Chapter 1

I can’t get up. I stopped being able to stand on my own shockingly soon after Ari and I got together, and even shifting or rolling around in bed has me miserably out of breath. There’s a show on the TV and Ari is cooking dinner, something that smells so good that drool is dampening the corners of my lips.

But I just drank a bunch of soda and I know I’m going to piss soon and I don’t want my diaper to leak onto the sofa cushions. Yet I can’t stand, my belly in the way, each massive roll of fat pinning me down. It spreads out like a sea of adipose around and in front of me, so I can grasp and jiggle the closest handfuls, but rocking back and forth or trying to move has me remembering how helpless I am beneath my own amazing weight. After drinking my way through two pints of Coke and eating my way through a full box of Little Debbie’s pastries, I’m gassy and bloated beneath feet of pillowy fat, and I feel heavier than ever. It’s sexy, but inconvenient.

I just have to stand so that when I pee, none will leak onto the couch. Then if I’m already on my feet I can hobble to the wheelchair and wait for Ari to be done in the kitchen to tell him I need to be changed. But I haven’t gotten up by myself in months, and seeing as how my belly touches the floor when I lean forward, it isn’t going to be easy. My sides completely obstruct my ability to put my hands on the couch to push, so I just have to settle with tilting back and forth in order to gain momentum.

Back, forward, back, forward, stomach sloshing, now -

I don’t even get a centimeter off the cushion before my back slams into the backrest and my belly bounces dramatically as I wheeze. The pressure released a few uncontrollable farts, which I would be embarrassed about if I was in public, but I can’t really go outside anymore, anyways. Giving myself five more minutes to catch my breath, I make sure my feet are situated firmly on the ground before I rock again, shoving myself forward with as much strength as I can muster. This time, my heart jumps into my throat as I get about an inch into the air. My legs shake violently in protest, stomach surging towards the ground, and I come slamming back down. The sofa creaks loudly beneath me, sagging significantly. I’m breathing heavily and open-mouthed when I realize it’s too late - I’m pissing, with no control as usual, as it comes flooding out with little warning. Panting, I have no choice but to give up and wait for myself to finish.

Shit, I can feel it leaking stickily onto my buried inner thighs, which means there’s definitely some on the couch. I’m done, but uncomfortably wet down there, and completely ashamed. Firstly, I can’t even control my own bladder, and now, I can’t even stand to prevent a mess that Ari will have to clean? He already does everything for me, dressing me, wiping me, washing me, feeding me, moving me. All I do is work online, watch TV, play video games, and eat. It’s all I can do. Maybe if he pushes the wheelchair close and hands me the supplies I can clean the couch myself. It’s the least I could do. I don’t even want to tell him I’ve lost yet another shred of my dignity.

Yet here he is, sticking his head in the doorway and opening his mouth. But when he sees me red-faced and breathless, he frowns.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I pant immediately, rubbing the top shelf of my belly without meaning to. It’s soft and pliable and comforting. “I…peed.”

He smiles. “Okay! The lasagna is gonna be in the oven in a minute then I’ll help.”

“I think it…” I clear my throat, embarrassment sticking in it. “It leaked some.”

“Oh! Okay. That’s fine, when I get you in the chair I’ll clean it up.”

I don’t say anything. He’s being so calm and nonchalant about something that would disgust and disappoint many. You’d think he’d get tired of me, being my caregiver 24/7 and dealing with all manner of hygiene failures, but he never complains, and he never blames me.

He furrows his brow and steps into the room, fiddling with his hands. “Um. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

I feel like I need to tell him or I’m being rude, since he finds it hard to see when someone’s upset and gets confused. I don’t want him to be scared that it’s him I’m angry at. But he’ll be hurt if I talk bad about myself, too.

“I can’t stand up,” I confess. “I can’t use the restroom. You have to clean up all my messes, just because I’ve eaten myself to the point where I can’t do anything that every other person does. I’m gross, and it’s fucking embarrassing.”

His eyes widen. “Lion! You know it’s not like that. I do it because I want to, and I love you.” He rushes over and grabs my hands, ignoring how they’re sweaty from the exertion of attempting to stand. “And I love taking care of you. It makes me feel good. I don’t find you gross at all.”

I know Ari doesn’t lie, and he wouldn’t stick around if he didn’t want to, but there’s still that doubt and shame weedling away at me.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this,” I tell him.

Still holding one of my hands in his smooth, dry one, he starts to massage circles in my stomach. “I don’t put up with anything, Lion. We both chose this, and I’m so happy with you. Are you happy?”

Of course. I love being fat and practically immobile, I love my house and my job and everything I have, but most of all, I love him. This is my dream life.

“Yeah,” I say. “Really happy.”

His smile is worth a million watts. “Then there isn’t a problem at all! Don’t worry, Li, I’ve always got you, and I know you’ve always got me, because you love me, too. Can we hug?”

I nod, because once again his unfiltered affection has me speechless, and he drapes across my belly, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I let my arms rest on his back, knowing they’re hot and big and soft. His face squishes right into the space in between my moobs and he squeezes me. When he part, he gives me a quick kiss.

“Let’s get you in the chair,” he tells me. “Do you think you’ll feel good after a shower?”

“You don’t have to,” I say.

“You know I love showering you, silly.”

“Fine, fine…” I grunt. “It’s gonna be hard to get up.”

“Okay!” he chirps. He dashes to the other side of the room and rolls my enforced wheelchair over, the seat wide enough to harbor at least three average-sized people. He looks almost absurd pushing it, compared to its width and depth. “Don’t worry, we’ll take it slow.”

It’s easier when I’ve got two hands attached to a strong person to pull on me. After a few tries that leave me wheezing and weak, I finally lurch precariously onto my feet. I gasp for a moment as my stomach, stuffed into my large sweatpants, floods toward the ground, rippling against my knees, which in and of themselves are already buried in fat. The fat folds on my thighs, creating friction already, overlap so much it makes walking basically impossible, and waddling very arduous. My ankle fat touches the floor and my ass jiggles with each vague movement, and all of these things combined, bumbling and squishy and crowded, makes me feel fucking huge. In a massive T-shirt that doesn’t hide the many rolls squeezed into it and a skin-tight pair of sweats with an enormous bulge hanging in the front to indicate the girth of my stomach. I have to sit down, now, or I’ll keel over and they’ll have to call the firemen to roll me onto a stretcher - wouldn’t be the first time.

Ari reassures me soothingly as I waddle maybe three painful steps, the bloating in my stomach resulting in some farting I still can’t control, and I awkwardly direct my big, fumbling body the other way so that I can collapse into the wheelchair. Nothing provides more relief than sitting down, though my body still feels so aware of how hefty I am. Wheezing, trying to breathe as best I can, I shimmy myself onto the seat so I won’t slide off and heave each foot onto the foot rests. This takes a lot of effort, my muscles burning and my stomach sliding back and forth, bumping into my cankles.

“Have…to catch…my breath,” I pant, inhaling big gulps of air.

Ari pats my arm, giving me another kiss to the cheek before jogging into the kitchen to put the lasagna in the oven. The sensation of my wet crotch is terrible, especially seeping into so many folds of lard down there. Admittedly, a shower does sound nice, it’s just the act of getting there and back I find so difficult. Soon, I won’t be able to leave the bed. We’ve talked about it and prepared, and there are already days where I stay there, as it’s just easier to not move. But something about the struggle is so hot to both of us, and the fact that I’m so fat I can do virtually nothing for myself makes me almost whine, perking deep beneath my overhang.

Even the wet spots I’ve left on the couch make me horny, though I hate to admit it.

Ari comes back. “I’m gonna push you now, okay?”

I nod, wiping sweat off my brow.

I guess we’re both lucky that Ari is so strong. I can feel the effort it takes him to start lugging me down the hall, the wheels creaking and groaning beneath my weight. I feel sort of bad that he has to push hundreds and hundreds of pounds, but it’s also pretty nice being able to get down a hall at all, since I’m pretty much incapable of walking at this point.

The door to the bathroom is open when we get there, so he pushes me in first then flips the light on.

We had it renovated a few months ago. The walk-in shower is bigger and the entire glass door can be slid open. There’s a bar by the toilet, though I don’t use it anymore, and a bar across from the sink next to the shower, as well as one inside of the shower to help me get to my shower seat. Ari pushes me further in, then situations my chair so that I’m facing the bar beside the shower.

“First, let’s get you on your feet so I can take off your clothes and scrub between your legs,” says Ari. “Is that okay?”

I can breathe slightly better now. “Yeah.”

“I’ve got you, baby.” He slips a hand beneath my bingo wing and presses it to my fleshy chest. “Lean forward and grab the bar.”

I brace myself and tip forward as best I can, stomach folding and slipping down to touch the frigid linoleum as my fat fingers find the bar and wrap around it. My center of gravity immediately tilts toward the ground, past quivering mounds of fat. I can feel Ari’s other hand grasp my back as he counts,

“One…two…hup!”

Swi nging myself forward as hard as I can, I feel my weight crash onto my legs, and I’m standing on them. Huffing and puffing, I bow my head and lean considerably on the silver bar, sweat dripping into my mouth.

“Hurry,” I manage.

He rubs my back once consolingly then hooks his fingers in the back of my sweatpants. I feel him roll them down over the diaper, then he unrolls them off my bulging overhang, so my belly slaps down, cold and exposed. After he pulls them down to my feet, I shakily shift my weight from one to another so he can yank them off. Having all the folds of my mammoth legs out feels so exposing, and I know how big I look from behind. He helps me pull my shirt off, and my moobs spill down, quivering. Now, all my fat is flowing freely, lard piled onto lard, barely moveable at all. I audibly groan, and he traces a hand gently down my back before digging beneath my belly rolls to find the front of the diaper. He undoes it, pulls it away, then rolls it up and tosses it into the trash.

I’m starting to really feel gravity trying to yank me down as Ari, humming, puts hot soapy water on a rag and kneels behind me. I moan again as he slides it in between my fat creases, scrubbing me clean, delving deep beneath my stomach from behind. The adipose there is all delicate and easily stimulated, making my dick twitch wantingly deep inside of my folds, but my legs have started to shake violently and I’m not sure how much longer I can prop myself up.

“Hurry,” I wheeze. “Have to…sit down…”

He finishes up, tossing the rag in the sink. “Okay, baby, ease back.”

It’s less of an ease and more of my legs failing as I slam back down into the wheelchair. My stomach wobbles precariously, slapping against my lower legs and spilling over the armrests. My chest burns, breath coming out erratic and weak. Yet I’m also so turned on, so much so that I can’t help but grab handfuls of my own lard and jiggle them while I wheeze.

“Poor piggy.” Ari’s hand delves into my rolls, caressing and massaging fat, and each movement of adipose squishing against unending adipose makes me moan. “Do you need a snack after all that hard work?”

My stomach rumbles wantingly. “Please,” I pant.

He smiles, ruffling my hair and pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

While he goes to the kitchen, I sit and take deep breaths, feeling myself spilling out of my seat all over. I rub the shelf of my stomach that I can reach, sweaty and overheating and so fucking big. Ari quickly comes back, holding a package of chocolate cupcakes with cream in the middle. He sets them on my stomach, pats me, then steps into the walk-in shower to turn on the water. My chubby fingers fumble with the wrapper as I ravenously rip it open, feeling my tongue start to salivate with want and anticipation. The sweet taste, the swallowing, feeling the bloating in my stomach and knowing each never-ending bite is just going to make me swell more and more - I can’t stuff it in my mouth fast enough. It’s delicious and satisfying and gone too soon, my stomach burbling. The shower starts, emitting wafts of warm steam as it drums on the linoleum.

Ari throws the trash away, wiping the corners of my mouth with his thumbs, though I don’t ask him to. “It’s warming up. Do you think you can get there from here?”

Definitely not. I’m already pretty stuffed and it’s not even dinner, and forcing myself onto my feet is a work-out in and of itself. “I don’t think so…I’m sorry.”

He smiles sunnily. “It’s okay! I’ll push you next to it, then all you’ve got to do is stand and pivot.”

I frown. “But you’re gonna get wet, too.”

“I need to shower, anyways.” Then he starts to strip until he’s completely naked, folding his clothes and setting them on the toilet lid.

He goes around until he’s behind me and starts heaving the wheelchair into the glass stall. He grunts as the burdened wheels force their way over the metal threshold, and my entire body ripples. The condensation hangs in the air, hot water pattering loudly on the tiles. We’re close enough to the shower chair that once I’m standing I just have to turn once then sit back down onto it, but once again, I dread having to lug myself up. Ari reassures me as we grasp hands and I start to build up momentum. A few exhausting tries later, I’m standing on shaky legs, pain lancing up my legs and back as my belly floods down over my knees. The enormity of my legs doesn’t help at all, as they’re just shapeless stacks of fat at this point, even my calves brushing together and lard eclipsing my ankles. Groaning, I step to the side, then drop into the shower chair. Water immediately starts to pour on me, sliding down in between my folds and dripping off of my belly hang.

Ari runs his hands through my damp hair. “Good job, baby.”

He hums as he puts soap on his hands and starts to rub me down. He scrubs all of me, with gentle, careful finesse, slipping beneath even the heaviest, vastest rolls of my stomach, until my whole body feels slippery and sudsy, then he washes it off. Once we’re both clean, he turns the water off and dries me while I’m in the shower chair, putting off having to move my gigantic mass as much as possible. He grunts as he has to slide his arm elbow-deep between various rolls and folds to scrub me dry. He then runs to get me another snack to give me enough energy to get in the wheelchair then to roll into bed so he can dress me. Though at this point, it just makes me sluggish, and we both know that.

For a startling few seconds, while trying to shift to the wheelchair, I think I won’t be able to at all. But then I’m up, light-headed and breathless, slamming back into the wheelchair with relief and too out of breath to even speak as Ari throws on some pajamas he brought in then starts the laborious act of wheeling me into the bedroom. My eyelids are droopy, my arms and legs aching with all the exertion.

The room is dimly lit, the vast, plush bed awaiting me, and the air smelling of air freshener.

“Wait,” says Ari, “I want to get you weighed first, okay?”

“Dunno…how long…I can stand,” I confess.

“Only for a second, baby,” he promises, sliding our special, reinforced geriatric scale in front of the bed. “One…two…”

With tremendous effort, and a lot of help on Ari’s part, I swing to my feet once more. This time, they’re shaking so hard it’s making all my lard ripple. And this is when I realize I don’t know if I’ll be able to do even this very soon. Standing up with assistance is becoming borderline impossible. Only a few steps have me wheezing and at the risk of a very possible collapse. My belly simply takes up too much space, and hundreds of pounds of adipose weighing on my frame are immobilizing me more and more with each passing day. I’m not just fat, not just your average, everyday obese American - I’m incomprehensibly massive.

It’s everything I ever dreamed of.

I take a cautious step forward, then another bumbling one, though my expansive thighs are so squished together I can barely force both feet onto the scale beneath me. Luckily, it reads the number out loud, as Ari can’t stop supporting me to lean down to catch a glimpse of it beneath my stomach.

‘Eight hundred and three pounds,’ says the pleasant robotic voice.

The moan that escapes me is uncontrollable. I’m so fat, so heavy, I’ve never felt bigger in my life, and I’ve certainly never seen anybody even close to my size in real life. I’m three feet away from the bed, yet my stomach fat still spills onto the side. My breathing is nothing but a wheeze, and I need to sit down, now - even if this might be the last time I’m on my feet.

“You’re doing so good, Lionel,” Ari murmurs as he guides me three painful steps towards the bed and helps me sit. “You’ve gotten so big for me.”

He helps me lay down on my back, rubbing and jiggling my entire body with his hands as I take in big gulps of air. My belly touches the bed, even when I’m on my back. I’m so wide. Just - rolls, flaps, folds, everywhere. Ari has to push me onto my side since I can’t move on my own to put my diaper on, and by then, a deep, satisfied sleep is pulling me in. He kisses my forehead and pats my belly, and then I’m asleep.