a record attempt

Chapter 1 - a record attempt

I have a confession to make: I’m an addict. Not a day has passed during which I have not needed to satisfy the burning craving inside me. Yes, I’m seeing someone about it, but I can only last so long before my will cracks and I cave in to the insatiable appetite I’ve had for as long as I can remember, even with their help. What is it that I can’t bear to be without, you ask? Oxygen, that’s what.

“Already?” asked a muffled voice from above, followed by what sounded like the rustling of a page.

Pat pat pat pat pat pat ! The sound rhythmic and insistent, almost frantic.

A distant sigh, a heavy book being closed and set upon a glass surface. “Okay, fine. But only because I need a refill.”

Then the warmth and weight shifted, allowing gloriously cool, lifegiving oxygen to rush into my lungs. My first breath came as a gasp, a wheezy, ragged thing which briefly softened the stern face above me as a giggle escaped her lips. “Aww, my poor little pancake,” she simpered, an empty ice cream container and spoon clutched in one hand.

Having reached a stage where asphyxiation no longer felt imminent, I cast my eyes over and up at my ‘therapist’. Feet merged seamlessly into calves, then into thighs without the aesthetic flaws of visible ankles and knees with which most people were burdened. The aforementioned leg segments were thunderous to say the least: calves as thick as my waist, thighs doubly so. Her hips were a true wonder of engineering, so broad that she was wider than she was tall (particularly impressive considering how she was barely given any clearance by most doorways. Her belly hung low, sloshing and tumbling over the waistband of the underwear one couldn’t tell she was wearing down to where her knees would have been if they themselves hadn’t surrendered themselves to her insatiable appetite. Her chest was covered by the only visible clothing on her body, although the bra’s tour of duty looked set to end at any moment. She boasted bicep measurements of which many bodybuilders would have been proud, but very little of what pushed the numbers on the tape measure up and up was muscle. Her face was surprisingly svelte compared to the rest of her, but even she wasn’t immune to a couple of extra chins to round out her features.

“Ahem,” she interrupted my musings, her expression giving me the guilt-laden feeling that she had been trying to talk to me while I openly ogled her many square metres of poundage. My sheepishness seemed to mollify her, however: “That’s better. As I was saying, you weren’t even close to your average that time, so I expect you to try a little harder when I get back, understand?”

My meek nod accompanied the sound of the ice cream container clattering to the floor with the rest of the day’s food debris, then she left me to compose myself.

I did what I could to prepare myself for another battle with her crushing weight, even though I still felt two-dimensional after her previous spell on top of me; considering how often we had these ‘sessions’, I should really have been more used to the sensation of having no Z-axis. I motivated myself, as ever, with the prospect of beating my previous record of surviving under those broad hips of hers; something made increasingly more difficult with her ability to consume half a dozen litres of ice cream every day (and that was when she wasn’t feeling hungry).

She was back, another two litres of rocky road in hand and a broad grin on her face. Each of her steps had the floorboards groaning their displeasure, carving herself a creaking path all the way to where I still lay on my back on the bed. She leaned forwards on the pretence of readjusting her pillows, but we both knew that it was all just an excuse for her to slop her belly over my face, knowing that I would far from complain.

My lips parted from her spare tyre as she straightened up again, standing imperiously over me. “Ready to give me a proper effort?”

“Yes,” I breathed. A quirked eyebrow prompted a little more assurance, “Promise.”

Nodding her approval, she lumbered around to face away from me and simply leaned backwards, allowing her untold hundreds of pounds to come crashing down on top of my prone form which entirely disappeared beneath that vast posterior she so enjoyed flaunting.

“Clock’s ticking, my little flatbread!”
1 chapter, created 3 years , updated 3 years
1   0   1152
12345   loading

More by this author