Reek

465 lbs looks good on me, but 665 will look better.

no responsibilities.

no routine.

no fixed times.

no duties.

just filled to the brim with good food, endorphins beaming from your little piggy brain and dopamine rewarding you for engorging and gobbling on anything edible within a radius of 2 meters from you... wondering what's for dinner.

you wake up at improbable hours, and then you eat, you hit up the pc and devote your hours to videogames, streamings, and food until you go to bed.

i don't even have to encourage you by now...

you're digging your own grave a bite after another.

you know, i see the posts you publish on your kinky socials.

you almost always say that it's me filling that ball of lard you have as a gut...

...but in reality, if I make you stuff once a week it's a lot. After all, I work full time and I'm often too tired to do much but cook for you a filling meal and then going to bed listening to some ASMR to fall asleep...

but you... you love to appoint the entire guilt on me.

you love to tell everyone that it's me rendering you so obese that you can't even walk anymore.

you love to make everyone think "boo hoo poor feedee, her wife is fattening her up!"...

...while in reality you panic if you don't eat for even an hour.

the other day you literally had a meltdown because we didn't have anymore cookies.

and two days before that, you begged me to find another job just so that you could order mcdonalds more often.

(i'm searching for it, of course...)

i'm watching your puffy body sink in the mattress and i can hardly recognize each body part as a human one...

you're deforming your meat vessel by adding so much lard it's becoming unrecognizable.

you're digging your own grave a bite after another...

i'll sleep all night, like always...

...and instead you, like every night, will wake up around 5 am and eat whatever you can fit in your mouth without having to cook it.

oh, my dear hog...

you are so lost in the folds of your own obesity...

Get addicted, you probably are already anyways. Train your algorithms to show you lewd and nsfw content everywhere, no matter which app you open. Sink away in smut, proudly telling people you read a lot. Surround yourself with triggers and temptation, making it impossible to resist. Watch yourself slide down that slippery slope of gluttony from your first-row seat. Addiction feels good, and it's so hot to lose control. It's what you want.

Think about that. You don't have the will power to stop yourself from becoming too fat to care for yourself. You are closer to those horror stories you see on TV, or read online, than you realize. "They were too big to leave their home. Stuck in bed all day long."

It doesn't feel so sinister at the start. Being 200, 300, even 400lbs. Sure, you have food brought to you. Chores are being handled. Bills are paid. The occasional day happens where you feel like a bottomless pit. Eating close to 10,000 calories during an all day binge, on a whim.

Those are not the habits of someone who envisions being able to walk in a few years. In fact, that's a type of day that might even exceed what many folks who are bedbound typically do.

But it's innocent, because you aren't bedbound, right? It's a fun game. How far do you let this go before you come to grip with reality.

Too food motivated to turn down anything brought to you. A meal that starts feeling laborious doesn't matter. You are hooked on the sensation of eating. Conditioned to finish everything in front of you.

You don't bother thinking about how much activity was taken from you by being enabled. Steps dropping from the thousands into the hundreds. You can't remember the last time you consciously stood for any period of time. You're only upright when taking those precious few steps.

Changes, accommodations, they are in the name of comfort. There's no worry. You have food. Your partner kisses you. You feel safe.

You go from bathing standing up, to sitting in a shower chair, to needing extra hands to keep yourself from tiring. It feels like a relief when the offer comes to wash you down in bed. Instead of getting out of bed, shuffling to the shower, shuffling back to bed, and being repositioned again (each action bringing you to exhaustion), you can basically lay still. Bond with your partner.

Sleeping evolves in its own way. You need to be elevated. A CPAP is prescribed. Food comas during the day make you restless at night. You lazily tap your partner in those odd hours. You're awake. You need food to doze off again. Never mind that your bed was upgraded to a automatic, reclining bed. A warning sign of being so weak is brushed over.

Your final moments of independence slip away just as easily. At some point, you're pushed into a routine to keep yourself from developing bed sores. Every few hours, you need to be told to turn. You need help. Your legs are too heavy to move on their own. Your waist is too wide for you to build momentum to turn. Your chest keeps you pinned against your pillows. You need help turning, rolling in bed.