Chapter 3 - 3. continuing past immobility

After that you stuck to that promise. Rick had to get creative but found ways to handle your last needs of a toilet. Once the crane arrived it seemed like work was getting in the way of your eating in bed all day and you cashed in an early retirement offer. Rick set up a round the clock set of cameras and sold monthly subscriptions to watching you eat, cum, and get fatter by the day. Rick set up a scale on the crane to weigh you while lifted. Seeing the readout show 997 pounds you squirmed in the confining tarp in satisfaction. After being returned to the bed you asked for Rick to melt all the ice cream in the freezer and to find a funnel. Half an hour later you were guzzling liquid calories doing your best to make three gallons fit. Your cock burst like a sieve after the second and by the time you'd gulped down the third you were packed to bursting. Rick pulled out the funnel and you weakly gargled through a mouthful you were unable to keep down, "Feeding yourself is overrated".


Being an active half ton gainer brought out hundreds of subscribers willing to pay to whatever you charged. With your house already paid off the tens of thousands you suddenly brought in could be poured directly into your food budget. Rick began purchasing literal cases of high calorie shakes and pouring it down your gullet like your life depended on it. The funnel was replaced with a pump and refrigerator for kegs of a mix blended with additional carbs and fattening goodies. The system pushed every limit in your digestive tract to turn as much into new soft fat as possible and it felt like you could feel yourself growing outward. It didn't take long for the crane scale to start reading 1,100 pounds as your fat ass crept closer to hanging off the edge of your bed. Huffing for air constantly through a distinctly piglike snout for a nose with the feeding tube in your mouth all day just the act of existing was enough to keep you regularly exhausted. Not helping things just glancing at the immobile pile of flab you've turned into in a mirror was enough to get off to and put you even further out of breath. Rick finally took the hint and set up an oxygen line. Sucking down pure oxygen it finally felt like you were breathing for the first time in months. After having the tube shut off so you could sleep one night Rick did another close up video, shoving his arm up to the elbow in a few of your larger fat folds and creases. Finally able to speak you tell the camera, "Regular air is overrated."


It had been months since you last stood up or rolled over under your own power, years since your last walk of more than ten feet. By now your legs were resigned to lard storage, so encumbered you doubted the massive fat folds surrounding your knees and calves would even bend if you tried. The steady lack of mobility was all too familiar when it started creeping through your arms, the upper portion was already a lost cause, giant quivering bulges of blubber Rick measured at 63" around any attempt to lift past the elbow was met with insurmountable resistance. However your forearms had the benefit of the exercise of eating, at least they had… as the gallons of weight gain shake rendered you a jiggling blob your forearms finally met their fate too, lard packed and looking as round as cookie dough tubes it became a struggle reaching even a few inches to scratch a newly formed stretchmark. Day by day your strength evaporated until one morning after weighing in at a ludicrous 1,322 pounds you tried to itch your nose and found neither arm able to rise at all. The realization you weren't far off from being able to move a finger at all was such a turn on even the saddlebags of loose fat hanging off the sides of your bed slapped and shook as you came deep in your blubber moaning through the relentless shake pumping you fatter still. Unable to speak you thought to yourself, "Arms are overrated" and resumed your "meal".


Without a job, or anything to do besides eat and flirt with fans on a livestream it wasn't long before your eight foot wide *** was utterly crushing the bed you lay on. Being lifted by the tarp didn't feel that different from when you were barely a half ton. However pushing into the territory of the fattest man in history brought the issue to a head when Rick lowered all 1,616 pounds of you down after a scrub and the bed responded with a loud series of cracks and crunches. The collapse lowered your monstrous belly and ass enough that the widest parts now brushed the carpet and tickled your widest parts. Barely able to even turn your head the sight of you beached and completely smothering the bed over ten feet ACROSS the gut set you off several times over the next hour, deep in a fupa that rivaled the size of another man's gut as you were lifted back off the remains. Unable to go long without a stream of calories to guzzle you insisted on drinking more shake while suspended by the crane. Addicted seeing the scale readout tick upwards along and realizing you were too fat for even a bed anymore setting you off. After Rick talked out a plan to replace the bed with a custom cushioned pad similar to a gym mat cut to the dimensions of the floor he pulled your tube out, you agreed, "Beds are overrated".


After the new arrangements arrived you had to admit it was nice spreading your more than three quarters of a ton out on a level surface. Your outermost rolls finally free to spread outward in every direction. You were propped up with a couple of pillows into a semi-seated position so the weight of your accomplishment wouldn't suffocate you. The days melted together as you passively swelled fatter. Enormous head still squashed between the rising dough-like thickness of your chest and shoulders. Unrecognizable as the man you used to be with your mouth and nose plugged up, eyes in a perpetual squint and features bloated and round like an orb, much improved you thought. As the title of world's fattest man became a guarantee it dawned on you how to keep it permanently. Rick set the flow to a lower setting and never shut it off again. Day or night, awake or asleep you were gulping gainer shake or having it forced down your throat. By the time the crane scale verified you a 2,007 pound man you were too fat to see it, the lawn bag sized rolls of mantits now engulfing your entire view while wrapped in the tarp that lifted you up for cleaning. It was at one of these times, feeling Rick's arms buried up the shoulder working at scrubbing one of the deeper creases of your belly, the hiss of oxygen and the gurgle of gulping your shakes your only sensory inputs while buried in your own fat that you realized, "Talking is overrated".


Since a traditional keyboard would've been impossible to use Rick got you a tablet to communicate with him and reply to the livestream chat from one hand. You brushed off any visits until a mechanical engineering student sent you the design for a "stimulating fluid pump" to grab hold of your long lost member in its fat tunnel and help extract anything that came out via a rather enjoyable suction. As a bonus he had added a micro camera into the chamber for a close up view of the action. You'd be able to get off at the push of a button. It was a stunning reminder of how fat you've become when it was installed. Feeling the pump's line as it was fed up through your crotch, striking gold finding your cock buried more than three feet in pure blubber. You flicked the pump on via an app and for the first time in almost five hundred pounds your eyes opened wide for a moment. The pump felt like a steady blowjob, your first in years. It didn't take long for your own gulps to match the rapid tempo. Time lost all meaning while you rode the waves of pleasure for weeks. The extra workout ratcheted your appetite upward so much you'd even bested the million calorie month record the following two months by increasing amounts without trying. When Rick caught your attention to say you'd caused the crane scale to max out at 2,500 pounds and the tarp was reaching its limits too you feebly typed out, "Bariatric cranes are overrated".