pixie

You get the reminder when you're dressing up for a work call. You're sprawled out on your bed with a button up clinging onto your body and, somehow, keeping together. Your work trousers are in about the same predicament; the zipper wont budge up and the button keeps groaning. It's worse when you're fully sat up, so you try laying back a little to reduce the pressure.

You think you can't actually answer a call dressed like this, not with your clothes on their last seam and a milkshake in one hand. You can't actually do that.

But then the call comes through. It takes a few moments to gradually pull yourself up and the creaking sound from each button is concerning. You can't tell which one is more likely to give way, because all of them are under pressure. With all the excitement, your breathing hitches and suddenly, you answer the call with your camera on.

There's a moment of silence, mainly filled with the same sounds. Creaking. Stretching. You could've sworn you heard the lace of your bra snap a few times.

You haven't actually looked at yourself since you dressed up, but after seeing yourself on the screen, you're almost scared. This uniform fit you perfectly once. It was comfortable. There was no such thing as a gap between the buttons. Now, there's obnoxious puffs of flesh pushing in between the bits of fabric that are barely held together.

With the laptop placed between your legs, your co-worker has an unflattering view of your underbelly. The camera seems to cut off the top half of your face and all that's viewable is the way you're biting your lip at the sheer view of yourself.

"...Good evening."

You can't exactly read the tone, but you can imagine it. The disgust. The confusion. The hastily written email to HR about your 'unprofessionalism'. Whatever the case, it snaps you back to reality. You start shuffling around, struggling to lean forward in a way that doesn't put too much pressure on your attire.

"Who is this?"

The question confuses you at first, because obviously it's you. Your name is sitting neatly on the screen under the view of you. Obviously, it's you.

Then it hits you.

You've gained so much that you don't look like yourself. This isn't how people remember you anymore. You start wondering if you've actually gained that much, because 80 pounds surely isn't that much. You realise slowly the thought you just had isn't exactly normal. In the meantime, you manage to turn off your camera and lean back again with a few heavy breaths. You tell yourself it's the panic and not the fact that you've lost practically all your prior fitness in the past months.

You blurt out some haphazard apologises. Ultimately, you're exhausted and it shows in the breathes you take mid-speech. Meanwhile, despite the camera being turned off, you've got one hand over your exposed belly button as if it'll change something.

"You don't have to be. I had a feeling you'd gained weight. I just didn't expect it to be, y'know, identity changing."

A part of you wants to be offended. A comment like that it rightfully one to be defensive over. You mutter out something about it not being that bad. You don't expect the laugh that follows.

"If it isn't that bad, you wouldn't be hiding from me."

Thinking up a witty response isn't as easy as whining in defeat, so you give in. Maybe you've gained a lot of weight. Maybe you look different. You whine.

"If you needed new uniform, you should've just asked."

You huff and take a large sip of your milkshake. Doing so reminds you that you're playing a dangerous game right now. Your chest feels tight with the restriction and yet your belly feels a little too fat to fully understand the treacherous bet it's in right now.

"I've already forgotten what we've scheduled. Turn the camera back on."

You think no way. No chance. There's no way you're turning the camera back on just to get ridiculed and most likely recorded. You shuffle defiantly, a small gasp leaving when your buttons groan especially tighter. You run a hand over your shirt, the restriction obvious with how it lacks any creases. You certainly don't need an iron.

"You can't just stay silent. I'll say something otherwise."

That is quite cruel. Perhaps it's a joke, but realistically, you doubt it. You've shown no self respect and to be given some now would be pointless. Your breathing is slow but just as heavy in an attempt to keep your clothes held together. Each time you breath out, it's like your body pushes into each seam and the quiet cry from your clothes suddenly becomes a wail.

You make some comment about how it was an accident. You plead for this to stay between you two and make a false claim that you're on some kind of diet.

"Okay, sure. Just let me see you. I wanna talk about what's happened these past few months."

The statement itself is vague, but it's obviously referring to the insane amount of weight you've gained. You give it some thought, perhaps because you've already thrown all your pride out the window.

Anyone else would've just ended the call. Your co-worker, however, has stayed. They want to see more. You've been indulging for the past ten months and had no one to show off to. Realistically, you're starved of attention.

Begrudgingly, you lean forward again and that familiar, pained sound screeches from your clothes. You turn on your camera and flop back again. Then, you sip your milkshake. You don't know why. Perhaps you're trying to show off.

"Fuck, you're not hiding it, are you? I bet you're surrounded in takeout wrappers."

You shamefully glance to the corner of the room, the ultimate evidence of your hedonism. There's about a few tens of wrappers crumpled up from this week alone. You feel called out straight away, shuffling again and feeling the back of your shirt ride up over your hips.

You'd spent about five minutes managing to tuck it in. It kept getting stuck in a roll.

You humiliate yourself further and claim that no, your diet hasn't changed much. It's just the lack of exercise. You know it's a lie and feel ashamed of it. Naturally, the only comfort you get is from a bigger sip of the milkshake. A tearing sound follows.

You look down to see what's happened, but you can't quite see. You look at the camera, but your thighs are cut off. You reach lower to try and feel it. You can't while leaning back, so you push forward despite the complaint from your attire. Your hand just about making it to the handful of fat that's escaped.

Then, as if to make a point, the button from your trousers pops off too, leaving your belly to practically spill out. This isn't the first time you've burst out of your clothes for fun, but it's certainly the first time you've been watched.

"Fuck, you really have no decency."

You want to say you do. You try to make a point by pulling your shirt down. The last time you tried this on was a few months back when you'd gained maybe 10 or 20 pounds. You were able to sit the fabric under your belly then as a way to make it not roll up.

Now, however, half of your shirt it taken up by your tits. The other half craves to roll underneath them, and pulling on the fabric doesn’t do much. You try covering your belly with one hand, then try pulling at your shirt again. It's a future effort.

You get exhausted quickly. You get exhausted enough to almost forget you're on call with your co-worker. You give up. You lean back, a hand still attempting to wrestle your shirt before taking a sip at your milkshake.

Needless to say, you arrive back again. The two of you talk a bit more about this self-started cleaning business of yours. You're asked if it's going well, which it is. You're asked if you're enjoying it and respond that you like making people happy. There's a lighthearted joke that you're simple minded; you're pleased easily and persuaded by little things. You don't question it, you take the cash and seemingly more treats than before along with it.

You arrive again, praising the treats you were given last time and making small talk about how it's too much for someone like you. You're treated with a visceral tut, as if what you're saying is blasphemy, then reminded how sweet you are. You give in easily to attention. You take more treats. They remind you of the feeling.

You show up again to no one's surprised. There's insistence on dinner as you've stayed so long, although you've stayed about as long as you usually have. Regardless, it's free food, there's no reason to pass it up. The dish you're presented with is rich, overwhelmingly sized. Albeit hesitant, you don't like to disappoint. You leave full, satisfied and, yet again, with more treats.

You typically see one another twice a week. That turns into three times, then four. Something about pets and the bothersome task of cleaning fur. No problem. You're insisted to let yourself at the fridge whilst cleaning and, as you're alone, you give in. There's a selection of food, notably the treats you're familiar with being handed and therefore, you eat. You leave an obvious space in the fridge, apologise profusely for it, only to be met with encouragement. Apparently, you could eat all the food in the fridge and there would be no complaints.

Some part of you takes that as a challenge. There seems to be a routine with it. You come around, clean, raid the fridge in the process.

As time passes, your work gets sloppy. People in the neighbourhood are complaining that you're leaving areas unfinished, counters half cleaned and floors soaked in 'dish water' with how bad you've gotten. People stop asking you to come.

You talk to the only person that doesn't seem to have any complaints. You're comforted quickly. You're burnt out, probably. People are asking too much and giving you too little. Your standards are fine, apparently.

In actuality, you get worse. You arrive at houses and expect the same treatment you get outside of town. You're hungry, so you need to eat. Not only do you leave houses barely clean, but you leave fridges empty. There's a name for you in the local area by now and contrary to before, it isn't a good one.

There's people saying you've gotten fat. It's not like you haven't noticed either, but it's not as bad as everyone's claiming. You only look fat because you haven't bought new clothes yet and obviously, cleaning exhausts everyone. It's normal to be winded.

Now that you've heard it though, you think about it. You start noticing that your shirt does ride up quite often. You're more conscious of your weight now, overtly aware that your arms jiggle whilst scrubbing counters. Your belly, especially, gets in the way often.

You don't count how often you need to readjust your clothes to keep yourself covered, because you've stopped doing that a while ago. You're alone, so why would you? You've gotten tired of fixating on your appearance. After all, it doesn't matter. You still have a nice smile and a welcoming presence.

You're sat in the most familiar house besides your own, the one that calls you far out of town. You're greeted by the usual presence of a thank you for your hardwork, handed a treat before the offering of dinner again. It's become a routine and, really, you need it. There's little income outside of this one house you supposedly clean.

You arrive each day now. There's a joke about how exhausting it must be for you to take the bus there, only there's a truth behind it. That walk from your house to the bus station, alongside the 'cleaning' you do, is essentially all you're doing and it shows.

Yet, despite the odds, you're comforted. You earn enough from such a menial job and have a free meal with food to take home each day. There's not much to complain about, besides the obvious.

You hate to disappoint.

There's one day where you don't finish your meal. The consequence of such is small, but it sits. There's talk about how the meal wasn't up to its usual standard and despite your desperate attempts to reassure, it falls flat. You learn not to leave your plate unfinished. It's impolite to do so.

It gets to a point where you're struggling. You have a designated seat in the house, but it creaks under your weight and seems to press against your hips now. You try to ignore it, but it's difficult. You're getting slower as the weeks progress, taking longer to finish your job and eventually staying for hours on end. Not only do you have one meal insisted upon you, but several. The routine continues.

You get to a point where hardly anything fits. You're left with shirts that leave your belly out, fabric that curls up your hip and sinks into your back rolls. The only items left that cover your lower half is sweatpants and underwear that's left on it's last seams.

It should be a sign to stop, but you can hardly remember where you've gone wrong. You've not been overeating, besides where you 'have' to. You're not ready to admit you're at fault and so the routine progresses.

You come over, sit, make an effort to clean and waddle around the house with something in your hand.

The coffee table digs into your belly, so you lift it just to reach all the way over. The sound that echos back seems louder these days and on today in particular, you've knocked something over again. It falls under the table, you groan.

Slowly, you move to your knees, getting on all fours and feeling your belly rub against the floor as you crawl underneath. Your breathing picks up. You can feel the fabric on your underwear pinch even more with the compromising position you're in. Your hip nudges against the table's leg, the entire thing shaking with the reminder to be aware of your own size.

You search for whatever has dropped, eventually finding a small, square device. You can't make it out at first. You focus on shuffling yourself out from underneath the table, getting to your knees with much needed effort and setting the device on the table.

You leave it there. You don't think about it, not until you notice a similar one placed atop the soil of a decorative plant. It takes you a lot of thought, mainly because your initial one seems to remind you how unfit you are.

You realise, suddenly, that's a camera. You make an attempt to pull your shirt down at the realisation before turning it away. You're embarrassed at the thought of being watched. Perhaps they're not active, but you're not yet dumb enough to consider why else they'd be here.

You keep it in mind as you clean. Terrifyingly, there's cameras everywhere. You're probably being monitored. Even in bathroom, one of the floors you've scrubbed whilst practically naked, there's cameras.

You're understandably furious and the confrontation comes consequently. Despite your agreeable nature, you're adamant that you're uncomfortable. For the first time, you're greeted with reality.

You're told how you've fattened up over the months. It's barely been a year, you're unrecognisable. You're reminded of your goals you spoke about that time, contrasted to now. You're stagnant. You're given the truth about how compliant you've gotten, far more than before only, right now, you're spoiled. You're reminded of all the times you've given in, all the times you've been unable to help yourself and each time you thought you were alone when you actually weren't.

Apparently, there's enough footage to make a whole documentary about you. A cautionary tale. There's a joke, or less of one, about releasing it; letting everyone know how and why their neighbourhood cleaner grew into someone completely different.

Your boundaries are pushed again with hands moving on either side of your body, gripping onto handfuls of fat that you believed wasn't there before. You knew you'd gained weight, but as it's said loud and clear, shown to you under the force of mocking hands, you realise how bad it is.

As you try to move away, you're ridiculed for the effort. The attempt. You have to give in, so you do. You ease into it, only to be greeted with contemptuous words about how indolent and pampered you are.

Your shirt is lifted and there's simply no restraint. You only brace yourself for the next few minutes, potentially consecutive hours, of observation and criticisms.

Your belly is groped, then lifted. Heavy. Perhaps heavier. It's hard to tell with how much you've fattened up, but you're surely far heavier than most people would want you to be. It's a blessing you don't listen. Perhaps you couldn't, even if you wanted to.

Your waistband is toyed with, pulled out slowly before snapping back with a loud thwack. A ripple goes through your skin, enough for you to feel your body moving without you having to do anything. Your thoughts cloud, aware how obvious it is that you've truly outgrown yourself.

This fit at some point. You haven't worn it for a while. You must've been scared several pounds ago. What happened to that? Did you forget? Or did you just give up, fully and truly? Regardless of the matter, it's fine. Take them off. You need to be measured again.

There's a clinical vibe to it all. Gloves added, for purposes you can't exactly complain about. Rubbered palms shifting and moving your body like you're some kind of experiment. You're watched very closely and have been for an undisclosed amount of time.

The tape follows, cold and initially shocking as it reaches around you. There's a fold at your back, lifted slightly to get the tape around you in a correct way. There's no reason to feel nervous, or maybe you just feel excited. There's no clear distinction between those two emotions anymore.

To no one's shock, there's more of you. Objectively speaking. You don't just look fatter, but it's confirmed now, with numbers and a chart that shows just how far you've let yourself slip. Fingers sink into you deeper, the prior little jiggle you had feels more intense. It's prolonged. You don't remember when this happened, but it's written down.

You're huge.

Turn around.

There's a punishment, but it obviously doesn't work. You seem to like sitting on your knees, begging on all fours and whimpering like the sweet hungry thing you are. You're never sated, nor discouraged. As much as feeling your belly hit the floor on all fours is a surprise, it doesn't deter you. Neither do the outgrown clothes and certainly not the affectionate teasing.

You were never this big before, perhaps healthily chubby some time back. It didn't stop there. It couldn't. You'd grown an appetite to get where you were and there was truly no sating you, no matter how big the breakfasts, lunch or dinner was. Snacks called to you. I hardly told you no. I offered them to you innocently and now there's a non stop routine.

You're far bigger than you used to be. You grew into such a fat pet. You hold your belly often out of habit, look towards me with the kind of eyes that require attention. I don't tell you no. There's a habit. It rubbed off on you. Now, you're easily recognisable from sheer size. Not just in view. It isn't just your wide backside, the rolls that overlap your hips or the immense view from your side profile. It's the noise too. It's the heavy breathing, the weighted footsteps and the sound of furniture coming from the other room. It's easy to know where you are.

It creeps up quickly, possibly too much in the last year. You've really let yourself go and now you're sprawled in bed, laid on your back and trying to touch yourself. You reach, sure, but there's a position required and a spare hand needed to shift your belly out of the way. All you need is a bit of release. It wouldn't fully sate you, but nothing truly does these days. You only desire a taste.

Yet, all you can do is work yourself up. You're so accustomed to having everything given to you, but when you're left alone for a mere few hours? It hits. You're needy again. Your heat has come and all you can manage is a meek shuffle and a pathetic attempt to grind. It barely lasts five minutes. Two minutes, even, is generous.

You take breaks. Each time you try, you're more exhausted from the last. You roll onto your side, then the other; the sheer process exposing you to realise just how out of shape you are. You've grown into such a fat pet. It's not surprising. You were always so receptive. Eager. Willing.

After an exhausting few minutes, you give up. You're horny, undeniably so, but completely useless. You can't do anything about it. The only other activity that comes to your mind is eating. It's a source of comfort. Warmth. Attention. All these things you crave are the same things you'd typically find in a bar of chocolate or a packet of biscuits.

So, you eat through your heat. It starts slow, but then you find the energy to make your way to the fridge. You eat from there. The cupboards, next. You take what you can find, filling yourself up on everything. There's trips between the couch and kitchen, moments where you're cradling your belly on the floor. You find yourself grinding when you eat, lower belly rubbing against the couch or even the floor. It does something to you. There's a slight thrill.

Perhaps it's the jiggle that works it's way through your body, then way such a heavy build puts pressure on your already plump crotch. You've been fattened up beyond return. There's no way you're turning your life around now. Why would you? Even in moments of struggle, you're excited. Even when you can't get off, there's always food.