Look in the mirror. No, really, stop and take a long look. Really see that enormous belly hanging down in front of your crotch. The plump tits flowing out on top of that. The soft, pillowy upper arms crushing those wobbling rolls running down your sides. Turn, and see the bulging ass and cottage cheese thighs that make you waddle around everywhere. Let it sink in: you’re much, much fatter than most people will ever get, and you’re still the thinnest you’ll ever be.

You know something’s wrong. You know most people don’t put on weight like this. You know you don’t deserve the stares, the judgment, the whispered comments and stifled chuckling from the stick figures at the gym or the coffee shop. You eat like they do. You exercise like they do. And yet.

Fat hands becoming virtually useless, faces so puffy they're unrecognisable,, feet so bloated it's hardly apt to call them that... More like flippers than anything else, flippers on a fat, useless seal that helplessly grows more blubbery

Animalistic comparisons are such a blast,, cause, surely a normal human wouldn't be so fat, wouldn't GET so fat.... You're just something else...

Pig, hog, cow, elephant, whale… why does it seem like the only way to describe what you’ve done — are doing — to yourself is to compare you to an animal? Plenty of people get fat; they grow double chins and beer bellies and thunder thighs. Nothing unusual in that. Nothing that defies ordinary description.

But you’re different. What you’ve done is fundamentally transformative. You’ve let yourself get so fat that nobody who only knew you before your ballooning growth would be able to recognize the old you under those chipmunk cheeks and flabby jowls. Your frame is too laden with fat to walk upright; all you can do is wallow around wherever you last dumped yourself and let your pinched feet keep getting swallowed up by calf fat. With hands like a glove filled with pancake batter, you can’t even write or type or handle a tool even as simple as a fork without your fat getting in the way. You’re a different person than you were when you started gaining — if person can even still be used to describe you, when you’ve traded so much of your humanity for a half-ton of blubber and the tons of food needed to maintain it.

So we look to comparisons with animals you more closely appear to resemble to make sense of what’s happened to you. You lay around in decadent gluttony like your porcine cousin, eating and taking your ease. Your decadence turned to hoggish squalor once your size, and the obscene lard you’d accumulated, made the laying around compulsory. Then your indulgence took on a bovine quality as you started doing little other than graze constantly, your body filling out until your chest and belly and hips all swelled into a largely shapeless bulk, your fixation on chewing and swallowing dimming your senses. Finally, for sheer size, you reached a point where you could only be described as elephantine — too big, too bulky, too ungainly to ever make your way in a world built for humans. No choice but to retire from view, and keep consuming the massive amounts of food that got you this far.

Every time you’ve stepped through the door of my shop, there’s been more of you to try to cover. And every time, I’ve dutifully found a solution. I’ve measured your belly as it widens and droops, making sure the buttons of your shirt won’t strain when you sit and your girth shifts. I’ve made extra room in your pants for your burgeoning fatpad, then for the belly hanging too low for your waistband to handle any longer. I’ve widened your sleeves and pant legs to make room for the growing rolls of fat hanging off your arms and thighs, following your instruction to make sure they’re not too tight so your new weight isn’t obvious. I’ve let out your collars and waists and the seat of your pants more times than I can count, until there’s no give left and the pressure of your ever-increasing blubber is leaving the seams screaming. And I’ve hidden my excitement at seeing the new pounds pile on, handling your fresh lard as we figure out what your expanded dimension are.

Someone who likes gaining but promised themselves they'd only gain a few pounds, just to try it out, see how they like it. Turns out they love it even more than they anticipated.

But as fun as rapid gaining is, it's starting to scare them how quickly the weight is piling on when they hit 100lbs gained after just a year. They promise themselves to slow down a bit now, but they no longer seem to be able to control their hunger.

If anything their gain speeds up.

Itchy, red stretch marks cover their ever larger belly. And if they weren't already in enough trouble, their mobility is starting to take a nose dive.

At first they'd just get out of breath a bit easier and maybe they'd find their legs were a bit stiff after a day lots of walking. The distances that would happen at got shorter and shorter. Within a scarily short time going up just one flight of stairs left them panting. Then needing to take a break just half-way up.

Other things got more difficult too. Finding clothes that fit, replacing furniture that didn't stand a chance against their increasing weight. 'The couch was ten years old,' they tell themselves, 'the frame had to crack eventually.'

Embarrassingly even masturbating has gotten harder. Not only has their belly grown so much as to cover their thighs, no there's also a thick fat pad, that's buried the very parts they're trying to reach.

And worst of all? It turns them on more and more with every passing day.

Love’s not really love unless it scares you a little, right? That’s been my experience in relationships, anyway. And the same goes for hobbies too. I love food. And… I even love getting fatter. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t getting a little scary.

I’m probably being silly, though. There’s no reason to be scared just because you’re the fattest person in your friend group, right? Even if it’s by a lot? No reason to be worried that you’ve outgrown all your clothes, twice over now. In about a year. It’s really common to not be able to exercise like you used to, too — nothing to be worried about. Even when you can’t make it upstairs all in one go. Or to the fridge and back without breathing heavily. Everyone’s broken a chair or a couch sometime, right? Isn’t that a silly thing to be concerned about?

It’d be different if I were one of those really fat people — then I’d need to be worried. If I had such a big belly I couldn’t reach the bottom of it. But I still can, if I bend this way and reach… see? Even if there is more fat in the way than there used to be. Or if I needed something to help me carry my weight around. But I don’t; and I’ve only fallen and needed help getting up once or twice. When I look at those really overweight people now, though… they don’t seem to look that much bigger anymore for some reason.

But I’m sure my gains will level off before I get that size. Won’t they? What am I saying, of course they will. Even if I can’t get over how afraid I am they won’t stop.