Annabelle

It turns you on what your doing to yourself doesn't it? Your desire to get huge is so obvious. The hungry lust filled look that comes over your face as you try to decide what greasy fattening take out to order for dinner each night. How you take off your shirt and undo your pants before you eat, knowing they will only make you uncomfortable. Meals don't stop when you are full, they end when you couldn't possibly fit another bite inside you.

Leaning back when you finish rubbing your swollen stomach muttering to yourself "God I'm such a pig" or "I gotta slow down". But deep down you just want to be a pig, who never slows down. Who ends up "too fat".

At first, it was all just fun and games. A quick stop for a burger on the way home couldn’t have hurt anyone. But then the months treats became weekly and then became a necessity. The numbers are starting to add up, and so is the weight.

Watching your clothes get tight wasn't a big deal at first I always had a larger size waiting for you anyway. But now, your tummy is filling your lap, spilling over and hanging heavy between your thighs. It’s starting to feel like a permanent change, isn't it? A soft, heavy reality that you can't just unbutton and walk away from.

When you first laid in bed for a full day, it was fine. I loved bringing you everything you needed, catering to every craving. But now, it’s getting harder and harder for you to leave the mattress at all. Your body is becoming a beautiful anchor, tethering you to the sheets, making the world outside the bedroom feel smaller and smaller.

Waddling the few steps from her kitchen to her living room, she throws herself onto her sofa, ignoring the crack and creak of the long-suffering frame beneath her, and settles back in to her favourite position: horizontal, on her back, her belly rising and falling softly, her view of her lower half a distant memory. Resting her slowly melting bowl of creamy, crumbly slop on her chest, her breasts falling either side of her, she sighs, reaching awkwardly down her side to wrestle the television remote from beneath her bloated rolls, ready for another evening doing what she does best: stuffing her face.

On the coffee table, pulled close for convenience, piles of her favourite snacks. Chocolate wrappers torn and discarded carelessly. Cans of her current favourite soft drinks, all drained dry. Greasy takeaway boxes scraped clean of their contents. She's eaten particularly well today, and she can feel it. Her stomach feels dense, gurgling almost constantly, digestion trying to match the pace of her consumption. Her face sticky, remnants of past food sitting in the corners of her mouth, her tongue darting between her lips occasionally to try and lick it off. 

“This will surely be my last snack tonight” she thinks to herself, knowing full well that she's lying to herself. She spoons mouthfuls of ice cream and biscuits into her mouth, dripping it down her chins as she reaches back into the bowl. She knows once she's finished this, she'll be struggling to get off the sofa once again, ready to rummage through her fridge, freezer, cupboards, for that “final snack” that will definitely fill her up. A routine well practiced, day after day, yet never mastered.