Sixty seconds until your last breath runs out

Chapter 1 - sixty seconds until your last breath runs out

You have sixty seconds left to live.

You didn't think it would end this abruptly. It is terrifying and irritating in equal measure - you know there is so much further you could go.

You're lying in bed. Your feeder has strapped a funnel and tube to your mouth, as she does at this time every day. She's begun to pour the liquid - hot, fatty, tasteless liquid; pure calories; being poured directly into your fat cell - down the funnel. You are very familiar with this process, and with the amount that she pours. You know it will take her sixty seconds to finish pouring, and you know she won't let you stop until you've finished it all. She won't even let you stop for air.

You've been growing a little more breathless every day. At first it was motion. Walking around would leave you out of breath. Then getting out of bed would leave you gasping for air, desperate to get back in. Once that was no longer feasbile, just shuffling around on the bed had you gasping for air within seconds. And now, it's every miniscule effort that feels like a marathon. Talking is brutally slow as you're left to suck in air between each word. Your feeder was patient with it at first but she soon took over, making sure you very rarely had to speak at all, and your muscles continued to wither. Now, with fat surrounding every single part of your body, and motion of any kind pretty much out of the question, it's basic survival that leaves your lungs hurting as you gasp for air, whistling it down your fat-ridden windpipe. You can never quite catch a full breath because the sheer effort of doing so is enough to exhaust you once more. It's a vicious cycle that you can never fix. Just a problem that will continue to grow worse and worse and worse.

So when she strapped today's funnel to your mouth, and you knew that despite your constant hypoxia you'd be forced to hold your breath and only be able to suck down the fatty sludge until she told you you were done, you panicked. You gasped for air, a final filling of your lungs, however unsatisfying it would be - and you sucked in the first part of the sludge.

You began to choke. Your whole body wracked with the effort of it, but you parely moved, your vast swathes of fat tethering you down. You struggled and screamed but she didn't even noticed, everything muffled by your corpulent body. You try to wave at her, get her attention, but even your arms are held tightly to your sides by the stickiness of sweaty skin that's been touching for far too long and years of lost strength unable to overcome it. You often struggle against her feedings. She has no reason to assume that this one is any different.

There was nothing to do but wait. Your attention begins to wander as you wait for the pain to set in.

There are only thirty seconds left.

A great metal frame towers over you - it used to be a winch that would lift you up. At first, you'd use it as support to get you to your feet so you could shuffle to the bathroom. Later, when you'd long given up on such dignities and resigned yourself to permanent immobility, she'd use it to clean up your mess instead, and have access to your back for cleaning.

The winch broke one day. The sheets of heavy fabric that it lifted - which had been passed underneath you, and that you'd been lying on for years - had ripped. Without them, there was no possible way for you to be raised high enough to remove the old ones, so they had simply been left there, along with the winch. Without being able to be cleaned, things had quickly gotten much worse. Your back and legs constantly ache, are constantly in agony. You are sure your skin has torn and is weeping in several places but have no way to find out. You are certain that there is no way to separate yourself from your mattress, and sometimes, there is this awful waft of something rancid, something that smells of sweat and mould and cheese. You don't want to know what's between yourself and the mattress.

There are only twenty seconds left.

Your lungs are starting to be in pain. They contract as best they can and try to suck in air but there is nothing they can do except drown you. Everything inside of your body is on fire.

You remember when she'd brought you here for the first time. She led you, struggling to walk and shaking with every step, to bed, having told you for months that you'd have to put off immobility until you could bear to stand no longer. You remember that day clearly - it was the last time you saw anything but the inside of this room, and there has not been much to remember since then.

She took control of your food addiction for her own pleasure. She never really entertained the concept of your consent - she simply knew how to get you to do what she wanted. What she wanted was for you to eat, and that you did. She raised you like a lamb for slaughter. The slaughter was happening right now.

There are only ten seconds left.

You can feel the front of your head start to tingle. Your brain is starting to feel numb and it's hard to think. How much oxygen does the body need? What about when that body has been physically unable to catch a full breath for months because their lungs have been partially crushed by the fat pushing up from underneath?

Once, you wished for this. You wished to be stuck somewhere, alone with a feeder, someone who only wanted you to be bigger. And now you have exactly that, and it is horrifying. You are about to die. This chain of experience is about to end. And what have you made of it? You were born fat, you studied, you got a degree and a job, you met your feeder, you gave everything up to be fat for her. She made you her pig and you grew and grew and grew. Everything that you once were, everything that made you you, is long gone. Your only personality feature is fat. Your only defining trait is how much you eat. You have no friends and no family. She took away everyone you cared about so she could have you all to herself, so she could make you as fat as she wanted without consequence. You could have had your own life but she claimed it and played with it like a toy. And it's about to kill you.

Your entire brain has gone numb. Your vision is starting to fade. It's been so long since she started feeding you right? This was only supposed to take a minute.

You wish that, just once, you had been able to take a full lungful of air.
1 chapter, created StoryListingCard.php 4 years , updated 4 years
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GainAddict 4 years
Your stories are incredible! Keep up the good work! smiley
GrowingLoveH... 4 years
Wicked.