Chapter 1

The waddle was the first thing I noticed anymore, the heavy, rhythmic sway of my hips forcing my tree-trunk thighs to rub together with every step, a constant, hot friction that was my new normal. I was heading to the kitchen, a journey that now required planning, my breath already coming in short, sharp puffs. My stomach, this massive, hanging shelf of lard, swayed heavily with each movement, its sheer weight a constant, oppressive presence. It spilled over my thighs, a warm, doughy blanket that hid my feet from view unless I craned my neck, my chins folding so deeply I could feel the dampness between them.

I heard him before I saw him, his low whistle cutting through the sound of my labored breathing. Mark leaned against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips as his eyes traveled over the vast landscape of my body.

“Well, look at you,” he drawled, his voice a mix of disbelief and sheer, raw hunger. “Just a fucking planet of a woman, aren’t you, Tara? A greedy, gluttonous little planet.”

A hot flush spread across my cheeks, which were so fat they pushed my lips into a permanent, pouty circle. I tried to shrug, but the movement was lost in the rolls of fat that cascaded from my neck down my back, my arms perched uselessly on top of them. He wasn’t wrong. The evidence of my lack of control was written in stretch marks and bulging flesh across every inch of me.

He pushed off the doorframe and walked a slow circle around me, his gaze like a physical touch. “Jesus, your ass. It’s a fucking shelf. I bet I could set my drink down on it and it wouldn’t even spill.” His hand came down on one ample cheek with a sharp smack that sent a jiggle through my entire lower body, the sensation muffled by layers of fat but still there, a spark of heat. “And these hips… god, the way they just keep going. You’re fucking unbelievable.”

He stopped in front of me, his eyes dropping to the mammoth swell of my belly. “But this… this is your masterpiece, you ***.” His voice dropped, becoming intimate, degrading. “You can’t even see your own cunt, can you? Buried under all this.” He didn’t wait for an answer, his hands sliding over the curva of my gut, his fingers digging into the soft, yielding flesh. “All this greedy, beautiful lard. You’re a fucking pig, Tara. A beautiful, perfect pig.”

His words were a cocktail of shame and intense, throbbing arousal. I whimpered, the sound stifled by my own face. My pudgy hands, my sausage fingers, flexed uselessly at my sides. I couldn’t even touch myself anymore. I was utterly, completely reliant.

“That’s it, make that noise,” he growled, grabbing two handfuls of my lower belly, his knuckles pressing into the softness. “You need something, don’t you, you fat slut? You need me to help you get off because you’re too fucking huge to do it yourself.”

He guided me backward, my thick legs struggling to move, until the back of my knees hit the reinforced armchair we’d bought for this exact reason. I collapsed into it with a grunt, the cushion compressing under my tremendous weight, my shelf of an ass lifting me up so I was perched. He knelt before me, his hands immediately pushing my colossal thighs apart. It was an effort; they were heavy, thick with fat that gathered in deep rolls.

“Look at this,” he muttered, his face now level with my stomach. He pushed, his muscles straining, and my stomach yielded, folding upward to reveal the damp, hidden crease at the very top of my thighs. The air hit the sticky heat there, and I shuddered. “Fucking hell, you’ve got a whole hidden valley in here. A secret little garden for a filthy, fat cunt.”

He didn’t tease. He buried his face in the soft, hot fold, his tongue lashing a broad, wet stripe over the part of me I could no longer see or reach.

Oh god.

The sensation was electric, a direct line to my core that I hadn’t felt in months. My head fell back, my multiple chins squishing against my chest, a moan tearing from my throat. My arms, propped on my side rolls, trembled.

“You taste like sin,” his voice was muffled against my flesh, hot and wet. “You fucking disgusting whore. You were born for this, weren’t you? Born to be a massive, immobile fucktoy.” His tongue plunged deeper, finding my clit with an accuracy that felt like witchcraft. I bucked, or tried to, a seismic shift of fat that barely moved me. “Yes, you greedy bitch, squirm for me. Show me how much you need it.”

He alternated between lavish, open-mouthed kisses on my inner thighs, sucking the soft fat there, and returning to my clit with a focused, ruthless pressure. The verbal whiplash was dizzying.

“Such a talented little cock-socket,” he praised, his words vibrating against my soaked flesh. “So perfect and tight, buried under all this fucking blubber.” Then, his voice hardening, “Now cum for me, you ***. Cum all over my face like the desperate slut you are.”

The command, the crude praise, the utterly helpless way my body responded—it was too much. The orgasm ripped through me, a convulsive, overwhelming wave that made my entire massive frame shudder and shake. My vision whited out, my squeals were high and pathetic, lost in the folds of my neck.

I was still pulsating, gasping for air that my compressed lungs struggled to hold, when he rose above me. He unbuckled his pants, his cock springing out, hard and angry red. He shoved my stomach down, the sheer mass of it providing a soft, warm pillow for his thrusts.

“Look at me, you blimp,” he commanded, his voice rough.

I forced my eyes open, the lids heavy, my sight slightly blurred from the pressure of my cheeks.

He didn’t enter me slowly. He slammed into me, a brutal, claiming stroke that made me cry out. The stretch was exquisite, a full feeling I craved more than food. My cunt, untouched for so long, clung to him like a vise.

“Fuck!’’ he grunted, his hands gripping the fat on my hips, his fingers sinking in to the knuckles. “This… this is what you’re for. Look at you. You can’t even move. You just have to lie there and take it, you pathetic, beautiful cow.”

His pace was punishing, each thrust jiggling every single pound of me, from my shaking upper arms to the fat swallowing my ankles. The chair groaned in protest beneath us. The sounds were obscene: the slap of his skin against mine, the wet squelch of my cunt, our ragged breathing.

“You love this, don’t you?” he snarled, leaning over, his face inches from mine, his sweat dripping onto my chubby cheeks. “You love being so fucking fat you can’t do anything but be used.”

“Yes,” I moaned, the admission ripped from somewhere deep inside. “Yes, I love it.”

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m… I’m a fat slut,” I panted, the words fueling his rhythm.

“Louder.”

“I’m a fat, greedy pig!” I cried out as his thrusts became erratic, harder, deeper.

“My fat pig,” he corrected, his voice guttural. “Mine to feed. Mine to fuck. Mine to—”

His words cut off into a groan as he came, pulsing inside me, his body going rigid above mine. The heat of his release triggered a second, smaller orgasm for me, a series of fluttering, exhausted convulsions that left me utterly spent.

He stayed there for a moment, collapsed slightly, his weight a minor addition to my own. Then he pulled out, tucking himself away. He looked down at me, a panting, sweaty, immobilized mountain of a woman.

He grinned, wiping his mouth. “Don’t move, gorgeous. I’m going to get you a snack. You’ve earned it.”