Mary’s Obese Curse

Chapter 1 - Mary’s obese day

My belly is already spread out before I even open my eyes. It's heavy, it overflows, it spills over both sides of my body. I wake up stuck, crushed against the mattress, unable to move without thinking. The mattress sinks under the mass of my body and keeps that shape, as if it has learned to give way. When I breathe, my belly moves first, making my rolls of fat vibrate. My triple chin prevents me from looking down, but I can feel that my enormous gut is still wedged against my huge breasts, both so massive that they rest on the mattress to the left and right of my body. With a sharp motion, I pull my sausage-like arms up to their level and grab them like two bags filled with water. Then I suddenly let go. "SPLAAAH." The two shells explode onto my belly with a slap that echoes through the room.

The bedroom is large, almost uselessly large. The ceiling is high, with white moldings drawing clean, elegant lines. The walls are light, almost immaculate, and the morning light pours in through the large windows. Everything here breathes space, comfort, a certain idea of bourgeois Parisian calm. On paper, it's a perfect bedroom. In reality, it's a dollhouse for me—or rather, for my body.

Sitting up is never a natural movement. I place my hands under the tenth roll and lift my belly like a rock that needs to be moved; I throw it forward, and it tips, dragging the rest of my body with it. There's always that moment when I'm bent over, compressed, when my breathing shortens because everything gathers in the same place: my fat face, my triple chin, my gigantic tits, and the life preserver that serves as my belly. As I move, the bed creaks—not violently, it's used to it, it's made for this. I finally sit on the edge, thighs glued together, thick, too wide to position properly. My feet search for the floor. When they find it, I stay still for a few seconds, giving my body time to stabilize. I look at my clothes—nothing to report, no sweat or crumbs from yesterday on my too-tight sleeveless XXXL T-shirt and my nine-month-pregnant-style shorts that fit me perfectly.

I stand up by pushing. My legs hold, but reluctantly, bearing all my weight, all my curves. Once upright, I don't walk right away. My body occupies the space of this room, its floor covered with old, light-colored parquet, perfectly maintained. It creaks slightly at first, then, under my weight, after I take my first step, it roars every time my hundreds of kilos hit the floor. The hallway opens in front of me—long, straight, framed by white walls and tall doors typical of Haussmann buildings. Everything is proportioned for slender bodies, for upright silhouettes, but when I leave the bedroom, the doorway always stops me. My hips are too wide to pass straight on, so I turn sideways, slowly, and move forward. The fat of my ass comes into contact with the doorframe; it rubs, it resists, but I push gently, centimeter by centimeter. I feel the skin folding, the mass slowly shifting, like material that's too big for the mold. I finally get through, out of breath, already tired, and enter the narrow hallway. Not objectively narrow, but for me it's a crack in a wall. My ass touches both walls at the same time with every step; my body brushes, bumps lightly, crushes the air between me and the surfaces. I feel the vibration against my flesh when I hit too hard. I have to move at an angle, calculating every motion. In the middle of the hallway I stop—not breathless, but all these little movements have gradually made two huge rolls of fat appear, sliding their weight over my fupa, covering the upper part of my cellulite-covered thighs. I grab my shorts and, with little hops, pull them up over my belly, making my tits bounce.

The living room opens up suddenly, like a breath of air. The ceiling is even higher here, the moldings more elaborate, the walls decorated with frames I've had to move—my enormous ass has already sent several of them flying. The large windows look out onto a calm, elegant street. The kind of living room you imagine in interior design magazines. And yet, even here, the space doesn't really belong to me. I do my best to navigate between the furniture of this 37-square-meter living room. I naturally head toward the massive, reinforced couch chosen to support me. I approach it slowly; my ass arrives first, wide and thick, and I have to step back a bit, adjust the angle, then sit down all at once, hoping the floor will hold (lol). Once seated, my belly rests heavily on my thighs, which disappear under my mountain of fat, leaving only my knees visible—barely. After a sigh, I look around this apartment of over 100 square meters. It's a dream for some; for me, it's something else. Nothing is ever really out of reach, or out of contact—neither the furniture nor the food. Wow, the food. That's why my open kitchen facing the living room is the best thing. That's where I eat most of the time—not because I cook, but because when I approach the dining table to set down a plate, my chest blocks me before I'm even properly in front of it. It touches the edge, prevents me from moving closer, so I'm too far away. So I set the plate closer and use my belly as a support and my gargantuan cleavage as a crumb catcher, a holder for my soda, or even a place where I put sauces.

I spend my days like this, inside, in front of screens—movies, series, or video games—eating what I order. The delivery drivers leave the bags in front of the door. I only open it once they're gone. I don't want to be seen.

My name is Mary. I am twenty-five years old. I am one meter seventy-three tall. I weigh about two hundred seventy-five kilos. And this body decides everything.