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BBW Secrets (A Very Short Story) by Benny Mon (SSBBW)

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Benny Mon

Well-Known Member
Jul 7, 2011
SSBBW - A sparring match between a health guru and a body positivity icon goes further than anyone expected

Secrets (A Very Short Story)

by Benny Mon

“Welcome back to the Hopra Winnipeg show, I’m your host, Hopra Winnipeg, and you’re joining us in the middle of a passionate discussion about body image. Does the so-called ‘body positivity’ movement glorify obesity? Do the nation’s obese need some tough love before their so-called ‘self love’ kills them? Let’s dive back into the conversation with our guests. To my left, body positivity and Instagram star Felicia Elkins and self-proclaimed fat activist Sandy Williams, and to my right nutritionist Marcia Hesp and distinguished surgeon Dr. Alan Martinson.”

Hopra Winnipeg, an ethnically ambiguous talk show host in a tan pantsuit, turned away from the camera to re-engage her guests. But the “conversation,” such as it was, had never really stopped, even during the commercial break. For two of her guests, at least. The other two, the short, almost spherical Felicia Elkins and the mild-mannered, turtlenecked, petite Marcia Hesp had stopped trying to get a word in edgewise. Sandy Williams and Alan Martinson were locked in an increasingly loud and increasingly vicious sparring match, and no one, not Hopra Winnipeg and certainly not Felicia or Marcia, could stop them.

“You’re killing yourself, and the first thing you need to do is admit that,” Martinson stated flatly. His posture was unnervingly straight, his dirty blond hair close cropped and carefully coiffed. Steely, methodical eyes stared out from behind rectangular glasses on a chiseled, handsome face.

“This is bullshit,” said Sandy, rolling her eyes heroically far back into her head and turning to the audience for support. “You’re sitting here in a white coat with a fucking stethoscope around your neck and you haven’t actually seen a patient in six years. Are you even a real doctor?”

Martinson was a real doctor, but he brushed it off and retorted, “And you’re sitting here taking up more than half your entire sofa! How can you think you’re going to live past 35?”

The first claim, at least, was true: she did take up most of the sofa. If Sandy had ever been thin, she may once have had a figure, but it was long gone, buried beneath hundreds of pounds of fat. Her thighs and hips and belly and ass all ran into each other, forming a hulking mass that spread out on the sofa to either side of her and completely colonized her lap, forcing Felicia (herself fairly fat) to shrink into other corner of the sofa. Sandy’s dark blue silk top, probably intended as a loose garment, was stretched and strained by all the flesh desperate to break free of it. A defined neck had long since ceased to be, encased now in layers of fat that left no clear demarcation between her shoulders, neck, and jaw--all were exposed, as her bright red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Every time she talked, her suffocating neck fat shifted and spread, barely able to get out of the way of her jaw, and it severely limited her ability to turn her head. She was 565 pounds of shapeless, graceless fat piled onto the set of the most popular daytime talk show in America.

“You don’t know anything about my health!” she bellowed. “You’re not my doctor! And nothing about the way I look says anything about my health. You would need to do a full medical examination to figure that out.”

“Anytime.” He opened his arms in a gesture of invitation. “Stop by my office, and let’s do it. We can work on getting you off your 12,000-calorie diet while we’re at it.”

“You don’t know how much I eat!” Sandy shrieked, and her whole body shook in multiple directions at once as she jerked forward in anger, thrusting out her finger in accusation and causing her upper arm to jiggle violently. “I actually eat less than a regular skinny woman. Some days, I don’t even remember to eat at all.”

“Jesus Christ,” Martinson muttered, and he stood up abruptly. “I’m not going to waste my time like this.” He ripped off his microphone and walked off the stage.

“Get back here!” yelled Sandy. “I’m not going to let you abuse me and then just walk away.” She tried to lift herself to her feet, heaving forward several times only to run into the massive roadblock of her bunching belly. “Help me get up, Felicia,” she hissed, and Felicia, too overwhelmed to have an independent thought, stood up and grabbed Sandy’s pudgy hands. They tried once, tried twice, but the third time was the charm. Sandy had just enough momentum to rise to her feet, but Felicia had pulled too hard and had too much momentum: she tumbled back and fell on her ass, her black t-shirt riding halfway up her rotund belly. Marcia was frozen in shock, eyes wide, while the stage crew rushed up to help pull Felicia to her feet.

Meanwhile, Sandy was waddling ponderously off the set, huffing her way backstage as Hopra Winnipeg and her camera crew kept pace.

“How are you feeling right now, Sandy?” asked Hopra, shoving a microphone in Sandy’s face. (It was just for show: Sandy still had a microphone clipped to her top.)

“I’m...huff...huff...huff huff.” Sandy was exerting all the energy she had to move even at this slow pace, and she didn’t even have the breath to answer the question. Her face was reddening, though whether more from anger or from exertion it was hard to say. But she did not stop; she did not slow down. Gradually she made it into the parking lot and lumbered out to her car, a low, wide crossover that just barely accommodated her size. Hopra stopped at the door and held back her crew as well, letting the camera take in Martinson’s own car as it peeled out of the parking lot, and then pan to Sandy’s slow, steady march to her car. She didn’t stop, but it took two or three tries to close the door over her massive hips before she peeled out of the parking lot as well.

Hopra winced each time the door bounced off Sandy’s flesh before it finally closed. “That’s got to sting,” she said, shaking her head.

Martinson’s car was just barely in view, and Sandy laid on the gas, trying to catch up. She tore through two red lights and forced oncoming traffic to slam on the brakes or veer aside, but miraculously there were no crashes. She couldn’t stop panting after the effort of walking to her car, but slowly her breath returned to her now that she was sitting. The steering wheel scraped against her stupendously prominent belly as she turned it, and the transmission handle was totally eclipsed by her belly on the right, but somehow she was able to drive. That the chase didn’t end in tragedy was something of a miracle.

She followed him onto a highway, back again onto local roads, and into a neighborhood, losing sight of him for a moment as he rounded several corners in a row. Finally, though, she turned on to Admiral Drive and saw his car parked outside a surprisingly modest ranch house. In her fury she ran her own car too quickly into the driveway, bapping the back of his and pulling slightly onto his front lawn. A neighbor, watching with increasing horror as Sandy’s car dug a huge divot in Martinson’s lawn and then proceeded to emit a nearly 600-pound woman, scooped up her baby boy and quickly went inside her front door. Sandy wrenched herself from the driver’s seat and hauled herself to Martinson’s front door, her body a canvas filled with endless undulating waves of fat. In his haste, he’d left the door unlocked, and she let her tremendous momentum throw it open as she ploughed into his living room.

Martinson was getting his phone out of his pocket, ready to dial someone, but his eyes widened when he saw Sandy stumble into his living room: cheeks and necks mottled with a splotchy red of exertion, barely enough breath left in her to stand. Her ponytail was becoming loose and sloppy, and huge pit stains had grown under her arms. In all the commotion, her black slacks had slipped slightly, and her top had ridden up, and even though only a small fraction of her belly was now exposed, on such a large belly that small fraction was still an obscene amount of fat, bursting to break free of these tight clothes.

“If you take one more step I’m calling the police.”

“Try me,” she said, and she moved forward with remarkable alacrity. Martison’s fingers were trembling, and he tried to dial in the number, “9,” “1”--but before he could finish, Sandy was on top of him, and she smacked the phone from his hand. She backed him against a wall, and her ceaseless, panting breath was in his face, her warm, sweaty body pressing him flat with only half her weight let to lie on him.

“You...think…” she panted, “you can...just...act like you...fucking...know me...on…TV? You...don’t...know...me...huff

“Oh yeah?” he said. He squirmed under the weight, but she didn’t let up, crushing him against the wall.

And then she kissed him, pressing her lips into his. It was an awkward kiss--she still hadn’t caught her breath--so she alternated between locking her mouth into his and gasping for air. He squirmed again for a few minutes and finally managed to push her off him. He didn’t know how he did it--she must have been shifting her own weight in that moment--but she stumbled back, not quite catching herself but not quite falling, and her tremendous inertia carried her out of the living room through a door, where he heard her crash into something.

Martinson followed after Sandy, into the kitchen. She’d landed against his kitchen table, which somehow handn’t collapsed under her weight. There was fire in her eyes, a mix of anger and passion and confusion, not least because of what she saw in the room around her: every bit of counter space, every shelf, even the table itself was piled high with cakes, cookies, salty snacks, ice cream, brownies...she couldn’t take it all in at once.

“What...the fuck…?” she muttered. She looked back at him. “Do you...eat all this crap? The famous...doctor...a junk food...addict?”

“I don’t,” he said, and he smirked. “But you will.”

Her eyes widened as he walked up to her and ripped off her top, finally liberating the vast sea of fat that had been struggling to break free all day. He climbed up on top of her, straddling her belly and massaging one of her breasts with one hand while he picked up a brownie with the other and shoved it in her mouth. She grimaced and struggled to fit it all in and chew it, but in moments she had downed it and was gasping for air again. “More…?” she looked up at him pleadingly. “I’m so fucking...hungry.”

“You naughty little liar,” he smirked. “You told the world you don’t even eat that much.” And he shoved another brownie in her mouth, again a little too fast for her to manage.

She chomped and smacked and downed this one, too, her neck fat jiggling and deforming as she worked. She looked up at him again pleadingly. “Who even are you? Is your name even Alan Martinson? Are you actually a doctor?”

“Who am I?” he chuckled. He stepped away for a moment, pulling down his own pants to reveal an enormous erection and taking a funnel and a carton of lukewarm ice cream out of a cupboard. “When I’m done with you, you’re not going to even remember your own name.”

Sandy’s entire blubbery body shook and shuddered with pleasure when the sugary cream ran down her throat like a god-given, life-saving river.


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