Picture You

Chapter 1

I used to fantasise about women like her. I never thought it would happen to me. But look at me now.

I saw myself on the computer screen.
Fat sagged from my arms, jiggling as I pulled against my restraints. My lard-encased legs were lewdly spread, trembling with lusty need. My enormous, overfed belly hung low between my thighs, almost concealing the fabric of my soaked panties from view.

I looked into the dark eye of the camera just as she positioned herself between my legs. Her massive, obese body filled the frame, blocking out the world — reducing everything to just me. And her.

The brush of her belly against mine was enough to make my clit throb. I whimpered as she caressed my round cheek and pushed my sweat-damp hair back from my face, almost tenderly.

“Mmm,” she purred. “You ate so well for me, my piggy girl.”

She stroked the curve of my overstuffed belly with one hand, then slowly slid her finger into the deep cavern of my navel.
I groaned helplessly, the pressure in my gut almost as unbearable as the lusty heat between my thighs.

“God, I can only imagine where all those calories are going to go…”

She gave my belly a teasing slap, delighting in the ripple of my flesh, then pinched my plush love handles.

Her lips met mine and then her hand slid lower, cupping my plump fupa. I heard a low, breathy laugh in her throat as she felt just how wet she had made me through my underwear.

Well, my not-so-gentle reader, you're probably wondering how I ended up like this…

It was January of my 30th year, and if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I’m a total cliché.

I’d bought a new scale on January 1st but allowed myself another week of holiday binging before stepping on it.

That morning, I finally did it.

294 pounds.

The number genuinely scared me. For the first time in my life, I saw a weight on the scale that was closer to three hundred than to two hundred. Much closer.

I went to the gym after work for the first time in months.

It was a powerfully humbling experience — wearing workout clothes that had fit maybe forty pounds ago, back when I’d last had the motivation to do something about my weight.

My XXL leggings stretched tight over my cellulite-dimpled thighs, making them look like sausages about to burst from their casings. My belly jostled and swayed, jiggling free of my waistband as I waddled my fat ass on the treadmill.

My sports bra cut into my blubbery rolls, sweat pooling beneath my heavy breasts after the slightest exertion.

My chubby cheeks flushed red with effort. And with shame.
Shame at remembering how easy this had once been, 150 pounds ago.
Shame at knowing this obese body was the consequence of my greedy desires.

The other thing you should know about me is how predictably I slip into old, self-destructive patterns of behaviour.

When I arrived home, I fumbled with the light switch in the dark hall and stubbed my toe on one of the cardboard boxes piled by the door.

“Damn it,” I muttered, kicking the offending box. It budged only an inch.

No matter how many times it happened, I never got used to this new — albeit temporary — reality.

Ten years of shared life stacked in boxes.
How could so much be reduced to so little?

I opened the fridge and looked at a package of salmon — already out of date — and a drawer full of salad leaves, browning and curling at the edges. Soon they’d melt into an indistinct brown sludge.

I glanced at the turmeric shots I’d bought on a whim — promising Wellbeing! Immunity! Energy! — but tasting like a mouthful of dirt, and only succeeding at staining my tongue yellow.

My phone screen lit up with a message from my friend Jules just as I closed the refrigerator door:

Hey Liv - sorry to pull out at the last minute Catholic style. Something came up with Nat so I'm not going to make the life drawing class tonight. So sorry! Let me know if you see boobs!

Classic Jules. I couldn't help but wonder what she had done now.

I’d been seeing a therapist since the breakup. It was Rachel’s idea, not mine. But I agreed, because I wanted her to think I was being proactive for once.

The therapist was the kind of person who had those “Your Comfort Zone — Where The Magic Happens” Venn diagrams in her waiting room. But, as much as I hated to admit it, it was helping.

She had challenged me to do one thing that scared me every day to get out of the rut I called life.

Today’s Thing was supposed to be a life drawing class with Jules.
It was meant to be an opportunity for me to reconnect with my creativity.
And an opportunity for Jules to reconnect with her desire to leer at naked people for an hour.
So a win-win, really. Or so I thought.

Already my mind was rationalising not going to the class. I mean, I’d already been to the gym and — if we’re talking about scary — my heart rate on the treadmill had probably more closely resembled someone fleeing a killer grizzly bear than someone walking on a gentle incline.

The last thing you should know about me is how completely in denial I am about everything.

Yes, it's true what they say. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. It's also a thirty year old woman going through a separation completely blowing off her plans for the evening to binge on an obscene amount of fast food and fat porn.

I watched the bike avatar on the delivery app make its slow way across the city for a moment before I started scrolling on my phone.

The first image was a naked fat girl staring at the camera. Her boobs sagged onto rolls of fat, layer upon layer of undulating blubber. She grabbed her giant apron belly with both hands, her chubby fingers sinking delightfully into her soft, yielding fat. I clicked on the comments - they ranged from admiration to gentle teasing to downright demeaning.

I scrolled on and saw a superchub. Not usually my thing but he had a gorgeous pear shape and tits bigger than most girls I knew. I could be into that.

The next image was an obese woman on all fours, her beautiful belly split into a multitude of soft flabby rolls as it hung heavily beneath her. She wiggled her huge hips and ass enticingly, sending ripples of flab through her enormous body.

I had sworn to myself that I was going to stop looking at this stuff and yet there I was mindlessly scrolling again. Fit girls getting fat. Fat girls getting fatter. I could never look away.

Just as I was about to slide my hand lower, a notification popped up on my screen: AubreyAbundance: January 2025 Weigh In.

I clicked on it eagerly - like I always did. I guess you could say I was a big fan. She was exactly my type. Dark, glossy hair. Deep brown eyes. Full, sensual lips. Oh, and did I mention? She was fat. Really fucking fat.

The video began without ceremony, the way they always did. No music, no cuts — just a camera propped somewhere in a bedroom half out of frame.

And then Aubrey filled it. I could hear her breathing heavily just from the effort of maneuvering her massive body into shot.

She was wearing a cute pastel bra and panty set made obscene by its sheer size. The bra straps cut into her plush shoulders, the lace lost in the folds of her hips.

"Hey," she said. "It's time for another weigh in. And I'm excited to see the results because I've been eating like such a pig."

She held out her arms, their flabby flesh drooping heavily and then slowly turned, letting me feast my eyes on her massively fattened body. To me she was just perfection, every part of her body breathtaking in its excess.

"Do I look fatter?" She asked, her dark eyes glimmering, teasing. "Because I feel fatter and it's turning me on so much."

She stepped on the scale and there was the sound of plastic and metal crunching and creaking under her weight.

She smiled, nervous and thrilled at once. "This thing is supposed to hold up to 700 lbs," she said. "But it doesn't sound like it can hold much more than me."

The number flashed, and Aubrey’s smile widened. 532 lbs.

She jiggled her enormous belly, sending ripples through her blubbery body. "Mmm, I told you I've been eating well. And 2025 is going to be another year of piling on the pounds."

As she shifted forward to turn off the camera, I caught a glimpse of her pomegranate tattoo, the ripe fruit spread across her thick thigh. I thought of when I first saw her, back when she was a mere 200 lbs. Tiny really, compared to what was to come. The tattoo had been small, neat and contained. Now it had been stretched, pulled apart, scattered into something swollen and lush. The seeds looked like they were spilling, tumbling out across her flesh.

As I stared at it I wondered if her feelings were as complicated as mine. If she was a fat Persephone, forever doomed to return to the Underworld. Or if she truly was the way she seemed in her videos. Was she really so gleeful in her abundance. So unashamed of her excess.

I looked down at my stretch-mark-riddled belly spilling out of my unbuttoned trousers. Every horny overindulgence was written there, painted in red, accusing lines across my skin.

Panic seized my throat. This was never supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to be the one who got fat.

I thought of my younger self — smug in my early twenties, convinced I could flirt with this fantasy and my body would never pay the price. That I could want it without becoming it.

But here I was. Fat. Soft. Weak.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

The door buzzer jolted me. I scrambled to stuff my belly back into my trousers. I couldn't even be bothered to pretend that there was anyone else in my dark and silent flat. Besides, sometimes the thought that the delivery driver knew it was all for me was part of the thrill.

I had always been obsessed with food, even in my restrictive years. Rachel would make fun of me for reading restaurant menus weeks in advance or spending hours looking up places to eat before holidays. She thought it was just some cute quirk, something we could laugh about - a girl like her had no way of knowing it was all part of my brain's fucked up wiring. A girl like her could never understand that for me it wasn't funny at all.

I thought of that old me, the one who still had self-control, the one who still had her life together as I tore into the grease soaked paper bag. That old me would have spent an hour deliberating over which burger to order - but that me was long gone. Two burgers. Two sets of fries. And of course the two drinks - as if anyone would believe it wasn't all for me.

I felt a twinge of arousal as my swollen belly nudged the edge of the kitchen counter when I took the first bite. Grease and sauce dripped down my wrist. Fries followed, salty and hot, shoveled in desperate fistfuls and washed down with a thick and creamy milkshake. Every mouthful felt like it was swelling me softer, heavier, rounder. I knew what it was doing to me but the thought only made me hungry for more.

Despite my efforts to resist, I had managed to pile on over a hundred pounds in the ten years Rachel and I had been together. But in the months since we broke up - when secrecy and restraint felt pointless - that's when I really blew up. What was once a slow drip, easy to ignore, now felt like a flood. And I was helpless.

I wondered with a mix of fascination and horror just how much bigger I could get if I continued like this. I reached for the second burger. It was intoxicating. Eating until my fat gut swelled over my trousers. Stuffing myself until it hurt. Gorging myself until I was a panting, swollen mess.

I had done it again. I had eaten too much. I stood there moaning as my bloated belly bulged out between my unbuttoned trousers. I was unable to stop myself from caressing every inch of my swollen blubber, kneading all my heavy fat.