The first bits of something of a blob POV story I've slowly plinked away at.
Turns out it fits the thread quite well.
‘What day was it today?’ she asked herself idly. It was a question she asked herself at least, somewhat often. There weren’t many other questions she could really think to ask herself. And at her sheer size, there weren’t many other things she could do, but ask the odd question.
When she’d first ended up in her bathtub, she liked to try and jiggle herself. She was weightless in the water, so she could jiggle away. Shake the water. Maybe even grind a little on herself.
At least, until she got too heavy, too massive, for her muscles to jiggle her at all. She’d try, but it’d be like swimming in her own body, the ripples barely made it out to her skin.
So she stopped trying that.
Next, she liked to roll her ankles. Feel her heels pop in and out of the fleshy sheaths of ankle fat. Then, to feel the relative cold of the outside water on her toes, when they escaped the tips of her feet, and her ankles. She’d try to stir the water around, try and work it into the big, creased fold in her plush, underused soles. That had tickled. It’d sent jolts of tickle up her legs.
Then, it’d been trying to kick, or really, tease, the swaddling of ankle fat that had closed over her remarkably useless feet, open, and feel just a touch of that cold breeze on the very tips of those fleshy spheres.
She’d given that up the second time she’d tried it, and ended up with a cramp that had lasted for days.
Or was it days? It felt like days, she was sure it was days. She hadn’t been able to have it relieved through palpitation or stretching, just due to her size. So she’d had to wait for it to leave naturally.
Fortunately, she supposed, her muscles since then had atrophied somewhat badly, so she didn’t really have much there to cramp, if somehow her body didn’t realize it had too little muscle to effect a chance in any case down there.
Then… what was it?
It’d been the ‘fingering’. Heh. She remembered all the smutty little puns she’d made to herself.
By that time, she’d long since lost the ability to shift her arms in any real state, or even move her wrists. Her pudgy mitts however, had developed into cream-filled spheres that she’d been intimately aware, even before her partner had shown her a picture of one, that they’d never work in any capacity again. They didn’t look much like hands, and it was only the tips of splayed fingers, each section bar the tips swaddled in drooping doughnuts of fat, that made them recognisably human. Her palms were gone, merely a shaped cross in the folds of her sagging flesh there, to indicate a history of mobility or use. Her thumbs had been all but engulfed in the mass, and were just barely visible as an extra crease and a tiny nub.
Those had been the days of “The Handjobs”. She’d liked those. Sure he used her body in many ways and many folds, but when he inserted himself into the cross marked folds of her once-palms, she’d not only been more sensitive to it, with all the… nerve endings in the hands and fingers, but she’d been able to clench the fat of her hands a little, make it a little bit more resistant for him. It had made her feel involved, in getting him off, even if looking over at him was an exercise in and of itself. Straining against her fatty jowels to turn her head to see her husband, even if her upper arms blocked much of the view she might otherwise have seen. It had been easier to just… visualise him there. She didn’t know when she’d lost the ability to turn and see past them.
It was remarkable, her feed tube. Way back when, when she’d been able to, god, run. What was that even like again? She struggled to recall. Back then, she’d always thought that a girl as big as her would need some massive powerful industrial piping to keep her cavernous belly sated.
In the end, or rather, she’d discovered it was less a torrent or even flow, and more a dribble. 4 Litres per minute. The flow of a particularly wimpy faucet. And that little dribble was enough to quell her dragon. To put The Beast to slumber, and to keep her safe. Because that weak little dribble didn’t stop. That meagre 4 litres per minute became 240 litres an hour, became 5760 litres a day. Nearly six full fucking tonnes. That was, what? An African elephant a day? A towable motorhome? Were they six tonnes?
She couldn’t exactly check. She was so many steps away from even being able to consider raising something like a phone to her face that it was comical. She’d have laughed at the notion, if her body could let her.
The six tonnes was mostly corn syrup. It was cheap, dirty, and from the occasional bit that dribbled out of the overpressure valve, puddling in her open mouth, her cheeks and across meters of her jowels, tasted like chemically refined and industrialised diabetes. Just how she’d made it. But it also contained other things. Water. Canola oil, for cheap fats. A slurry of vegetable and fruit matter, for vitamins and minerals that even she needed to run. And the puree’d sludge of offcuts and otherwise unusable waste from the butchery chain that her husband owned. Skins, bones, fatty meats, all were blended up, broken down, mixed into her oily sugar syrup and pumped into the great abyss within her. Her husband had offered better cuts of meat, better sources of fats, of carbohydrates, nicer fruit and veg. They were far from poor, all things considered, but she’d turned him down.
The idea of stuffing herself stupid on effectively food waste, something that you’d hesitate to use as fertiliser, and was probably illegal to feed to the pigs, just felt so… slutty.
Like, it was one thing to grow huge at all, but it was another thing to grow so fat, eating food scraps out of a pig trough.
Her blubbery cheeks formed a pretty good trough these days.