Narrator (Neutral female voice?): You are hungry. A normal sensation for anyone, perhaps an annoyance,, maybe taken in stride. For you, an agonizing, dire emergency. Deep under your thick slabs of suffocating lard, your stomach contorts agonizingly, searing your innards with pain, screaming to be filled. Your strained heart spikes and as it pounds in your ears, you clench your jaw and briefly suck your teeth and groan. You then open your sinuses and sniff deeply from your oxygen cannula, mentally counting off the timings for box breathing and willing your overloaded organs to calm down. In seconds, your heart returns to its normal level of struggle, taking some of your anxiety with it. But only some. You flop a puffy hand onto the pale jello that is your chest, trying to minimize the movement of your heavy, pillow-like arms. You're not stupid. You know it's the opposite of healthy to merely exist at your obscene size, the various parts of your body best described with variations of the word "blob". But this week has been bad, even by your standards. Kelly, your brilliant and saintlike girlfriend, took a gamble on leaving you alone for a week while she attended a high-powered biomedical conference. You can't tell if she genuinely wants to restore some of your health, or is obsessed with blowing you up, but her knowledge, hard work, and medicines have been your irreplaceable lifeline. Regardless of her motivations, you're her secret project, and she entrusted your care this week to her best friend Nina. This was a mistake. Alone with you, Nina instantly proved to be deviously and dramatically cruel. She deigned to follow through on food orders: a few dozen pizzas, enough for an entire conference. But for you, only about half your weekly allowance. And unrefrigerated. You wheezily protested, begging Nina to at least dose out your medications, but she callously refused. And when you threatened to call Kelly to reveal her treachery, Nina snatched the phone from your wimpy hand and placed it on a windowsill, knowing that you wouldn't have a prayer of reaching the precious device even with your trusty grabber tool. Her sadistic laughter has been echoing in your mind ever since. Another twinge of hunger kicks you from your reverie, and you groaningly brandish your grabber, scooping under one of the last pizza boxes... Wait, fuck, it's the last one. You nearly lose your grip on the soggy box, knocking over piles of trash and old food, but you deftly recover and manage to haul the box close. With a dejected sigh, you flip the lid open, expecting the worst. This pizza is in shitty shape, of course, parts dessicated and parts soggy, but at least this one doesn't have any maggots. "Just" a few colorful patches of mold. Despite your frankly incredible record against food poisoning and tolerance for spoilage, you still opt to toss aside the dodgiest parts of the pizza, flicking them atop the smelly heaps on the floor. Even seasoned by maddening hunger, your meal is fucking gross; at best tasting like flavorless cardboard, and at worst evokong swamp-water moss with an undertone of sickly-sweet fermentation. In moments, you've choked down the thing that was once a pepperoni pizza and have grabbed your customized drinking tube, desperately clicking the buttons to find anything left in stock with calories or flavor. Modified from a bar-style drink nozzle, Kelly's brilliant quality of life appliance has been your cornucopia this week, bolstering your "meager" rations with kegs of soda or milk. Of course by now, on the day when your angelic girlfriend is supposed to return, you're really scraping the barrel, and sullenly settle for a stream of diet cola. You load your hugely oversized belly with a couple gallons of the cloying stuff, expertly breathing and belching while simultaneously gulping down the fizzy flow. Another wall-shaking belch, and you set the tube aside, your insatiable gut satisfied for now by sheer volume. Nina wasn't enough of a bitch to confiscate your TV remote, so you mash the power button and activate the screen. Still more anxious than bored, you scroll through titles and series for a long few minutes before landing on some trashy-looking isekai anime. You caught a glimpse of the time as the TV booted up, so you know that by now Kelly should be on her way back, no doubt worried sick that you've been radio-silent all week. Looking more to coast than watch, you heave an elephantine arm over to a case next to your bed, fishing for an oversized can. You grip your sausage fingers around a can and huck your torso to the side, more to articulate your near-useless, globular arm than to retrieve your prize. Clumsily rotating the awkward container, you smile in spite of your discomfort, studying the stylized sumo wrestler mascot stamped on the can. Months ago, Kelly commissioned a batch of staggeringly powerful THC sodas just for you, dubbing the concoction "Fatboy Extreme". The label is more warnings than branding, to the point where you're still amazed it was even legal to make. A normal can of this ichor would knock a hardened stoner into a coma; you slam this super-dank shit by the liter. Fidgeting for a moment with the tab, you crack open the huge can and start gulping greedily. The overwhelming earthy blast of skunky herbaciousness is downright refreshing compared to the disc of vile rot that was your lunch, and seconds later you belch yet again and cheekily toss the can against the wall. The impact topples another stack of stale containers and bags. You shrug to yourself, trying to focus on the degenerate weeb bullshit while a warm floaty feeling emanates from deep within. Your attention steadily slides from the horny fanservice on the screen to the sensations of your own leviathan body. Normally in a mood like this, you'd set yourself to fapping. Your belly and FUPA became insurmountable obstacles hundreds of pounds ago, but you lucked into figuring out an alternative technique of self-pleasure. Getting just the right ebb and flow of your oceanic belly, and clenching the scant muscle in your puddinglike legs just so, you could effectively jerk yourself off with the fat flesh imprisoning your cock. Kelly practically went feral with lust when you discovered this technique, and she regularly begs you to do it. "Jiggling yourself off" frequently replaces traditional coitus between the two of you, with your slim girlfriend splayed atop your colossal gut and furiously masturbating while you rhythmically wobble towards rapture. Of course it is impossibly exhausting for you even on a good day, and for the last year, your comedowns have been punctuated with extra oxygen and a fast-acting antihypertensive. And of course today is anything but a good day, and your heart races at the mere prospect of that much exertion. As your attention dreamily slips between the TV screen and your sensitized flesh, you silently mouth gratitude that the heat wave earlier in the week was short-lived. Though you've long since acclimated to your overpowering musk, being uncleansed for a week leaves you feeling... More than sticky - tacky - with congealed sweat, crumbs, and grime on seemingly every surface and in seemingly every fold. You hope that a certain gooey tingling under your backside isn't a sign that your waste pit has overflowed. Cringing even at the notion, you deliberately wobble the points of contact and conclude that the feeling is ordinary bed irritation. It's mercifully not even bed sores. Yet. Because of course you know what those feel like. The effort sets your heart thundering in your ears once again, drowning the outside world. Feeling almost annoyed, you dutifully take your deep measured breaths, thinking serene thoughts and trying to calm yourself. It works a little bit, but this time a new uncomfortable pressure builds under your deeply-cloaked sternum. You clench your stomach and loose a wet, painful, rattling belch, dislodging a fetid morsel of rotten pizza and a blast of feculent gas. Struggling not to vomit, you gag and send the spoiled bite back down your throat, but the pressure remains, building, even. Even with your brain drenched in THC, a singular thought screams through your subconscious and sears the forefront of your mind. "Heart attack. It's actually finally happening." The thunder in your ears and temples grows in intensity and starts pounding your whole body like a succession of cannon blasts. You don't feel much pain, but the pressure in your blood vessels is the worst it's ever been, to the point where you're amazed your veins haven't started popping. Your attempts at steady breathing quickly give way to desperate gasps, and in a flash of lucidity, you fumble with the controls to your oxygen cannula, cranking the flow as high as it would go. It was already nearly maxed. For a few moments, you're actually kinda serene about the horrifying experience, more annoyed at probably finally dying and sad at not getting to see precious Kelly one last time. The edges of your vision start to fuzz, and your hearing starts to drop out, and that's when your lizard brain claws into the driver's seat. (Male voice) No! Please, God! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! Please, PLEASE! LET ME KEEP BREATHING Woman's voice, barely audible: Hey baby! I'm finally hom- what's.... Oh God, OH GOD IN HEAVEN NO! YOUR VITALS! (Shrieked) NO!! [rummaging and crashing sounds, then footsteps and shuffling sounds] Baby! (Gentle cheek slapping) Baby, look at me, stay with me. Just keep breathing. I've got a nitroglycerin solution in this syringe, a patch wouldn't work fast enough. This is going to hurt but it will save you (it has to save you). (Sobbed) I love you so much, please don't die... [A sound of medicine being injected, frenzied heart rate and breathing slowly returning to normal, along with hearing] Hey, hey, shhhh.... You're going to be ok. You're ok now. No, just rest. Here... [More injections being delivered] Baby.... What happened? Your vitals were all kinds of fucked up, and this place is a wreck, and.... Why's your phone all the way over there? ... ...Nina did what? She did fucking WHAT?? I'm going to kill her. I'm going to fucking murder her! Kill her slowly and eat EVERY LAST ROTTEN FUCKING WHORE MOLECULE OF - ..... ..... (An unsteady sigh) She will pay for this. She will pay so fucking dearly for this. But first, you. Feeling better? Good... (Voice cracking) Good... The medicines will get you stable again, I'll get a dose of your biotherapy ready soon too. Narrator: Kelly finally pulls away a bit, kneeling almost piously atop your grotesquely corpulent gut. Her makeup is a mess, her eyes puffy and red, her businesswear smeared with grime from your filth-caked body. The light flooding from the hallway door backlights her like a halo, and you laboriously reach a flabby hand forward, desperate to hold her, to feel that she's real, to know that you're still alive. She takes your puffy appendage in both hands, clutching it tightly to her chest, leaning forwards and wordlessly squeezing more tears from her eyes. Kelly: I should have known better than to trust you to somebody else. I should have known they wouldn't understand... Please don't hate me... Thank you. Truly, thank you. Your forgiveness really means so much... (Ahem) So uh yeah. The conference actually was exactly what I needed. That research group I was telling you about, yeah, they're about to start prototyping! (Apologetic) I know... I don't want to wait either. Babe, I'd have sucked every dick in that conference to get you an advance course, but the company wouldn't budge. You're still going to be one of the first subjects when they start making some though! I dunno? A couple of months maybe? They want to keep their cards close to the chest for now. I get why they'd want to be secretive. (Giggle, then whispered) They told me under confidence that it'll make Ozempic look like snake oil! So until then, what we've got going for you still works? Good! Good! Ohhh yeah don't worry, I'm definitely going to give you more control over your medications. Ready to do a little med school homework? (Giggle) I've got a lot to do for you in the wake of Nina's assholery. First we need to get your strength back up. (Screen tapping) There, already called in our usual Chinese takeout feast, and I'll bring you some snacks in just a sec. (Laugh) Yeah your lair is more pungent than usual. Once we've refueled your belly, I'll give you the sexiest sponge bath ever, clear out all this trash, and get some fresh bedding. I'll even wear that slutty maid uniform too... (Quiet laugh, a quick sob?) Baby, I do all this for you because I love you. Because you're an amazing, wonderful, smart man and you deserve to be happy and comfortable. (Giggle) No, I don't care, I'm coming in. (Long kisses) That gene therapy is going to fix you. I know it will. It has to... Narrator: You still don't know exactly what Kelly means by "fix", and at this point you don't dare to ask. You can't shake the suspicion that it involves being her eternal bedbound plaything. But honestly? That sounds like a great deal all things considered...