en deshabille

Chapter 1 - that feeling, you can only say what it is in french

En Déshabillé: 1. State of undress. 2. Partially or casually dressed. 3. A carefree or casual manner. 4. Negligee (archaic).


Since you’ve moved in with me, you’ve put on over a hundred pounds, and you’re beginning to notice the effects. You’re waddling all the time now, and always out of breath. All the soft, untoned fat that you’ve packed on makes it such a chore to get up. In fact, you now sleep so much that you’re almost always sitting or lying in bed. I try to anticipate your needs so you don’t have to get out of bed any more than is absolutely necessary; I don’t like to see my sweet girl huff and puff and struggle. You’ve never been fit, but now you’re absolutely out of shape, weakened by your growing obesity.

It’s been a typical morning; you downed bowl after bowl of chocolate cereal this morning while I was getting ready for work, and when I left, you went back to sleep. A little later you awoke and started hitting the creamy chocolate milkshake. Munching chocolate and watching TV, so well distracted that you’ve knocked back the entire gallon before you realize it! It leaves you feeling comforted and dozy. Only 10:00 am? Time for another nap. You can feel the shake sloshing in your stomach as you turn over and close your eyes.

About an hour later you awaken to that familiar feeling, that incredibly powerful hunger. Could it be something in the shakes...? You pick up the phone and dial for the pizza delivery which is your daily lunch routine. Realizing you’ve been sleeping naked, you lean out of bed to reach for your last remaining outfit that fits: your old faithful pink sweats and your black strappy blouse. You remember back when you didn’t fill them out at all.

First the blouse: good thing there are no sleeves; your thick flabby arms would never get through them. The top portion hugs your bountiful bosom tightly. “Why should my nipples be so sensitive lately?” you wonder. Tugging the blouse down as much as you can, it only covers your midriff.

Next the pink sweats: only the part below the knees still fits all right. Your thighs have ballooned so much that the soft cozy sweats are skin-tight from the knees up, and there’s no way in the world you’re going to get your belly inside them. You’re leaving your most magnificent feature on display, and you know I wouldn’t approve of that, but what else can you do? You must have the pizza. Your stomach rumbles to reiterate the urgency.

You lug yourself out of bed and waddle heavily down the hallway. In the living room, you plop down on the couch to rest. Dressing and walking down the hall has drained your energy. I’ve left plenty of food money for you on the coffee table, and you’d forgotten about the bowl of treats out here. You’re stuffing a pack of Swiss chocolate rolls into your mouth when the doorbell finally rings.

You stand, trying to tug your sweats up and your blouse down, but it’s a futile effort. How did you let yourself get like this? Inches of your huge soft gut is hanging out. My god, you think, I’ve grown so incredibly fat! You waddle over to answer the door, trying to wipe the chocolate from around your mouth.

Red-faced and panting, you open the door with a grin. Three large pizzas. Two used to fill you up, but it takes more these days. The cool autumn breeze across your bare skin reminds you of your déshabillé, but you have no shame. His eyes take in your full breasts and then linger on your naked belly, the pillowy saggy fat rolls spilling over your waistband. You do at least have the decency to blush before handing over the cash.

He greets you warmly. “You’re a very hungry girl, aren’t you?”

Wondering if you’re the biggest girl on his route, you nod and grin.

“Maybe you could use a little help?” he asks, still leering at your exposed belly. He leans on the doorframe, coming a little closer. “I bet it would taste even better if you let me feed it to you, hot stuff.”

“I don’t think my lover would like that...”

“Cat’s away, though, isn’t it?” he insists. “I can tell it’s not easy for you to make it to the door. Why don’t you just let me in, to keep you company?”

You blush and look down, wanting to close the door and be alone with your pizza.

He continues on: “I’ve got two more in the car that could be yours, you know. A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t ever have to eat alone.”

Finally finding your voice, you say “No... I don’t eat alone.” This stuns him for a moment, and you take the opportunity to shut the door and lock the deadbolt down.

You lean back against the wall, your heart racing. That was frightening! You’re barely able to walk, and even the pizza guy sees how vulnerable you’ve become. It dawns on you now why I’m so protective of you: because you cannot fend for yourself. You’re a lazy, greedy girl, devouring more and more each day, growing into a helpless mountain of flesh; and you love it.

The warm smell of oregano and mozzarella makes your stomach growl again... you must eat. Waddling to the bed with your stack of pizzas, you crash out on the king-sized mattress. Completely out of breath, your knees and feet aching even from the short walk, your chubby arms stretch out for the first pizza. You lower the first slice into your waiting mouth, moaning with food lust as you taste the huge thick cheesy topping. Every day, and still you moan like a horny slut on that first bite. You practically inhale the rest of it, pushing and shuffling yourself around, bed frame creaking and squeaking. Eventually you get yourself back against your pillows, your fat belly slopping down between your thighs. This is a proper eating position, you think to yourself, as you put the box within easy reach. As the second slice creeps towards your greedy mouth, a bit of cheese drips on your blouse.

You’re in the zone now: pure gluttony. An absolutely insatiable appetite for the most fattening foods imaginable. You always want more, always want to put something in your mouth, in your belly. You enter a trance almost, a daze, a sort of high induced by your sex drive linked with your fat and the food and every pleasure centre in your brain. You don't realize that you've been eating bigger bites than ever... that your speed is increasing. In your daze, you barely even notice the waistband of those pink sweats digging into your plush hips, the tight, tight fabric. No, you just eat, half hypnotized, half gazing at the TV. You've got sauce all over your chin and cheeks but you don't care. You do feel the weight of your well-fattened belly on your crotch, but this just serves to turn you on even more.

After what only feels like a few minutes, you look down and the first pizza is gone. You think nothing of it, automatically reaching for the next box. You are still completely in the grips of filling yourself up. You must pack that enormous, stretched stomach to its limit, because it desperately cries out for more food. You no longer realise the extent of your gluttony. It just takes so much food to satisfy you. So you mindlessly pile another slice in, feeling the weight of your belly between your legs get ever so slightly heavier. You can feel that you’re wet, but there's nothing you can do, since it's buried under hundreds of pounds of fat. You rub your belly for a moment, freeing up a belch before getting stuck into yet another slice. You feel so good, so warm and safe. Perhaps I’ll feel satisfied sooner if I stack two slices together like a sandwich, you think, as you lower a double decker into your mouth, grease dripping down your big thick double chin.

(such a greedy little slut)

Food means almost everything to you now, you can’t go half an hour without it. Sometimes you wonder just how heavy you are going to get. After all, it takes a mountain to fill you up. You can’t even slow down; in fact, you’re speeding up, now that your stomach is so enlarged. Your activity is reduced to a few brief waddles across the house each day. You know the next 50 pounds may teeter you over to near complete immobility. Yet here you are, cramming it in as fast as you can.

(fat girl can’t ever get enough)

You look down: where did that second pizza go? Nevermind, you shrug, and grab the third box. Your free hand is moving around your swollen belly now, helping to ease the glorious full feeling. Massaging your growing belly and stuffing your face is divine. Who cares about the grease, sauce and cheese dribbled across your blouse, or the clothing itself stretched to bursting. Your blouse has ridden up so high it now only covers your breasts. Your entire bloated gut is on display in front of you, what looks like miles of soft, pale, stretchmark-riddled fat...

(deliveryman knows what you’re doing right now)

He knows; everyone knows. It’s not hard, anyone can look at you, see your belly swinging ahead of you, see you sweating and panting. Your belly tells it all: you’re a greedy fat girl. You ate yourself to this enormous size, and you still won’t stop.
2 chapters, created 2 years , updated 2 years
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ObeseQueen 2 years
The subtitle, that feeling you can only say what it is in French, is a quote from Stephen King. I believe it appeared in a short story and referred originally to deja vu.