By Cirque-de-Kink Published: Aug 31, 2024 Badge Awards Literature Text I was thinking of some there and one that stuck out to me would be a 2nd person point of view gender neutral character who works in an office starting to put on some weight from the sedentary job. After getting chubby and already getting judging looks from their coworkers the character is kidnapped on their way home. Their captor reveals they've been spiking their food and now they've laid the groundwork they'll really make the main character huge. Force feeding ensues through different weight stages, the character being teased like being forced to waddle to a trough to get their food as an example. After the character is barely mobile their captor releases them back into the world where they try to live their life again finding they're too fat to work and do anything with the character eventually resigning their fate and returning to their captor resulting in them being fed into immobility ———- When you originally told people that you were going to be working for a snack company, nine times out of ten you were met with the same hackneyed refrain. “Oh, in a year’s time you’re gonna be twice the size you are now!” “So are you going to get a company car, or will they wait until you’re a blimp and give you a company scooter instead?” “I hear that’s a growth industry… because your waistline’s gonna be doing a lot of growing!” Ha, ha, ha. You smiled through it all, of course, and gently reminded people that you’re working the clerical end of things — you didn’t even touch the packaging or production line. It was all good-natured, but goddamn, if hearing the same joke for the third or fourth time didn’t wear out its welcome. Of course, maybe if you had listened to their warnings, you would have still been the trim little thing that you were at the start of your position. It turns out, doing nothing besides sitting on your ass all day and single-handedly funding the café down the road from your office with your daily fix of pastries and extra-large, overly-sweet coffee would actually have a pretty deleterious effect on your lithe figure. Not to mention the almost-nightly takeaways because you couldn’t be bothered cooking after a long shift. …And taking advantage of the company’s free breakfast buffet. …And pilfering the lion’s share of donuts from a box that was presumably left for everyone in the office to enjoy, just because it was serendipitously always left in the break room near your cubicle. You weren’t exactly a whale, of course — you doubted you had even broken 300 pounds. Not by much, anyway. But it was still a night-and-day difference, compared to how you used to look; you had to start shopping for plus-sized pants, the kind that had elasticated waists to accommodate your seat-filling ass (and to ensure you weren’t buying bigger pants quite so regularly, seeing as you had room to grow into them). Your belly not only took up a good portion of your lap when you were sat down, but regularly strained the buttons of your dress shirts until there was a flash of belly-flesh peeking out through the gaps, to say nothing of how, on more than one occasion, your older shirts’ buttons have burst off and pinged against your computer at work. Mercifully, after the first time that happened, you started leaving a spare in your car. It came in handy more than once. You knew that, realistically, you should slow down with the constant snacking. But it wasn’t quite as easy as all that - perhaps it was whatever junk was added into the company’s snacks, or just a nascent appetite you never knew you had (and never had the opportunity to enable quite so easily), but you simply couldn’t feel satisfied when you ate. You felt full, sure, but not satisfied - you could scarf down your lunch, and half an hour later feel the telltale tug of hunger leading you back to the donut box by your desk, taking two or three at a time in the vain hope it might allay your hunger for a moment longer. As another day of managing orders and tabulating profits ticked by, your potbelly issued forth its usual, gurgling demands for food, and you lumbered to the break room, each slow, easygoing step accompanied by the faintest exhalation - you weren’t exactly winded, but the relatively short timeframe in which you packed on the pounds didn’t give you much time to acclimate to your newfound weight. As you did, you caught your colleagues glancing over at you in passing, some shaking their heads or lowering their conversations to a hush as you came within earshot, albeit not enough to make their remarks totally inaudible. “…look, someone let the cow out to graze...” “…poor thing, how’d they let themselves go like that?” “…Gonna be working from home if they don’t lose weight…” Each little comment and judgemental look made your cheeks burn (though, that might have been the exertion of lugging 300 pounds across the office), but you thought better of snapping at them. Against the faint ache of your knees, you picked up your pace a tad, thighs rubbing together and your paunch bouncing with each step in a way that left you worrying if it was going to make your shirt ride up. “Oh, good morning.” You were drawn from your embarrassment by your supervisor’s voice as you entered the break room, idly drumming her manicured, scarlet nails against the handle of her coffee cup. “Heya, Ms. Layton,” you nodded, conscious of the breathlessness of your voice. Your austere superior brushed a lock of silver-dyed hair out of her eyes before she looked you over, taking in every inch of your chubby form with an unreadable, impassive expression. You never could tell what she was thinking, but you were still glad that she didn’t seem quite so critical of your size. At the very least, she was too consummate of a professional to let her opinion show. “I told you, you can call me Elizabeth.” She took a slow sip of her coffee, nudging the donuts towards you with her free hand. For a moment, as she set her cup down, you could have sworn you saw a hint of a smile on those rouged lips, but it was short lived. “I take it you’re here for these? You really ought to just take the whole box to your desk.” “O-Oh, I… you know, I shouldn’t,” you stammered, trying to disabuse yourself of that notion more than anything. It would’ve been a lot more convenient, and it’d spare you the ignominy of having to waddle to the break room in view of your colleagues. “Well, nobody else eats them. If not for you clearing out the whole batch each day, they’d be going to waste.” You stifled a little, nervous chuckle at that; even if her tone suggested no kind of judgment, she was still keenly aware that you were polishing off a box of fifteen donuts daily. Hell, even you hadn’t noticed that; you were convinced that your colleagues were at least getting one or two, between your regular snack breaks. Sufficiently cowed by her rebuttal, you took the box in your hands, the scent of sugar, cinnamon and jams making your mouth water. “Uh, th-thanks, Elizabeth.” “Of course. It’s a shame our budget doesn’t allow us to put a mini-fridge in your cubicle — imagine how much more productive you’d be if you didn’t have to get up for snacks every twenty or thirty minutes.” She set her cup down on the counter, her heels clacking against the polished wooden floor as she passed you, pausing briefly to give you a gentle pat on the shoulder, leaning close enough that you could smell the faint aroma of perfume and cheap coffee. “Although, I can’t deny your physique has been wonderful for morale.” With that, she strode out, leaving you with a box of calorie-rich pastries and an uneasy fluttering in your stomach. She was keenly aware of your snacking habits, down to the regular intervals with which you often went to graze on something sugary or fatty. And that comment about ‘morale’ — was she aware of how much your colleagues had joked about your weight? Or was that something more personal…? Shaking your head, you take your treats and hurry back to your cubicle, setting them down on your desk as you got back to work, your need to try and forget your unusual encounter spurring you to pick up the pace. And to cram those donuts more eagerly into your greedy gob, naturally. “Well, I’m glad to see Liz decided to cut the crap and just give you your snacks,” one of your colleagues remarked in passing, “took her long enough, she kept tellin’ us not to touch the damn things.” Wait, what? “She told you that?” You ask, licking the rime of icing off your lips. “Yeah, you didn’t know? She said they were for the newbie. It was kinda sweet for the first day or two,” he scoffs, adjusting his spectacles as he glances over the clipboard in his hand, “though it was kind of a pain after that, not being allowed any of ‘em.” You paused, midway through eating another as you listened to your coworker. You had no idea she had been doing that for you, but it was enough to bring a little smile to your face. “Well, I guess you’re just glad you won’t have to leave that chair until ya run out, huh, tons-of-fun?” “Sh-Shut up,” you rebuff through a half-chewed mouthful of icing and jam filling, stifling a little belch. Your colleague’s barbs notwithstanding, that little titbit made your otherwise standard workday feel just a bit brighter - as you tore through the rest of the donuts, your head was practically spinning! However, once you got over the initial thrill of your supervisor, that lightheaded sensation didn’t stop. In fact, it got much, much worse, until you were left with your head in your chubby, sweaty hands, unable to parse any meaningful information from the spreadsheet you were chipping away at not a moment prior. “Goodness, what got into you?” You didn’t lift your head - or rather, couldn’t, not without your throbbing head being assailed by the intolerable lights of the office - but you recognised Elizabeth’s voice nevertheless, and offered a wordless grumble in response. “Tch, I’m loathe to say it, but you should probably head home - you’re hardly going to get anything done in the state you’re in,” she said, a touch of warmth finally seeping into her tone as her slender hand entwined with yours, and you found yourself being gently ushered out of the office, through a blur of lights until you reached the parking lot. “Keys, now. If I let you try and drive home like this, you’ll get yourself killed.” Unwilling and unable to put together any kind of resistance, you fished your car keys out of your pocket, dropping them into her awaiting hands before she eased you into the passenger seat, the seatbelt digging into your muffin top as she fastened it for you. “Let’s get you back home, tubby. Try and get a little shut-eye in the meantime, try and sleep it off.” And as if waiting for her go-ahead, you drift into a restless sleep just as she starts up the engine. —— You weren’t sure how long you were asleep for - the cobwebs of fatigue still clung to you, so it could’ve been anywhere between a few minutes and most of a day - but you slowly stirred in your bed, wiping your eyes with the back of your arm as you sat upright. Wait, no. Not your bed. You came to in a luxurious king-sized bed, adorned with wine-red silk sheets over a thick duvet. A set of blackout curtains over the room’s only window further compounded your uncertainty over where (or when) you were, and as you shifted to sit with your legs overhanging the edge of the bed, your steps were muffled by the warm embrace of the plush carpet underfoot. The covers fell away when you sat upright, and as if you were in need of another odd revelation, you realised you were undressed. “Ah, jeez, I… where the hell’re my clothes…?” You mused aloud, like that might will an answer into being. At the very least, it was a pretty nice bedroom, tastefully decorated in shades of red and orange. “Okay, Liz sent me home for the day, offered to drive me since I felt like I was dyin’, then…” A click from the bedroom door cut off your bleary attempts at retracing your steps, and you hastily tugged the covers over yourself, prompting a soft laugh from your visitor. It took a moment to recognise her, clad in an off-white dressing gown rather than her usual prim and proper formalwear, but it was unmistakably Liz, a plate in hand as she softly pushes the door shut behind her. “How’re you feeling? You slept right through the night, you poor thing,” she cooed, holding the plate just high enough that you couldn’t see what was on it. But you could definitely smell it, and your stomach growled when teased with the rich savoury aroma of that meal. “Mmh, better… this is your place, then?” You asked, tugging the covers a little tighter around your zaftig form. “Well, I did try asking for your address, but I couldn’t get a single word out of you.” Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, and you averted your gaze from her; it may have been beyond your control, but it still felt weird, needing to be brought back to her home because you were completely out of sorts. Doubly so if it meant she gave up her bed for you. Another gentle laugh, and her hand rested upon your chin, delicately yet firmly coaxing you to keep looking up at her. “Don’t be so flustered, dear. You were ill, what was I meant to do?” ‘Don’t be flustered’, you thought. That was easier said than done when she was dominating your view and ensuring that your focus was entirely upon her, especially in such a hands-on fashion. “Now, enough fussing - you should eat, dear. Keep your strength up,” she said that last part as more of a command than a suggestion, setting the plate down upon the bedside table - it was a small miracle that none of the heaped up hash browns, fried mushrooms, bacon or sausage didn’t spill off of the dish, and you half-expected for her to pull out a knife and fork for herself. After all, she couldn’t expect you to eat all of that, surely… And yet, as you glanced from the buffet-sized breakfast to Liz, there was no indication that she was going to have any of it. “Well, go on, unless you expect me to feed you by hand…?” “It’s just… a lot, y’know?” Even as you offer up your meagre protests, you’re already going to work on that hearty (or heart-stopping) meal, scooping up helpings of fried meat and mushroom into your greedy maw. “Well, you didn’t get this big because you’re averse to generous portions, did you?” The cutlery fell from your hands as her arms slipped around your waist, grabbing your muffin top and tracing every little stretch mark on your tubby, overhanging potbelly. If not for the mouthful of food, you would’ve whimpered at such an invasive touch. “And besides, I have my own reasons. Keep eating, dear,” she chimed, briefly relinquishing your gut so she could guide your hands back to the knife and fork. It was odd, but you couldn’t help yourself - naked, being felt up by your boss, and all you could do was eat. Suddenly, even the obscene amounts of food seemed perfectly acceptable, even as you unearthed slices of toast and fried eggs underneath the upper crust of meats. “Why d’you think I made sure nobody else was allowed to lay a hand on your precious snacks, love? You think I’d keep a whole department of office workers away from a box of donuts out of the goodness of my heart?” “Uh… y-yes?” Everything in you screamed for you to stand up, stop eating and fucking leave. Everything except for your stomach, which was in her hands, to do with as she pleased. “You’re so cute… which is why I’ve spent the entirety of your employment plying you with snacks, with certain additives that even our company would baulk at putting in their sugary slop.” Oh. Oh no. To underscore her comment, Liz slipped a digit into your navel as if to gauge its depth, her rough and increasingly-impassioned ministrations making your stomach lurch and groan hungrily. “Someone’s famished, hm? And yesterday’s little stunt left you out of action for a lot longer than expected — I had all intentions of ordering you enough takeaway to make you look nine months pregnant… ah well, we can make up for it today, tomorrow, the day after…” That was it — against the acidic roiling of your stomach, you found the strength to put the fork down and finally stand up, mostly uncaring of your state of undress. “L-Liz, look, I… really oughta go. This is all way too much,” you tried to sound firm, as much as your nudity and the scattering of crumbs and grease on your face would permit. Your stomach burbled with each step towards the door, only to be stopped dead in your tracks by your supervisor grabbing your shoulders, standing with her face inches from yours. All at once, all the warmth and concern was gone from her expression. “Go? I’m sorry, I must have misspoke - you’re not going until I’m satisfied. Now lay down!” If her manicured nails sunk into your pudgy biceps any harder, you feared she’d draw blood as she marched you back to the bed, forcing you onto your back and straddling your lap. Each attempt to push her off accomplished little more than her forcing your hands away, burning through what little energy you had, until she grew frustrated enough to snatch your wrists and hold your hands above your head with one hand, leaning forward while she rifles through the bedside table. “Unruly little pig, aren’t you? I have just the thing to keep you steady, until you learn to love what I’m doing for you,” she hissed, her ample rack enveloping your face as she continued to search for something, cutting off your air with her tits. Under less insane circumstances, it would’ve been a dream come true, having this argent-haired woman straddling you while you’re suffocating under her tits, growing lightheaded as the air in your lungs was displaced by the scent of her sweat and perfume. With a triumphant little laugh, she found what she was looking for, and you heard the metallic rattle of a belt’s buckle being fastened, binding your wrists to the headboard and making sure you couldn’t obstruct her any further. “L-Liz, stop, plea— mmnf!” Your pleas were shut down by a fistful of your meal being crammed into your open maw. Grease and egg yolk ran down Elizabeth’s wrists and forearms as she took matters into her own hands, clumsily cramming food into your gullet with no semblance of delicacy or care — just a raw, primal desire to dominate you through your stomach. And lamentably, it was working. By the time your meal was packed into your gullet, you felt as if one sharp intake of breath would make you puke; even the minimal pressure provided by your cruel coworker was unbearable against your taut midsection. And yet, even as you felt bile rising in the back of your throat (which you struggled to choke down, fearing her reprisal if you had the audacity to vomit up her meal), you were plagued by hunger. The dull, sickly thrum of being swollen like a tick fought against the churning, gurgling sensation that demanded more, no matter how painful or outright impossible it would be. “Hah… I might have overdone it with the appetite stimulants. But, maybe that’ll help you appreciate all this hard work, you pig.” Not wanting to let you get a word in edgewise (not that you could), Liz forcefully pressed her lips to yours, stealing away what little air you could get into your lungs, before pulling away, leaving a strand of saliva connecting your mouths. “Now, why don’t you enjoy a little food coma while I whip up some lunch for you?” You could practically feel the colour drain from your face at the thought of more food… but your stomach did a fine job at answering in your stead, roiling noisily at the promise of more. “Oh, and don’t worry about work - I’ve put in a word with management. Turns out your bout of illness was worse than we thought, and you’ll be out of commission for a few weeks. You and I are going to get plenty of PTO together, fatass~” —— That thing about enjoying a ‘food coma’? It turns out that was less of a snide remark, and more of a thinly-veiled warning. Whatever she was spiking your meals with, it made staying awake pretty goddamn difficult - it wasn’t knocking you out entirely, but it made it much harder to put up any resistance to her forcefeeding sessions, and was such a potent soporific that it took something substantial to really wake you up. Sadly, the appetite-inducing substances in your meal did wonders at that, making you feel utterly ravenous, no matter how much you ate hours earlier - your bizarre, ultradian sleep cycle was dictated solely by the stuff she was pumping into you, and it was seriously messing with your perception of time. During one of your hazier, half-awake stupors, you were awoken by Elizabeth’s hand in your chin - or, rather, the topmost one, as you had accumulated a second and third during your stay at her home, your jawline and much of your neck softened out and hidden under a layer of adipose. As ever, she took her position straddling your lap as best she could, even if one of your meaty thighs was wider than her torso, and your stretchmarked stomach sagged down past your groin and intruded upon your thighs. “I think it’s time we change up your diet, you pig,” Liz grinned, licking her lips. For once, you didn’t see her with a plate or bowl in hand, but she instead held a strip of black leather, adorned with… well, you weren’t sure what. A large ring, surrounded by four blunt metal hooks. “Uh… how so?” You asked, blinking away the remnants of fatigue. Rather than tell you, your keeper decided to show you, deftly wrapping the leather strap around the back of your head and situating the ring in your mouth, the dull hooks keeping you from moving it. “Mmnf, I’ve been looking for an excuse to use that spider gag on someone… shame you’re probably going to outgrow it.” She traced a scarlet nail along the edge of the gag, feeling how your tubby cheeks bulged around the glossy material. It wasn’t unbearable, but the sensation of leather biting into your fat face made it unignorable, something that no amount of fidgeting would allow you to get used to. Satisfied with her handiwork, Elizabeth hopped off the bed and sauntered to the door, a hand resting on her shapely hip as she blew a kiss at you, clearly relishing the chance to be the domme and seductress. Or maybe she just loved fucking with a helpless fatass, who could say. Definitely not you, that gag ensured you’d say nothing. Your reprieve from her depraved games was short lived, and your captor returned with a large bottle - one of those five-gallon jugs from the water coolers at work, as a matter of fact - filled to the brim with some cream-coloured substance. Judging by the whitening of her knuckles and her muttered complaints, it was something dense, and the open cap let the faint scent of vanilla and caramel waft out as she passed you, setting it on the bedside table with a thud that made your obese form wobble more than you’d like. “Hah… you better appreciate this - Mama Liz’s own recipe,” she laughed breathlessly, fishing a length of clear hose from her pocket, fitting it to the opening of that massive jug. Grabbing a fistful of your hair to keep you still, she fed the other end of that tube into your mouth, past your gullet. Your breaths were erratic, and you could feel it worming its way down your throat, too deep for you to realistically try and regurgitate (as much as the damned thing was aggravating your uvula). When it was clear to her that the tube wouldn’t be going anywhere unless she pulled it out of you, Liz upended that jug, watching eagerly as the thick, saccharine-scented slurry poured down your feeding tube -- while you couldn’t taste it, you could definitely feel the cold substance as it worked its way down your throat and into your stomach. And more pressingly, you could feel it filling you up at a steady pace. Unable to really speak around that gag and tube setup, you shook your head desperately, whimpering as she impatiently tapped the container, shaking it a tad to try and get that dense substance moving. “Nngh, I should really work on this feeding tube setup…” she murmured, brow furrowed as she braced the container; part of you hoped that it’d be a lost cause, and she’d at least go back to feeding you normally. Not that it was ideal, but you were desperate to find any positives. As you lay there, squirming and trying to wordlessly plead with Liz to come to her senses, that concoction continued to pour into your stomach, feeling as dense and heavy as concrete. Even under the thick blanket of lard you were lugging around, your stomach was visibly swollen, a faint red tinge spreading across its gravid mass -- what began as a dull, swollen sensation became outright painful as over a third of that jug’s contents had oozed into your stomach, all as your keeper looked on, biting her lip. You began to fear that she would try to cram all five gallons of that stuff into you and watch your stomach split like an overfilled balloon. Mercifully, just shy of the halfway mark, Elizabeth turned the valve on the hose, bringing that agonising outpouring of sludge to an end before slowly tugging that hose out of your mouth. As the opening brushed across your tongue, you could taste the rich, sickly-sweet taste of ice-cream, along with… butter? Whatever it was, it was evident that making it taste good was hardly Liz’s priority. Hell, it was probably just a medley of whatever the hell was in her kitchen. “Mmh, such a good pig. I bet if I grabbed that potbelly of yours and squeezed,” she began, trailing her hands down along your flanks and making you squirm, “you’d either puke your guts up or pop… maybe that’s what I should do, hm?” Still gagged, you shook your head desperately as she pressed down on your taut, aching stomach, never once breaking eye contact with you. It felt as if she was building up to putting her whole body’s weight onto your midsection. But before it grew to be too much - whatever ‘too much’ would entail - she withdrew, content to leave you slumped back against the pillows in relief as you gasped. “Mmh, food for thought, I suppose. For now, I should rework this tube-feeding setup. Nobody told me how much work these things are.” After wiping down the hose, she removed the gag from your mouth, leaving the room with her setup in her arms. Leaving you alone with your thoughts, and your creaking, drum-tight gut. You just knew this was going to do a number on your waistline. ---- True to her word, Liz iterated and improved upon her hose-feeding setup, and it became a means of keeping track of how many days she had kept you. … Unless she was tube-feeding you more than once a day, that is. Either way, after over a dozen sessions - and a countless amount of ‘normal’ meals between them - she had designed a setup which you were remiss to admit was kind of well-made. A small compressor to pump her lovingly homemade slurries into your throat instead of relying on gravity to make it pour down your throat, a second cap so she could refill it at her own leisure, a sturdy little frame so that she didn’t have to hold onto the damn thing. That last part, unfortunately for you, meant much more time with her hands around your throat, molesting your stomach until you were certain that it was going to be your last feeding session or spanking you, just to watch you writhe in a sad attempt to avoid having your tubby ass slapped. Then again, even if you weren’t regularly bound and gagged for her leisure, you wouldn’t be escaping much of anything at your size. You had no idea what your weight was, lacking the luxury of a scale and all, but you were keenly aware of how much fatter you had gotten. In the moments where your hands were untied, you were barely able to make your hands meet anymore, and even at rest, you felt that your arms were raised up at an angle by your massive bingo wings. Thanks to the amount of weight on your saggy, undefined chest and shackling your throat, Liz had to go out of her way to prop you up with pillows for fear that you’d struggle to breathe in your sleep. And even with those cushions propping you up, you could barely see past your belly apron, save for the tips of your toes when you really exerted yourself to lift those thunder thighs off of the bed. Much of your own body had grown out of reach, and what you could touch was either dimpled with cellulite or fringed with the growing valleys that were your stretchmarks. And it was this growing incapability that led to further changes in your stay with Ms. Layton -- unless you were being tube-fed, she was more than happy to leave your hands unbound, getting off on your increasingly pathetic and short-lived attempts to fight her off more than anything, and whatever she was previously using to knock you out for hours at a time had been cut out of your diet altogether (assuming you hadn’t just built up a remarkable tolerance thanks to your out-of-control weight gain and constant exposure). Part of you wanted to believe she was loosening your literal and proverbial restraints because she planned to return you to your normal life - or as close to normalcy as you could get for someone whose weight had more than doubled. But really, she just saw you as domesticated, no need to bother with leashes for such a fat, spoilt pet. “Feeding time, you overfed sow~” You perked up as you heard her voice from the hallway, along with the sound of something dragging along the floors. Whatever supposition you had about her latest surprise, what she brought in still left you mortified -- a trough. She’d gone out of her way to pour more of her usual calorie-rich mixture into it, and plenty of it, seeing as she had to take her time pulling it into your chambers so she didn’t spill any of it. “W-What the fuck…” “Excuse me?” She retorted, setting down the sloshing trough before whipping around to face you, indignation plastered across her rubicund face, “I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘thank you’, you spoiled blimp. Do you know how hard it is to find livestock supplies in the middle of a city?” Not wanting to make things worse for yourself, you looked away, biting back any further comments while you waited for her to bring that trough over, so you could get that ignominy over with. …And yet, nothing. She was stood with her arms folded across her chest, tapping her foot against the floor as she looked at you expectantly. “Well?” “Um…” you look over at the trough, then her. In your downtime between feedings, you had tried to waddle around the room looking for any means of egress. And all you really found was that the act of getting your triple-wide ass out of bed was tiring, nevermind actually waddling over to where she was awaiting you. “You aren’t bedbound yet. Now get up.” Pulling the covers away from your sweaty, heaving form, you sink your palms into the mattress as you try to heave yourself upright, feeling nascent cramps shooting through your woefully-weakened core and biceps as you sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Weeks of inactivity had taken their toll on you, and before you started the herculean task of getting to your lard-swollen feet, your chest was already tingling, despite your attempts to regulate your raspy, snorting breaths. Liz’s impatience gave way to intrigue as she sauntered over to you, each careful and measured step making you all the more aware of how utterly graceless and lumbering you’d become. As much as it was beneath you, you looked up at her pleadingly, offering a hand to her. But alas, she swatted it away. “I want to watch you struggle, hog.” Both you and her long-suffering bed groaned in protest as you rocked yourself forward, feeling your tubby soles press against the carpeted floor before you slump back. Another forward movement, and your vision swam, face going pink as you fought to use your ponderous obesity to your advantage. Your boxy shelf of an ass got an inch clear of the mattress before you collapsed back once more, struggling to not end up back in a supine position. Gripping the edge of the mattress, you tried to heave yourself forward one last time -- the spike in physical activity and all that added pressure on your midriff causes you to break wind, letting out a sputtering, rumbling fart as you finally stand up. And almost immediately, you let out a pained gasp as your underused legs and aching joints are left to support your weight on their own. “Oh god, oh god…” you started to hyperventilate, arms outstretched as you began the glacial, shuffling waddle towards the trough. Most days, you could count the number of steps you took on your fingers, so being forced to waddle under your own power was hell -- your ankles, knees and hips felt like they would splinter like brittle twigs if you made one wrong step. Your swollen thighs and knees were hobbling your gait and heavily restricting how much you could bend your joints, forcing you to lean your weight to and fro, exaggerating your waddling steps. “Tch, I should make this a regular thing, for your sake…” Elizabeth muttered, walking abreast of you, “all this laying around’s probably going to give you edema. Or, maybe it already has.” Your heart sank at that - with your preoccupation on the immediate threat of being kidnapped by your supervisor, you hadn’t thought about the more insidious health risks… and before you can think on it any longer, Elizabeth positions herself behind you, wrapping her arms around your hips as much as she can (and treating you to the sobering realisation that you were far, far too wide for her to make her hands meet around you) before raking her manicured nails over your tender, stretchmarked skin, bringing you to a halt. “Hard to tell where the fluid retention ends and the flab retention begins~” Tears were running down your face as your body burned, and you pushed your whalish body as hard as it could go to reach the trough. Mercifully, once you were close enough, your keeper grabbed your love handles, pulling you to a stop before taking your hands in hers. “Such a good hog… now, just bend your knees, nice and slow,” she whispered sweetly, surprisingly able to support your weight as you eased yourself onto one knee, then the other, before a tender and firm touch on the nape of your neck guided you onto all fours, your sweat-dripping face right next to the edge of the trough. “What’s in this…?” “Eh… I kind of lost track of what I was adding. I know we’ve got some butter in there, heavy cream… some fryer oil.” Somehow, that last part actually stymied your otherwise inhuman appetite -- you took a deep breath, and sure enough, it reeked of something savoury, probably a holdover from the grease-soaked meals you’d been chowing down on previously. “L-Liz, that’s not… you can’t make me eat that,” you didn’t look up from the dense mixture, not wanting to make your entirely reasonable objections sound confrontational. You really were domesticated, if she made sticking up for yourself feel like a harrowing prospect. “Shh, trust me, piggy, it’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s mostly for flavour -- you’ll barely notice it.” Despite her attempts at sounding reassuring, you don’t move your face any closer to the meniscus of fat in front of you. Until she grabs a fistful of your hair and forces your face into it, that is. “Sorry, I must have misspoke -- you don’t get a say in this,” the threatening, possessive edge returned to her voice as she submerged the lower half of your face in that unhealthy slop, mindful not to force your nose under as well. Although, being that close to actually being drowned in that gunk was quite enough to make you compliant; against your better judgement and the nauseating churn of your stomach, you opened your maw and started to gulp down slow, reluctant mouthfuls. You could barely tell what it tasted like - like butter, like salt, like… nothing. It was like each slow, shaky swallow hit a bubble of different artery-clogging filth, and it made it a damn sight harder to get used to it. In spite of your attempts to placate her, you felt yourself retching, which was enough for Liz to finally wrench your head back from the trough. “Easy, easy… there, that isn’t so bad, is it?” You wanted so, so badly to tell her exactly how bad it was. Or force her to experience it firsthand. “Catch your breath. I’ve got all night to make sure my prize-winning hog finishes its dinner.” Its dinner. Even with your resolve so utterly fucked, being called an it still vexed you. ---- True to her word, Liz made sure to give you some modicum of exercise by making you waddle to your trough, although judging by how tender and taut your calves and ankles felt, it definitely wasn’t doing shit for any swelling down there. But then again, you couldn’t say what was going on down there -- while you could previously try to lift your meaty legs to see your feet past your gut, or maybe grab your belly apron and try to awkwardly push it aside to peer around it, that was all a lost cause. Your stomach had grown to dominate much of your view when looking down, with your sagging pancake tits framing that yoga ball of a stomach. Troublingly, even your cheeks and brow had come to crowd your field of view, even if only slightly; even with your mouth empty and eyes wide open, a budding amount of forehead fat and two wobbling jowls narrowed your vision a little bit. And that wasn’t even touching upon Liz’s… gifts. Propping you up with a cushion or two wasn’t doing shit for your rapidly-dwindling ability to breathe unassisted, and at all hours, you found yourself with either an oxygen tube up your piggish snout, or a CPAP mask when you were sleeping. As your bedroom - you had begun to consider the room yours at this point - became crowded with medical apparatuses alongside the fetishistic equipment, your waning health was starting to scare you more than being abducted. What the fuck were you going to do if you ever escaped? You had also started using the word ‘if’ more than ‘when’ every time you thought about escaping. Each time you thought about it, your heart would go at a mile a minute, your mind racing with images of bariatric hospital wards, some exploitative and degrading reality TV series, surgeries and intensive physio all so you could maybe survive for another three or four years before being loaded into a coffin as wide as it was tall. It was during one of these existential crises that you felt a familiar, nagging pressure somewhere in your lower abdomen, bringing you back to reality for a moment. You lay there for a moment trying to parse this sensation against a litany of other alien, agonising feelings that seemed to come and go with little rhyme or reason. Then it hit you -- you needed a piss. “O-Oh, shit… Liz?” You called out, your voice unrecognisably hoarse and deepened by fat and limited breathing. It’d take some getting used to, but you doubted your voice would ever really sound the same again, not while you had more weight in your chest than most people would have in their whole bodies, crushing your lungs and bearing down on your ribcage. Whether she had stepped out, or couldn’t hear your raspy, honey-thick voice from the room, you couldn’t say. Either way, she wouldn’t be coming in to lift you into your bariatric commode chair (another investment she had made, when it was painfully obvious that her bathroom wasn’t meant for such a huge specimen). You opened your mouth to call for help once more, but it was quieter than the last attempt, trailing off into rattling wheezing as you clutch your stomach. You pressed your thighs together as much as your elephantine limbs would permit, bit down on your lip, anything to try and distract yourself from the growing pressure in your bladder. Being immobile in the most technical sense of the word, you had no chance of relieving yourself in a dignified fashion. Hell, if you tried to sit up, you were certain you’d just hasten the inevitable. “Nngh… n-no, no, no…” you plead with your body, as if that would prevent what was happening between your legs; it began as a slow trickle, dribbling out of your fupa and onto the sheets beneath you, before quickly becoming a downpour. The hiss of urine escaping your buried, unreachable privates and the dripping of it running onto the mattress cut through the white noise of your oxygen machine and body’s idle sloshing and burbling; warmth radiated outwards, seeping underneath your thighs and around your cottage cheese ass. Your face felt like it was a deep shade of crimson, and beneath all your adipose, your stomach twisted itself into knots -- you’d pissed yourself. One more shred of independence gone, and one more thing for you to dread; was it a one-off thing, or would you need to consider the very real possibility of incontinence? As the outpouring of piss slowed to a halt, Liz finally entered your room, naked save for a towel wrapped around her waist. “You rang, lover?” She smirked, running her fingers through her still-wet hair, sweeping it out of her face as she sat down on the edge of the bed next to you… and immediately shot straight to her feet when she felt the still-warm puddle that was seeping out from under you. “O-Oh, god… oh, you poor thing.” Removing the towel from her waist, Liz pulled the covers away from you, kneeling down between your legs; her offhand held onto your massive slab of a gut, while she gently dabbed at your fatpad with the towel. “That settles it, I’m getting you a bedpan; can’t have you making a mess if I’m not around…” As she patted down your fupa - and eventually began cleaning inside of your cavernous mound with that towel - something in you stirred. During your entire stay with Liz, you hadn’t once gotten off - it was a physical impossibility at your size, actually - but now this athletic, powerful and motherly older woman was practically fingering your fupa to clean you up, you found yourself struggling to hold something in once again. And once again, you couldn’t last for more than a minute; moaning like a beluga in heat, you squeezed your thighs together once more as a fresh, shorter-lived rush of liquid spurted out of your fatpad and onto her hands, the heady scent of your arousal adding to the unwashed musk you had going on down there. “H-Hey! Did… did you just cum…?” You couldn’t see her past your massive stomach, but you could hear her fighting back laughter as she briefly stopped cleaning you up. “Oh, you naughty little pig. That’s just precious -- I don’t even think I touched your privates. Is your fatpad really that sensitive?” You looked away, silently fuming as your orgasm subsided and Elizabeth resumed drying your soaked nethers. But what she said afterwards made you shiver… and you weren’t sure if it was arousal or dread. “Next time, I’d like you to beg before you cum, you pig~” ---- Unsurprisingly, Liz wasn’t so clement as to add regular sexual gratification to your busy schedule of forcefeeding, tube-feeding and trough-feeding. When she cleaned you off, she was actually even more mindful to keep her ministrations slow and delicate enough to keep you from blowing your top… but that didn’t do shit for how pent up you got when she cleaned out your more intimate areas. Oh, you begged, just like she said, but she never said that begging would guarantee that kind of relief. And as your weight spiralled further out of control, you began to seriously wonder if you had the blood flow necessary to even achieve a climax anymore; even when Liz began to routinely apply and change some dressings on your inner thighs (she grew to harbour serious concerns about your skin tearing, a sentiment you shared, judging by the occasional stinging sensation and feelings of moisture on your thighs), you barely felt the flutter of arousal. Actually, you were starting to lose a lot of feeling below the waist; try as you might, you weren’t able to wiggle your toes anymore, and the constant aches of fluid retention gave way to total numbness. Between that and bouts of lightheadedness that left your ever-dwindling vision growing dark, you desperately hoped that Elizabeth would at least get a nurse to visit. You didn’t care if you had to pretend to be there of your own accord, subject yourself to the humiliation of another person seeing the borderline-immobile trainwreck you had become, you just wanted some medical attention. But as fate would have it, Ms. Layton planned to subject you to much more attention. “Come on, fatty, rise and shine,” Liz commanded, snapping her fingers in front of you as you stir into wakefulness. Even with your cannula pumping oxygen straight into your failing body, you felt like you were being choked out almost constantly, which didn’t do wonders for getting up early. As you blink away fatigue, you look over at Liz -- for the first time since she drove you home, she was dressed up in her suit and heels, her freshly-dyed hair tied back in a conservative bun. “W-Wha…” you sputter, barely able to rasp out one whole word as you reach a hand out to her -- in response, she shoves some massive bundle of fabric into your meaty hand, holding it there until she’s certain your swollen sausage fingers have a grip on it. “Our vacation’s over, you cow; I had a blast, but we had to go back to the grind at some point.” Your eyes widened as much as your huge jowls and slab of forehead fat would permit, and if not for the fact that your mouth was almost always open in a desperate attempt to gulp down more air, your jaw would have dropped. “H-How…?” Shaking her head, Ms. Layton grabbed your shoulders and wrenched you into a seated position, brusquely removing your oxygen tubes with all the care and patience of someone uncorking champagne, further restricting your breathing; needing to save your breath, you remain quiet as she unfurls that bundle of fabric, pulling it over your head and smoothing it out -- for the first time in god-knows-how-long, she finally bothered to clothe you… and it was an unflattering, light-blue muumuu, looking less like a garment someone would choose to wear, and more like something they give to obscenely fat hospital patients in a desperate bid to make them look somewhat decent. Heedless of your stinging, bandaged legs or your frankly pathetic musculature, she grabbed your ankles and pulled them off the bed before thrusting a cane into your hand. Your head felt like it was spinning, necessitating her to hook her arms underneath yours and yank you to your feet, positioning herself under one arm while you clumsily tried to find purchase with the cane in your other hand. “I-I… c-can’t…!” You wheezed and coughed as she forcibly marched you through the house, eschewing all the care she had shown you as your health worsened. Instead, she manhandled you like you were some massive, sweaty piece of furniture, unbothered by how your knees and hips popped and grinded as she forced you to turn sideways, how your back felt close to sheering in two under the weight of your body, how she practically had to drag you out to your car, flinging open the back door and roughly pushing you into the backseat, your freakishly huge body making the suspension sag low enough for the bumper to graze against the driveway. “That’s quitter talk, now just… lift your leg!” She growled as she grabbed your bare foot, cramming you into your car and forcing your inflexibly huge legs to bend at the knee. By the time she’s got you safely (well, safe-ish) inside, you’re laying down across the backseat, your massive gut flowing out over the front passenger seat, which Liz had taken care to fold down ahead of time. Deprived of your breathing tube and wracked with pains that you had yet to experience since she took you hostage, you fell unconscious in the back of your car, the commute to your office becoming a blur. The squeak of your overloaded car’s breaks roused you from unconsciousness, with your supervisor stepping out to retrieve you. “You better not piss yourself when we get in there, porky -- we’ve got an important meeting, and I don’t need you staining the rug.” Once more, she grabbed onto any roll or fold she could to prise you out of your car, and once you were back on your feet you immediately slumped back against the vehicle, unable to really hear much of anything besides your own racing pulse and ringing ears. Luckily for you both, her parking spot was nice and close to the building… although, as she slowly marched you through the office complex, you realised that it wasn’t lucky at all. “Holy shit! Is that…?” “Oh my god, Liz, should we call an ambulance? Or a hearse?” “Hah, is that a dress, or a tent?” If you hated the teasing and barely-hidden insults before, then the abject shock and horror from your former coworkers felt a thousand times worse. You wanted nothing more than to just go back to your little pigsty, away from the judgmental stares and remarks. Your body had other plans, though. A singular, numbing pain radiated throughout your core, spreading outwards like an electrical current through your limbs. Driven by nothing but the fearful, desperate reflexes of a wounded animal, your meaty paws came to your chest, dropping your cane as you clawed at your torso. No amount of grabbing or clumsy, arrhythmic thumping could undo or ease what was happening. Your jaw cramped, and you felt yourself doubling over as your heart was finally pushed to its breaking point. “Liz?! What the hell happened?” You hear someone cry out - presumably your boss, but as your vision swam, you couldn’t connect a voice to a face. “You wanted proof that they weren’t fit for work? Here it is - this butter-slut’s heart can’t even handle going from their car to their desk,” Elizabeth’s tone was matter-of-fact, bordering on smug, even as you wordlessly held onto her for dear life, trying to ignore the ripple of laughter spreading through the office after being called a butter-slut. Technically, it wasn’t inaccurate. “Okay, you’ve made your point -- get them to a hospital, damnit!” You’d never been so happy to hear the word ‘hospital’ before. ---- The rest of your last day at work was a blur -- you remember Elizabeth needing the help of several of your colleagues to load you into the back of your car once more, placated by the promise that you’d get to a hospital (you hoped it was out of genuine concern, but you were certain that they were dreading the prospect of a fat fuck with a four digit weight dying in their office). If only it was that easy, though. A hospital would have invited questions, and Liz wasn’t one for unnecessary risks. Even as you tried to ride out your first heart attack (Liz’s words, not yours; the fact that she seemed excited about future myocardial infarctions didn’t shock you as much as it should), she was ushering you back to the crater your blob-like body had worn into the mattress, deftly reapplying your CPAP mask and fanning you -- all at once, her business persona was gone, and she was back to being the affectionate, possessive carer for the world’s fattest pet. The extent of your medical care was her amateur opinion, gleaned from various medical websites; you had nothing to go off of other than hypotheticals and what-ifs. You might have been a diabetic, your loss of mobility could have made your lymphedema so much worse, you’re probably completely incontinent. It was worse than knowing for sure. You knew you needed medical help, and you knew you weren’t getting any, aside from the equipment she could buy on the sly. The most reassuring thing you had was the secondhand defibrillator hanging on the wall, above your old spider-gag and the belt she used to tie your hands with (she had a strange idea of sentimentality). That day was the last time you ever walked -- frankly, it was bordering on traumatic, suddenly trying to engage with the rigours and struggles that a person one-fifth your size would breeze through without effort. You imagined that’s why she wanted to march you down to your place of work, on top of strong-arming the management into giving you a good chunk of change so you didn’t sue them. She wanted to reinforce the idea that the world outside of your room was bad -- you had everything you needed in her home. It was going to be the rest of your life, and she made sure it was going to be a short one.