Chapter 1 - change of plans

It's nice to feel the angle of the seat gently slope, knowing that the car's suspension is slowly breaking under your mass. You're sitting in the back seat, on the left side. You'd be sat in the front next to her, were it not for the bulk of your thighs pushing your legs apart and necessitating that you keep your right leg in the other footwell. You don't mind, though - it gives you the chance to spread out, and god knows you need the space. Plus, it means you can reach to gently run a finger through her hair whenever the fancy strikes you. She smiles, and briefly raises a hand from the steering wheel to touch yours.

It's been a long night. Date night. A couple of times a week the two of you go out. Her, trim and fit, a rancher parading her prize cow. She'll dress you up in whatever clothes she likes - the longest shirt you have, or a cow-print leather jacket, or something that barely covers your stomach and raises an inch after every mouthful - and you'll go to an eatery that she's picked. She is swift and decisive. Wherever she picks, that's where you're going, and you know better than to argue. You've always been the decision-maker in your family and you hated it. Her assertion is refreshing. You used to get so stressed about what clothes to wear and where to go, and she solves that problem in less time that it takes you to open the wardrobe. You wear what she wants and you feel beautiful. You go where she wants and you feel like all eyes - but especially hers - are on you. You feel wanted. And you eat what she tells you to.

You recall a time that you counted calories. 1500 a day, no more and no less. It took months to get out of that mindset. When you met her, you had some trouble adjusting - you were strict about your diet, but she was stricter. You put up resistance initially but she was amazingly stubborn. You began to follow her new diet for you, and eventually that turned to eating when she told you to, and eventually that turned to eating what she told you to. And you love it. You would never have realised that your self-control was one of the biggest stressors in your life. Now that's gone - it's all her. You feel like a floating gust of wind, gently guided by her loving hands; when before you were a jagged rock trying to roll up a muddy hill. Sure, you've gained a little weight - but it's not like that matters. You don't need standards anymore. They're a thing of the past. You only need her.

Date night, as it so often was, had been a buffet. You'd waddled from the car to the restaurant, wearing what she had chosen for you - tiny shorts that exposed the lumps and rolls of your legs, sandals through which your swollen feet and ankles extruded, a tight shirt that compressed your tits, cut into your fleshy arms and left your stomach hanging out in front of you, eclipsing the view of your shorts from the front. A small collar rings your throat, covered by fat from above and below, so while the passersby stared and took photographs of you, very few of them noticed the lead stretching from your neck to her hand. You can feel it digging in, though, a constant reminder that she is in total control of this situation and that you do not get a say even if you wanted one.

By the time you reached the door the redness, initially on just your face, had begun to cover your entire body, with a thin layer of sweat forming everywhere. Your inner thighs and the back of your hanging stomach were sore from rubbing against each other and you wanted nothing more than to sit down. You step sideways through the front door, the wooden frame pressing into you from both the front and back as she pushes you through, and then she leads you to a table; pulls it out so that you can sit on two chairs that she's put together. You know the rules. You obediently sit, and she heads to the buffet to prepare your first plate. You will have to eat every plate she brings you or she will not be happy.

You don't recall exactly what she brought you - only that the plates never seemed to stop coming. You enter a focused haze, paying attention only to continued consumption. You know that if you pause, you'll realise how full you are becoming, and then you won't be able to eat as much as she wants you to - so you've learned not to think while you eat, to turn off all higher functions except the shoveling of food into your mouth.

At one point your fork slips from between your fingers and clatters onto the table. You struggle to pick it up but your fingers, fat as they are, cannot find leverage and scrabble uselessly as if it were a playing card. But it's too late. You recoil in pain as the tension in your stomach catches up to you, the pressure overwhelming you, your lungs struggling to find room, the gurgling in your intestines predicting a storm. You look up to gauge her reaction - disappointed? angry? - and see only a smile.

"A record," she says. You look at the pile of plates. She could be right.

You glance around. There's barely a face in the restaurant that's not staring at you. Behind the counter, a cook's face echoes defeat, knowing that you've eaten far more than their twelve dollar entry fee predicted. She places her hand on yours, and struggles to mesh her dainty fingers between your colossal ones. "Let's go home."

You nod, and try to stand. Your belly pushes the table forward and your legs push the chairs backwards. You begin to tilt forward and the pressure in your stomach seems to double. She reaches forward and catches you just before you reach your tipping point. You always forget just how unbalanced you are when your stomach is full - and with her constantly pushing the limits of your capacity, that problem is only going to get worse.

She starts towards the door and you try to follow. You are forced into a hunch, your stomach refusing to stretch any further even as you're made to lean back in order to not fall over. You move one leg, then the other, with the first quivering worryingly as your entire weight passes over it. One step at a time. You slowly shuffle your way towards the door, acutely aware of how much of you is on show and of how many people are watching. The restaurant is deathly silent.

She tells you she is going to bring the car to the door. If she had offered, you would have gratefully accepted - you know there's no way you're making it there on foot. By the time you've pulled yourself to the entrance with some poor patron having to hold the door open for a full minute before you squeezed yourself through, the car is waiting for you. Getting into the car is always a struggle, and today especially so. By now there is sweat building up in the folds all over your body and you are beginning to look - and smell - shiny.

And that brings you to now. One foot in the left footwell, one foot in the right, stomach spread across your lap and the pressure inside you is just immense. But it's okay. You don't need to worry. She's in control.

You arrive at home, parking on the roadside. She gets out and opens your door. She reaches down to lift your swollen leg and dangle it outside the door and at the same time you move your other leg into the left footwell. You begin to heave your stomach to the left, bit by bit. Your left foot dangles, and you know that it's a few inches above the sidewalk, and that once you have enough weight over there it will be pushed down onto the floor and you'll be able to pull yourself out.

You continue shifting yourself, and suddenly you're not doing anything anymore but you're still moving. Your centre of mass, in an unfamiliar place given your stuffing, is over the tipping point and you start to fall. Your foot has still not touched the ground, and you're able to see that she's parked a little further away from the sidewalk than she would normally.

And then you touch down, and try to stop yourself, but it's too late. There is no way you can stop yourself moving; you can barely support your weight when you're standing still. You slip from the car and for a moment you are suspended in the air, but then you come crashing down, your fat splashing against the concrete and your left leg hitting the corner of the sidewalk with a sickening crunch. She was unlocking the front door but now she runs back to you, placing her hand on your face, then your stomach, then your leg. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, and for the first time you can see panic in her eyes, for the first time she does not know what do to do.

She grabs you by the wrists and tries to lift you but you both know it's useless. You reach for the car door and begin to pull yourself up with her help. You get to your feet and try to put weight on your left leg, and cry out in pain. Something is deeply wrong in there. She takes your arm and puts it over her shoulder and begins to walk you back to the house. Your right leg is fine, but your left is out; and every other step your entire body weight is routed through her; she yelps in agony, but stays standing.

She brings you to bed and lays you down. The shock has worn off and the pain has begun. You know the damage is bad.

"Do we need to call the hospital?" you ask.

"No," she says, quickly and assertively, and it comforts you - but you know it's just habit. You know that she is panicking and doesn't know what to do. And you also know that once she's made a decision, you can never protest it. It is final.

So you know that you will never be fixed.

Now a wave of dread passes over you. You suddenly realise that this was your last date night. This was your last time getting into bed. You are fat, morbidly obese, and have been pushing your limits for far too long and now they've finally caught up.

And you've never had a real conversation with her, really. Just a series of indisputable instructions. So now you're trapped in a broken body with a complete stranger - one who wants nothing more than to make you fatter. And there's no escape.