"Fat Trimmings" Vol. 4

“I’m Getting Fat”

How much does she weigh?

“I’m getting fat.” She says as she eats her third cookie. And you can see it, you can see her stomach rolling over the waistband of her pajama pants, her favorite pajama pants.

And you’ve been watching those closely too. And sure enough every day for the last three months you’ve noticed every little change: the small things first, how it laid just a little differently on her thighs. Then where there were folds that formed there aren’t any more as the fabric has been lifted up and pulled further with every serving of creamy mashed potatoes loaded with bacon and every plate of pasta drenched in sauce made with heavy cream and no less than three types of cheeses. You’ve watched the seat of her pants fill up with pillowy fat as her ass, already generous when you first met, continues to expand with every late night bowl of ice cream covered with crumbled oreos and smothered in whipped cream.

But it’s the waistband that catches the majority of your attention tonight.

The waistband that has a drawstring that gets pulled less and less every time she puts these “shrinking” pajama pants on. The laundry machine sure has done a number on these pajamas, almost as much damage as every weekly meatloaf and every Wednesday’s fifty cent wing night. Keeping track of the diminishing drawstring has been the most enjoyable form of measuring as your eyes watch its slack get swallowed up day after day week after week, bite after bite.

But how much does she weigh? That’s the mystery. That’s the thing you truly need to know because she won’t tell you. She’ll complain about everything else, but you won’t actually get a hard number from her.

“I’m so bloated.” She’ll whine, like that food baby is ever going away even hours after eating an entire quart of beef lo-mein.

“Stop trying to fatten me up.” She’ll chide as she swats your hand away from her burgeoning belly and then dutifully swallow another forkful of chocolate mousse cake that you bought her.

“I need to exercise. I’ve been eating like a pig lately.” She’ll sigh as you’re throwing out the family sized bag of potato chips she’s just finished working her way through.

“Maybe if you weigh yourself, you’ll get a better chance of what your goals should be.” You risk suggesting one day knowing that there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that any goals would ever actually be met while you also think about just how many calories are in the syrup that goes into a quality snow cone.

And maybe she did step on that scale and set it a creaking, but she sure never told you what the number said, and that’s what’s driving you mad even as you lay there at night cradling her doughy pot belly as she sleeps.

How much weight has she truly gained? Definitely more than ten. More than fifteen even. Twenty? Thirty? Maybe thirty is an overestimate, but you need to know.

You use your hands as scales and take mental estimates of every part of her body. Squeeze her as. Jiggle each cellulite dotted chicken up and down. Give it the spank test and feel the recoil. This is science.

Hold her breasts in each hand and weigh them as if you’re judging melons at the supermarket. Try to get a sense of just how soft and saggy they are as you heave them up and tease her nipples. Kiss your way up her softening arms and watch her head turn to look at you. There’s that double chin again. Hello, little friend. You’re such a cute double chin, aren’t you? Yes you are.

It’s starting to show up sooner and sooner, more and more. Soon it’ll be there even when she doesn’t tilt her head down. How much does her face gain equate to in total poundage?

You can’t really know for sure, so there’s only one thing you can do. You’ll just have to double down on your feeding efforts until she’s so damn big you won’t need a number on the scale to satisfy you. Popping that drawstring and ripping through those pajama pants should be enough.

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“A Trip to the Pool”

Don’t you just want to give that belly a squeeze? Slide a thumb between those rolls, pinch the lower part of her double belly as is hanging over the bust open waistband of her jeans and give it a shake.

She’s a well fed gal, a real porker who hasn’t met a desert she doesn’t like, and who never says no to seconds, or thirds. She’s the kind of thick-thighed tubbo that can eat any entire large pizza if she’s got the mind for it, and her mind is always for it. It’s a brain that can’t stop thinking about her next meal, the kind of mind that is daydreaming about lunch while she’s chowing down on breakfast. She likes to think about that big brisket sandwich while scarfing down bacon and eggs and hoping for a burger for dinner with an extra large side of fries and a triple thick milkshake for dessert. And all of those calories are going to get crammed into that jiggly tummy.

Watch it wobble as she struggles to sit up. She’s gotta rock back and forth like a turtle caught stuck on its back trapped by the weight of its own body. A big. FAT. Turtle. The chair she’s in groans with every motion that she makes as she attempts to stand. She breaks a sweat as she’s threatening to break the chair with every labored shift. How much longer can she keep this up before she needs to ask for help? She’s panting from the effort, but hey, in the end all this exercise will mean there’s plenty of room for more cake. She just needs to be able to get to her feet so that she can waddle to the kitchen to get it. There, that’s a new goal in mind. Get up and get more food to put her one step closer to the day when she can’t get up at all. It’s taxing, but bless her soul, she’s going to keep trying to get to her fat feet.

She gets there eventually, and then the weight of her blubbery belly and the pendulous udders that are her breasts cause her to stumble forward. Thanks to the momentum she gathered to get her fat ass out of that creaking chair, the tremendous weight of her surging spare tire and the heaving of her tremendous bosom nearly send her toppling to the ground. At least the sack of fat that is her stomach and her massive mammaries would have provided a soft cushion to fall on. It’s the same sort of luck that serves as built in floatation devices that keep her from drowning in pools.

Pools she swims in while wearing what remains of a bikini after her ass is done swallowing most of it. The fabric of that bikini might as well be non-existent. With all that flesh quivering as it covers so much of the fabric, she might as well be naked.

Ah yes, a trip to the pool. You can remember the last one real well. It’s like you’re back there now…….

Slap that belly and watch it go! It’s like jello fresh from the mold. Slap suntan lotion on her flabby ass and it’s like basting two hams with butter. Leave her out in the sun too long and they look like them too- red and raw and ready for sweet honey glaze.

All eyes are on her alright. Everyone at the pool watches as she waddles about. They can’t take their eyes off her girth. To many, it’s like looking at a wiggling jiggling car accident gyrating in slow motion. Every single inch of her is soft butter fat that seems to move independently. Her bouncing breasts, barely contained by the bikini top, slap sloppily against her gargantuan gut that hangs out like a shelf overweighted with books and sagging downward so that it totally encompasses the front of her bikini bottoms. The thin, near fraying fabric of those bikini bottoms is stretched to their limit against tree trunk like thunder thighs that slap and rub together with every shuffling step. After that, whatever is left of the bikini is hidden by her titanic ass. It’s swallowed up like a hotdog in oversized buns. Even the back of the bikini top is partially obscured by bulging rolls of back fat. Fat flows freely and it flows everywhere.

This weeble’s gotta wobble her way toward the snack stand. Gotta have her third ice cream sandwich of the day and maybe another hotdog. No. Definitely another hotdog. She can polish off a hotdog in seconds. Should get her on the stage in front of Nathan’s come Fourth of July and make some money.

But look at those faces looking at her. The disgust on most is palpable. Listen to the snickers, the whispers of “whale” and “Shamu”. The sounds of cows and orcas alike greet her as she waddles on by. Someone honks like a penguin at her and does an exaggerated waddle of their own. But she doesn’t care. Her mind’s on one thing and that’s getting another snack. Make that two ice cream sandwiches and a hot dog. She can gulp down the hotdog before they even fish the ice cream sandwiches out of the freezer. Then one sandwich to hold her over for the long waddle back to her near busted beach chair and the last for while she sits in the sun and lets her bacon fat sizzle.

She just has to get there first.

But it’s so hard. With hips that large and thighs that full of thunder, she’s got a wideload waddle that requires so much extra effort. Her dump truck ass sways from side to side as she shoves the first ice cream sandwich into her mouth while paying no to the drips of vanilla that drip onto her chest and slide down the middle of her cleavage. There’s a thin white line that runs right down between her boobs until it disappears into her bikini top and under her quivering breasts.

All eyes are on her. The whispers increase. How can she eat so much? How did she let herself get this way? Look at the piggy still scarfing down her food. She ought to just invest in a trough at this point. Wow that dental floss of a bikini looks ready to pop. It could go at any moment, and she’s too obsessed with deep-throating that ice cream to notice.

Watch that elastic stretch to its absolute limit with every lumbering step. It could go at any-

SNAP!

There’s a sudden release of pressure and the fat is free to wobble as it escapes what little confinement there was. The bikini bottom doesn’t fall to the ground though. Instead it is firmly wedged between her fat ass cheeks. She almost drops the second ice cream sandwich as she goes to cover herself. Almost. Instead she hesitates for a moment and does the only other thing she can think of and shoves it into her mouth, holding it between her teeth and another glob of ice cream spurts forward.

She bends over to cover what is already covered up by her hanging double belly and-

Pop!

There goes the overtaxed bikini top. And this one flies. She tries to catch it, but the escape velocity of that top from those breasts was too much for her flabby arms to move fast enough to catch it. Sausage fingers move to grasp it, but it slips on by and falls to the floor. She could probably bend over and pick it up, but that would be quite the challenge in and of itself. And it would certainly cost her the ice cream sandwich hanging out from her mouth. Can’t have that. Instead she tries to cover herself up as best she can.

One hand trying to cover down below, one arm desperately holding up her pendulous breasts while the remains of an ice cream sandwich is clenched between teeth. She’s a modern day obese Venus.

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“What If” (Part 4)

What if she can’t stop? What if she never fits into these jeans again?

They’re getting pretty tight, too tight. The button won’t close anymore, no matter what she does. Try as she might, it doesn’t matter. She throws herself onto the bed and kicks her legs up in the air. She dances around the room, slams herself against the wall, sends wrappers from a variety of junk food wrappers to the floor as she trips and bangs into her desk all while trying and failing to get her once favorite pairs of jeans to close.

The others she could have lived without. When she outgrew them she was only angry at the fact that they had shrunk. Then she took solace in the fact that even if she did have to eventually admit that she was gaining more weight, these jeans still fit her like a glove.

They were her good butt jeans, her comfort jeans too. Do you know how hard it is to find jeans that are both comfortable and make your ass look good? And they had pockets! They were her miracle jeans.

And it would take a miracle to get the button to close.

Instead…

Riiiiiiip.

The end of the jeans was loudly announced by the ripping of the back which coincidentally happened at the same time that her thumb finally sheared the button off of the front and sent it flying behind her bed.

Yup now it was time for another funeral for jeans long loved and lost. Tears rolled down her slightly chubby cheeks as she peeled the jeans off and left them sadly on the floor.

Her recently chunky butt cheeks bounce as she plodded defeatedly toward her desk and sat with a thud and a creak from her chair.

She felt the roll of her stomach as she sat and let it expand outward as she gave a defeated sigh. It was a fat mess in her hands.

What if she were to start working out right now? She could probably still crank out a few sit ups though not with nearly the speed and form that she used to be able to do. Exercise used to be so easy, and now? Now it is a challenge but what if she waits? If she puts off exercising anymore it might just become impossible.

And that would be bad wouldn’t it? She didn’t want to become a fat, weak, out of shape, pathetic, lard-ass loser.

But then why was she breathing so heavily?

She looked at the box of Twinkies on her desk.

What if she ate that entire box? Would that make her feel better?

Would that make her feel real good?

She wanted those twinkies so bad. She wanted this, didn’t she? She wanted to be a big fat fatty. She wanted to be a naughty little piggy and be called a naughty little piggy.

“Oink. Oink.”

She covered her hands with her hands. She couldn’t believe she had just done that.

What if she did it again?

“oink. oink.”

They were more tentative this time, but she couldn’t deny the warmth down below and the pulsing of her heart as she did it.

Maybe this was the turning point.

What if it was? What if she finally gave in for good, no more pretending?