Ode to a Broken Desk Chair – Gone, but Will Not Be Missed
You never stood a chance.
Flimsy screws, cheap plastic, a cushion worn thin from use—collapsing beneath me was always your fate, wasn’t it? You held on, creaking, groaning, shuddering with every shift, every indulgence, every teasing press of my weight. You knew what was coming long before I did.
The armrests dug in first, biting into soft flesh, struggling to hold me. They tried to keep me contained, tried to remind me of where I started—smaller, lighter, easier to manage. But I’ve outgrown you. And you felt it, didn’t you? The slow, inevitable expansion. The extra inches, the extra weight, pressing, straining, making you groan in protest.
And yet, you still tried. Your wheels, once built for effortless movement, locked up beneath me, trembling under the pressure, resisting like they knew I wasn’t done getting heavier. Every day, you fought a losing battle, the strain building with each meal, each bite, each indulgence. You held me, barely, like a lover on the edge of exhaustion, knowing you couldn't keep up but too stubborn to give in.
But today, you finally broke.
Maybe it was the extra pastries at breakfast, or maybe—just maybe—you just couldn’t handle me anymore. A quiet snap, a sudden give—then collapse. Legs splaying wide, frame cracking under pressure, giving out completely beneath me. Wrecked. Ruined. Reduced to nothing but scraps on the floor.
You tried. You failed.
And now you’re done, tossed aside like every other thing that couldn’t handle me.
You never stood a chance.
Flimsy screws, cheap plastic, a cushion worn thin from use—collapsing beneath me was always your fate, wasn’t it? You held on, creaking, groaning, shuddering with every shift, every indulgence, every teasing press of my weight. You knew what was coming long before I did.
The armrests dug in first, biting into soft flesh, struggling to hold me. They tried to keep me contained, tried to remind me of where I started—smaller, lighter, easier to manage. But I’ve outgrown you. And you felt it, didn’t you? The slow, inevitable expansion. The extra inches, the extra weight, pressing, straining, making you groan in protest.
And yet, you still tried. Your wheels, once built for effortless movement, locked up beneath me, trembling under the pressure, resisting like they knew I wasn’t done getting heavier. Every day, you fought a losing battle, the strain building with each meal, each bite, each indulgence. You held me, barely, like a lover on the edge of exhaustion, knowing you couldn't keep up but too stubborn to give in.
But today, you finally broke.
Maybe it was the extra pastries at breakfast, or maybe—just maybe—you just couldn’t handle me anymore. A quiet snap, a sudden give—then collapse. Legs splaying wide, frame cracking under pressure, giving out completely beneath me. Wrecked. Ruined. Reduced to nothing but scraps on the floor.
You tried. You failed.
And now you’re done, tossed aside like every other thing that couldn’t handle me.
Melancholic Monday—
seeps in, thick and sluggish, curling around me like a weight I can’t shake.
The weekend lingers—golden, lawless, obscene—clinging to my skin in the scent of sugar
and something deep-fried, in the ache of overuse, in the lazy satisfaction of too much.
My body still hums with it, the excess, the abandon, the freedom. No counting, no questioning, just taking, tasting, having.
I close my eyes, and it's still there—the sticky-sweet drip of melted ice cream down my wrist, the syrup-heavy drinks that fizzed on my tongue, the warm, doughy weight of food settling low and decadent in my stomach.
Hands grasping, lips parting, indulgence with no shame.
It was a weekend of more—more flavor, more pleasure, more body, stretching, filling, spilling into every empty space.
But Monday is a thief. It creeps in and strips the excess away, dulls the richness, replaces it with rigidity, expectation, control.
The world demands order, posture, purpose—tight waistbands and tighter restraint.
Sit up straight, hold it in, smooth it down, shrink yourself into something palatable, something presentable, something less.
So I obey. I trade want for need, hunger for duty, pleasure for discipline.
I pull on stiff clothes that pinch at the waist, press my thighs together in a chair too small, sip my bitter morning coffee as if it could wash away the memory of sweetness.
Stomach empty, mouth quiet, longing for the taste of yesterday.
seeps in, thick and sluggish, curling around me like a weight I can’t shake.
The weekend lingers—golden, lawless, obscene—clinging to my skin in the scent of sugar
and something deep-fried, in the ache of overuse, in the lazy satisfaction of too much.
My body still hums with it, the excess, the abandon, the freedom. No counting, no questioning, just taking, tasting, having.
I close my eyes, and it's still there—the sticky-sweet drip of melted ice cream down my wrist, the syrup-heavy drinks that fizzed on my tongue, the warm, doughy weight of food settling low and decadent in my stomach.
Hands grasping, lips parting, indulgence with no shame.
It was a weekend of more—more flavor, more pleasure, more body, stretching, filling, spilling into every empty space.
But Monday is a thief. It creeps in and strips the excess away, dulls the richness, replaces it with rigidity, expectation, control.
The world demands order, posture, purpose—tight waistbands and tighter restraint.
Sit up straight, hold it in, smooth it down, shrink yourself into something palatable, something presentable, something less.
So I obey. I trade want for need, hunger for duty, pleasure for discipline.
I pull on stiff clothes that pinch at the waist, press my thighs together in a chair too small, sip my bitter morning coffee as if it could wash away the memory of sweetness.
Stomach empty, mouth quiet, longing for the taste of yesterday.
undone
A story of discipline, desire, and transformation. A trainer watches her once-fit client soften, torn between professionalism and fascination. When tension erupts, restraint shatters in an unexpected, passionate moment.
New story
An introduction of sorts
Figured it was time to say hello. I’m IndulgentInk, an Aussie woman with a love for words and a weakness for all things indulgent. I write seductive fat fiction—sometimes sweet, sometimes filth...
New topic in General forum
An Expression of Morbid Obesity; In the Form of an Aussie Summer.
Bare feet on hot concrete,
the scent of sunscreen and melted ice cream in the air.
Sun-drunk and lazy, sticky thighs on plastic chairs,
a bead of sweat slipping slow down my neck.
Denim cut-offs bite into soft flesh,
last summer’s fit now a little too tight—
seams straining, fabric digging,
the price of indulgence well paid.
The air is thick, syrupy,
heat clings like honey to bare skin,
glistening beneath the sun’s greedy gaze.
And then—relief.
Ice-cold strawberry milkshake, thick and shamelessly sweet,
rolling over my tongue, filling me up,
settling low and heavy.
Simple, messy, indulgent…
exactly how an Aussie summer should be.
Plastic chairs groan beneath me,
hot and slick where skin meets seat,
a slow, sticky peel with every shift,
every breath drawn heavy and deep.
The all-too-familiar smell—sunscreen lingers in the air,
thick, artificial, nostalgic,
clinging to sweat-damp skin,
mixing with the heat, the stillness, the weight of the afternoon.
The heat hums in my skin, in my breath, in my bones,
the weight of summer pressing down,
saturating every inch of me in its golden, gluttonous haze.
Let the world sweat and ache around me—
I am here, and I am full.
Bare feet on hot concrete,
the scent of sunscreen and melted ice cream in the air.
Sun-drunk and lazy, sticky thighs on plastic chairs,
a bead of sweat slipping slow down my neck.
Denim cut-offs bite into soft flesh,
last summer’s fit now a little too tight—
seams straining, fabric digging,
the price of indulgence well paid.
The air is thick, syrupy,
heat clings like honey to bare skin,
glistening beneath the sun’s greedy gaze.
And then—relief.
Ice-cold strawberry milkshake, thick and shamelessly sweet,
rolling over my tongue, filling me up,
settling low and heavy.
Simple, messy, indulgent…
exactly how an Aussie summer should be.
Plastic chairs groan beneath me,
hot and slick where skin meets seat,
a slow, sticky peel with every shift,
every breath drawn heavy and deep.
The all-too-familiar smell—sunscreen lingers in the air,
thick, artificial, nostalgic,
clinging to sweat-damp skin,
mixing with the heat, the stillness, the weight of the afternoon.
The heat hums in my skin, in my breath, in my bones,
the weight of summer pressing down,
saturating every inch of me in its golden, gluttonous haze.
Let the world sweat and ache around me—
I am here, and I am full.
indulge
A feast of excess, a hunger unspoken—tonight is indulgence without limits. And the night is still young.
New story
"The Pants Dilemma"
Past me was bold, so full of cheer,
Said, "Let’s make plans! Let’s go out, my dear!"
Present me sighs, with a groan and a pout.
“Wait… I have to wear pants to go out?”
Future me sits, stiff and confined,
Regretting the waistband that’s far too tight.
Counting the minutes ‘til I’m finally free,
Back in the nudee, where I’m meant to be.
So the cycle repeats, time and again,
A lesson unlearned, a battle within.
Plans sound fun—until reality lands,
Because nothing good ever started with pants.
Past me was bold, so full of cheer,
Said, "Let’s make plans! Let’s go out, my dear!"
Present me sighs, with a groan and a pout.
“Wait… I have to wear pants to go out?”
Future me sits, stiff and confined,
Regretting the waistband that’s far too tight.
Counting the minutes ‘til I’m finally free,
Back in the nudee, where I’m meant to be.
So the cycle repeats, time and again,
A lesson unlearned, a battle within.
Plans sound fun—until reality lands,
Because nothing good ever started with pants.