But it was my friend, and we got along well, and it was all I had left, so I had to take good good care of my tummy.”
“I got bigger. My breasts went braless most of the time because all the bras my Dad bought me got too small too fast. My sweatpants stretched and stretched until they were practically threadbare lycra, then they tore away one afternoon when I bent over. I got more, larger ones. It got difficult to button up Dad’s shirts. My breasts were too big for the top buttons, and my stomach too big for the bottom ones. My thighs rubbed together even when I spread my legs apart, and my ass got so big it was hard to sit in the little bathtub. I squashed myself against both arms in my desk chair.”
“My tummy was still the biggest thing. Nearly round, spherical, from my constant giving in, loading my tummy with everything it asked for, made it bulge and grow and stick out way in front of me. I’d put things on it when I was eating them, between my breasts, using my tummy as a table. I had to wear sandals because it got too hard to tie my own shoelaces. When I bent over, my tummy got in the way! It was just too big!”
“I guess I started to question my incessant binging. But my tummy wouldn’t let me. What were nice requests started to turn into orders. Instead of ‘please, just one more hamburger’, I’d get ‘Two, just like yesterday.’ And when I was done with that, it’d say to me, ‘Why not one more? It’s only half of what you’ve had already!’ and I was up to three jumbo fast-food meals a day. Plus breakfast, lunch, dinner, and many hours of snacktime.”
“I didn’t get any thinner. I started to worry, and my tummy consoled me, said I would be just fine, if I just ate another quart of ice-cream. And another. And another, with a bag of Oreo cookies. Washed down with another two liters of soda-pop. I think it was just fine with that. I needed new sweatpants frequently. I could hardly see over my breasts, as they lay on top of my global belly. I had to pull in my stomach with one flabby arm and force my butt into the chair with another just to sit at a desk. I didn’t sit in chairs with arms anymore. I was just too wide!”
“I graduated from high school, and enrolled at the local community college. Dad went overboard, renting me a little apartment just a block from the school, writing me checks for tuition and expenses, gave me a credit card, and promised me a nice car for graduation. He didn’t seem to care that his daughter was so swollen up, and living by herself, the swelling would get faster, and get worse.”
“Much worse. Walking the block to classes exhausted me. Everything jiggled, from my chins to my nipples to my ass. I had to force my thighs past each other. My great fat friend my tummy always announced I’d be entering a room – three feet behind it. They gave me a locker on the lower level – After grunting for minutes I bent over enough to work the lock once. I never put anything into it, just slammed it again and carried everything home. Everything, but most of the trouble was carrying myself. I couldn’t lift my feet far. I couldn’t take long steps, because my belly would sway one way and my ass the other. My tits would bounce and rub against each other. It took me half an hour to cover the block to my apartment, and all the way my tummy screamed at me in famished hunger, longing for me to stuff something into it. Usually I didn’t even wait to get home. I would waddle into the Taco Hut and order a big bag of everything, and then for the rest of the walk home, while my feet were shuffling along, my arms were unloading the bag and my mouth was loading up my tummy.”
“I had groceries delivered to my apartment. My tummy made me order more every time. And when I finally staggered through the front door (thank goodness it wasn’t an upstairs place) I’d fall to cooking and eating and cooking and eating until my demanding tummy was well and truly stuffed. I’d collapse onto the big bed, and not move until the next day.”
“Classes weren’t going well. I could hardly get to the one class that was up a flight of steps. I was always late because I kept having to walk slower and slower to keep from falling down. If I had fallen, I don’t know if I could have gotten up. Then I started stopping at the Taco Hut on the way to classes, and munching up another huge bag of tacos, burritos, french fries, everything they sold, and enormous cups of soda. This made me even later, and even sweatier, and even fatter, when I did eventually arrive at the college.”
“Finally, one day it happened. I set out for class early, without my usual morning stuffing. I was determined to actually be on time. But walking made me even hungrier, and my tummy ordered me into the Taco Hut, and made me sit for a while and eat instead of continuing. When I was done, and now very late again, my tummy started talking to me about the last grocery delivery, and how there were so many things there it wanted, and nothing at school except vending machines, and how nice it would be to have some of that inside. I gave in, and I just went back home.”
“I skipped all my classes that day, and, uh, crammed. Not for an exam. Just everything the delivery man had brought, what was supposed to last a week, my tummy demanded. Not asked for, demanded. It was an order, and I couldn’t say no. I ate and ate. The day turned into a blur of food cascading down my throat like a waterfall. Chew, swallow, burp, and reach out for something else, always my tummy demanding more and more.”
“It was dark outside when I finished. The cabinets were empty. The fridge was empty. The floor was covered with wrappers and plastic pieces and crumbs. Trash. I tried to get off my futon to clean it up, and my tummy said, ‘No’. I just lay there like a bloated whale, and went to sleep.”
“In the morning I struggled up, eventually, and realized I’d eaten a week’s worth of junk food in a single day. I was so bloated! My wide protruding paunch looked like I’d eaten an earthball. It was round and tight even after a night’s digestion. I was already too late to go to school. My tummy ordered me to call the supermarket with another order. Same as the last.”
“I didn’t get to classes that day either. My tummy made me eat the whole order instead, faster this time, and then I went back to sleep.”
“This went on for a week, but next Monday I was determined to put my foot down. I was getting too fat! I could hardly breathe lying down. I had to force my flab through all the doorways. The toilet was much too small to comfortably sit on, and I just couldn’t get all of myself into the bathtub. My butt was too wide. My tummy, squashed into the porcelain, bulged grotesquely over the sides. My breasts were always in the way. I couldn’t get my thighs apart. I knew if I kept on going this way, I’d be immobile, stuck, a helpless pile of fat with stubby little fingers and toes sticking out! I guess I was right to worry.”
“I knew I’d need some groceries, so I called another market, with the same order, and told them just to put it in the front room. Then I grabbed my bookbag, stoically aimed my fat stomach at the front door, and headed out.”
“I didn’t make it out the front door. I got stuck. I’d lifted and squeezed my breasts together, and pushed them through with the leading arc of my stomach. But I only got halfway. My waist had widened so much it didn’t fit out the door! I started to squirm and struggle. All my round shapes shook. Both my breasts wobbled like giant jello cakes. My stomach heaved up and down and side to side. I shook my booty. There was a cracking noise, and the doorframe gave a little bit, just enough for me to back into the apartment again. Maybe I could sideways. I stood panting for breath, my chest heaving, looking at the newly cracked doorframe. I tried sideways. But sideways didn’t work either! I just couldn’t pull my tummy in far enough while working one of my behemoth breasts through the frame, even with the cracks in it.”
“I fell back onto the futon, exhausted after five minutes struggling. I just couldn’t stand up anymore. I lay there, a bloated bag of food, and cursed my tummy, my unfaithful friend, who’d practically stranded me, a whale, in my apartment, helpless. My tummy was silent, unusually silent for it. I talked to it some more, tried to come to some agreement, where I could put something in it in return for it not making me so fat, so flabby, so heavy, so helpless… No response. Nothing. I yelled, I called it names, and the deliveryman from the market looked in, a bit surprised.”
“’Put it right there’ I said. He did. ‘Close the door, please.’ He left, closing it behind him. Now my tummy spoke up. ‘Eat’ it said. Eat?!? How could I eat? I was too fat to leave the house! My tummy wouldn’t let my thighs lift at all! I could only get around in a creaking, waddling, shuffle, clinging to things with fat little fingers as I passed trying to keep my balance. Often one hand would be trying to control a breast as I swayed around the little apartment, the other guiding my belly or supporting my unstable flesh against a wall. Through my panting I managed to gasp to my tummy, ‘No! No more…’”
“’Yes, more.’ Said my tummy. Yes, more. Again. Yes, more. I tried to resist, I really did! I held out for nearly an hour. I used all sorts of arguments. I said, ‘I’m too fat already’, I said, ‘I’m too fat to crawl over there and pick it up!’. I wasn’t. Although crawling involved dragging my breasts and belly through the carpet, and pushing my blimpy thighs against the bottom of my overbloated gut, I could manage it. My tummy made me.”
“Yes, it made me. I tried to resist eating when I got there. I said I was too tired. I said I needed sleep. I didn’t last long. Minutes later I was nose-down like a hog in a trough, slurping up fats, starches, sugars, and proteins like a vacuum cleaner. I always ordered things that were easy to cook, or needed none. I ate them all raw now. Everything. When I was done, I knew I couldn’t move. Not a muscle. I couldn’t wiggle my toes. Everything, every ounce I had (and there were a lot of them!) was focused entirely on my stuffed, swollen, tummy.”
“I was its prisoner. It made me order more every day. It made me eat every order, to the last slice of cheese, to the last chicken wing, to drink to the bottom of every bottle. Sometimes I would hold out, arguing, fighting the urges, but it was always hopeless, and every time I found myself punished for resisting, punished by increasing the grocery order, punished by being made to eat it all faster, shove it all down my throat like a huge drain, draining massive calories into my inactive helpless, body.”
“I couldn’t escape. I could hardly walk. None of my clothes fit anymore. I had to smash my way into the bathroom. It was surprisingly easy, the walls just gave way to my fattened figure. But the front door was made of sterner stuff. I tried again, many times, but each time I tried I was even fatter than I had been before, and the walls wouldn’t break, the door wouldn’t move, and I kept getting larger and larger.”
“Every day my tummy made me stuff it, with grease and sugar and fats. Every day I got fatter. Every time I tried to walk I had to struggle harder. Sometimes I crawled around, dragging my flab through the carpets. The fatter I got the more difficult it was to escape. I got wider and wider, while the door stayed the same. I got heavier and heavier, and my arms and legs got weaker and weaker. Just standing up was exhausting. I was a prisoner in myself, in my own body, locked up with big breasts, swollen thighs, bloated ass, and huge staggering ball of a belly, all made of pure fat.”
“I lost track of which day it is a long time ago. I guess it’s fall, what with your jacket and the frost on the window. It was springtime when I first found out I couldn’t leave. You finally found me, and got me out of there.”
“Uh, I guess I’m your prisoner now.”
“What will you make me eat?”
Scx
Prisoner of My Tummy
by Scx
by Scx
“It started a long time ago” she began quietly, not looking at me, almost talking to herself, “when, uh, well, when I became a prisoner of my tummy.”
“I was a little girl at the time, ten turning eleven, and I guess my step-mother decided I needed to lose a little baby fat. My stepmom put me on a diet, and suddenly, after a childhood of being able to eat anything I wanted, I was starving all the time. I guess I was pretty chubby, having pigged out a lot as a kid…”
“Then suddenly it was ‘diet diet diet’. I didn’t like it at all, and neither did my tummy. It softly moaned to me, in hunger pangs, and begged me for something, anything, I could put in it. And I would. I’d sneak off to the store, and buy some cheap candy bars, and stuff them into my mouth. Then my tummy would be happy and be my friend again.”
“The cheating didn’t help my diet any, of course. I probably lost some weight every now and then, and gained a little more when I had a little more money, but Mom talked and talked at me, making me do things like situps, jumping jacks, and feeding me only green lettuce for dinner. Fortunately for my tummy, Mom left us a couple years later, and six months after that Daddy was single again. I stayed on with him.”
“Dad didn’t really care what I ate. He had a woman come in and do the cooking and cleaning, and she made meals for all of us. She was a good cook. I often asked for seconds. Um, well, I didn’t always ask for seconds. My tummy would ask me for seconds, and since we were friends, I’d always get it some.”
“My tummy asked for other things, too, always nicely, always rewarding me with a good feeling when I gave it what it asked for. Ice-cream, candy bars, hamburgers in the afternoon after school. Whatever I’d been giving it all day, my little tummy was always greedy for dinner afterwards. I never ruined my appetite.”
“Soon it was asking me for things all the time. In school, out of school, anywhere there was something to eat, it would ask for it. And get it. I gave my friendly little tummy anything it wanted.”
“As a result, soon it wasn’t very little anymore. I wore large loose sweatpants and Daddy’s shirts most of the time.”
“Everything was getting bigger. I was going through puberty, and my breasts were swelling quickly. My butt widened and my thighs thickened. But it was still mostly my tummy that was taking over. It stuck out forwards far past my big round boobs, with a deep navel and a roll of ‘spare tire’ all the way around the back.”
“I didn’t care. I was comfortable, and my friend my tummy was happy. But I guess this was the start of the trouble. My tummy was asking for everything in sight, and becoming more insistent. My constant caring for its demands was starting to come between me and my other friends. They didn’t want to hang out with me because of my big round tummy. I went up to talk to Joyce in the hall one day, and before I was close enough to whisper my belly smacked up against hers, leaving us six inches apart even squished together! It really was ‘coming between me and my other friends’. I never tried to whisper to Joyce again, even though she’d been my best pal since the second grade.”
“Finally it was just me and my tummy. I did everything it asked for. I put into it gallons of milk, soda pop, and my Dad’s liquor. I put into it doughnuts in the morning, candy for lunch, and hamburgers, sometimes two, in the afternoon. I’d go to one burger joint, eat a jumbo meal, and then just down the street to the other one, and another supersized meal later I’d continue staggering home. But it was my friend, and we got along well, and it was all I had left, so I had to take good good care of my tummy.”
“I got bigger. My breasts went braless most of the time because all the bras my Dad bought me got too small too fast. My sweatpants stretched and stretched until they were practically threadbare lycra, then they tore away one afternoon when I bent over. I got more, larger ones. It got difficult to button up Dad’s shirts. My breasts were too big for the top buttons, and my stomach too big for the bottom ones. My thighs rubbed together even when I spread my legs apart, and my ass got so big it was hard to sit in the little bathtub. I squashed myself against both arms in my desk chair.”
“My tummy was still the biggest thing. Nearly round, spherical, from my constant giving in, loading my tummy with everything it asked for, made it bulge and grow and stick out way in front of me. I’d put things on it when I was eating them, between my breasts, using my tummy as a table. I had to wear sandals because it got too hard to tie my own shoelaces. When I bent over, my tummy got in the way! It was just too big!”
“I guess I started to question my incessant binging. But my tummy wouldn’t let me. What were nice requests started to turn into orders. Instead of ‘please, just one more hamburger’, I’d get ‘Two, just like yesterday.’ And when I was done with that, it’d say to me, ‘Why not one more? It’s only half of what you’ve had already!’ and I was up to three jumbo fast-food meals a day. Plus breakfast, lunch, dinner, and many hours of snacktime.”
“I didn’t get any thinner. I started to worry, and my tummy consoled me, said I would be just fine, if I just ate another quart of ice-cream. And another. And another, with a bag of Oreo cookies. Washed down with another two liters of soda-pop. I think it was just fine with that. I needed new sweatpants frequently. I could hardly see over my breasts, as they lay on top of my global belly. I had to pull in my stomach with one flabby arm and force my butt into the chair with another just to sit at a desk. I didn’t sit in chairs with arms anymore. I was just too wide!”
“I graduated from high school, and enrolled at the local community college. Dad went overboard, renting me a little apartment just a block from the school, writing me checks for tuition and expenses, gave me a credit card, and promised me a nice car for graduation. He didn’t seem to care that his daughter was so swollen up, and living by herself, the swelling would get faster, and get worse.”
“Much worse. Walking the block to classes exhausted me. Everything jiggled, from my chins to my nipples to my ass. I had to force my thighs past each other. My great fat friend my tummy always announced I’d be entering a room – three feet behind it. They gave me a locker on the lower level – After grunting for minutes I bent over enough to work the lock once. I never put anything into it, just slammed it again and carried everything home. Everything, but most of the trouble was carrying myself. I couldn’t lift my feet far. I couldn’t take long steps, because my belly would sway one way and my ass the other. My tits would bounce and rub against each other. It took me half an hour to cover the block to my apartment, and all the way my tummy screamed at me in famished hunger, longing for me to stuff something into it. Usually I didn’t even wait to get home. I would waddle into the Taco Hut and order a big bag of everything, and then for the rest of the walk home, while my feet were shuffling along, my arms were unloading the bag and my mouth was loading up my tummy.”
“I had groceries delivered to my apartment. My tummy made me order more every time. And when I finally staggered through the front door (thank goodness it wasn’t an upstairs place) I’d fall to cooking and eating and cooking and eating until my demanding tummy was well and truly stuffed. I’d collapse onto the big bed, and not move until the next day.”
“Classes weren’t going well. I could hardly get to the one class that was up a flight of steps. I was always late because I kept having to walk slower and slower to keep from falling down. If I had fallen, I don’t know if I could have gotten up. Then I started stopping at the Taco Hut on the way to classes, and munching up another huge bag of tacos, burritos, french fries, everything they sold, and enormous cups of soda. This made me even later, and even sweatier, and even fatter, when I did eventually arrive at the college.”
“Finally, one day it happened. I set out for class early, without my usual morning stuffing. I was determined to actually be on time. But walking made me even hungrier, and my tummy ordered me into the Taco Hut, and made me sit for a while and eat instead of continuing. When I was done, and now very late again, my tummy started talking to me about the last grocery delivery, and how there were so many things there it wanted, and nothing at school except vending machines, and how nice it would be to have some of that inside. I gave in, and I just went back home.”
“I skipped all my classes that day, and, uh, crammed. Not for an exam. Just everything the delivery man had brought, what was supposed to last a week, my tummy demanded. Not asked for, demanded. It was an order, and I couldn’t say no. I ate and ate. The day turned into a blur of food cascading down my throat like a waterfall. Chew, swallow, burp, and reach out for something else, always my tummy demanding more and more.”
“It was dark outside when I finished. The cabinets were empty. The fridge was empty. The floor was covered with wrappers and plastic pieces and crumbs. Trash. I tried to get off my futon to clean it up, and my tummy said, ‘No’. I just lay there like a bloated whale, and went to sleep.”
“In the morning I struggled up, eventually, and realized I’d eaten a week’s worth of junk food in a single day. I was so bloated! My wide protruding paunch looked like I’d eaten an earthball. It was round and tight even after a night’s digestion. I was already too late to go to school. My tummy ordered me to call the supermarket with another order. Same as the last.”
“I didn’t get to classes that day either. My tummy made me eat the whole order instead, faster this time, and then I went back to sleep.”
“This went on for a week, but next Monday I was determined to put my foot down. I was getting too fat! I could hardly breathe lying down. I had to force my flab through all the doorways. The toilet was much too small to comfortably sit on, and I just couldn’t get all of myself into the bathtub. My butt was too wide. My tummy, squashed into the porcelain, bulged grotesquely over the sides. My breasts were always in the way. I couldn’t get my thighs apart. I knew if I kept on going this way, I’d be immobile, stuck, a helpless pile of fat with stubby little fingers and toes sticking out! I guess I was right to worry.”
“I knew I’d need some groceries, so I called another market, with the same order, and told them just to put it in the front room. Then I grabbed my bookbag, stoically aimed my fat stomach at the front door, and headed out.”
“I didn’t make it out the front door. I got stuck. I’d lifted and squeezed my breasts together, and pushed them through with the leading arc of my stomach. But I only got halfway. My waist had widened so much it didn’t fit out the door! I started to squirm and struggle. All my round shapes shook. Both my breasts wobbled like giant jello cakes. My stomach heaved up and down and side to side. I shook my booty. There was a cracking noise, and the doorframe gave a little bit, just enough for me to back into the apartment again. Maybe I could sideways. I stood panting for breath, my chest heaving, looking at the newly cracked doorframe. I tried sideways. But sideways didn’t work either! I just couldn’t pull my tummy in far enough while working one of my behemoth breasts through the frame, even with the cracks in it.”
“I fell back onto the futon, exhausted after five minutes struggling. I just couldn’t stand up anymore. I lay there, a bloated bag of food, and cursed my tummy, my unfaithful friend, who’d practically stranded me, a whale, in my apartment, helpless. My tummy was silent, unusually silent for it. I talked to it some more, tried to come to some agreement, where I could put something in it in return for it not making me so fat, so flabby, so heavy, so helpless… No response. Nothing. I yelled, I called it names, and the deliveryman from the market looked in, a bit surprised.”
“’Put it right there’ I said. He did. ‘Close the door, please.’ He left, closing it behind him. Now my tummy spoke up. ‘Eat’ it said. Eat?!? How could I eat? I was too fat to leave the house! My tummy wouldn’t let my thighs lift at all! I could only get around in a creaking, waddling, shuffle, clinging to things with fat little fingers as I passed trying to keep my balance. Often one hand would be trying to control a breast as I swayed around the little apartment, the other guiding my belly or supporting my unstable flesh against a wall. Through my panting I managed to gasp to my tummy, ‘No! No more…’”
“’Yes, more.’ Said my tummy. Yes, more. Again. Yes, more. I tried to resist, I really did! I held out for nearly an hour. I used all sorts of arguments. I said, ‘I’m too fat already’, I said, ‘I’m too fat to crawl over there and pick it up!’. I wasn’t. Although crawling involved dragging my breasts and belly through the carpet, and pushing my blimpy thighs against the bottom of my overbloated gut, I could manage it. My tummy made me.”
“Yes, it made me. I tried to resist eating when I got there. I said I was too tired. I said I needed sleep. I didn’t last long. Minutes later I was nose-down like a hog in a trough, slurping up fats, starches, sugars, and proteins like a vacuum cleaner. I always ordered things that were easy to cook, or needed none. I ate them all raw now. Everything. When I was done, I knew I couldn’t move. Not a muscle. I couldn’t wiggle my toes. Everything, every ounce I had (and there were a lot of them!) was focused entirely on my stuffed, swollen, tummy.”
“I was its prisoner. It made me order more every day. It made me eat every order, to the last slice of cheese, to the last chicken wing, to drink to the bottom of every bottle. Sometimes I would hold out, arguing, fighting the urges, but it was always hopeless, and every time I found myself punished for resisting, punished by increasing the grocery order, punished by being made to eat it all faster, shove it all down my throat like a huge drain, draining massive calories into my inactive helpless, body.”
“I couldn’t escape. I could hardly walk. None of my clothes fit anymore. I had to smash my way into the bathroom. It was surprisingly easy, the walls just gave way to my fattened figure. But the front door was made of sterner stuff. I tried again, many times, but each time I tried I was even fatter than I had been before, and the walls wouldn’t break, the door wouldn’t move, and I kept getting larger and larger.”
“Every day my tummy made me stuff it, with grease and sugar and fats. Every day I got fatter. Every time I tried to walk I had to struggle harder. Sometimes I crawled around, dragging my flab through the carpets. The fatter I got the more difficult it was to escape. I got wider and wider, while the door stayed the same. I got heavier and heavier, and my arms and legs got weaker and weaker. Just standing up was exhausting. I was a prisoner in myself, in my own body, locked up with big breasts, swollen thighs, bloated ass, and huge staggering ball of a belly, all made of pure fat.”
“I lost track of which day it is a long time ago. I guess it’s fall, what with your jacket and the frost on the window. It was springtime when I first found out I couldn’t leave. You finally found me, and got me out of there.”
“Uh, I guess I’m your prisoner now.”
“What will you make me eat?”
Scx
