"You think I'm fat?" Wyatt asked over a mouthful of chips, hands defensively placed on his shelf-like gut.
Of course he was fat. He was fucking huge. The sliver of stretchmark covered belly pouring over his sweatpants gave that away. Not to mention the swollen tits, blubbery lovehandles, and plump ass to rival his jiggling gut. His clothes were clinging to him, desperately begging him to stop ballooning so fast. His thick fingers sunk into the blubber, and he coaxed a belch out.
"Are... are you serious? Have you... looked in the mirror?"
He waddled over to the full length mirror like he'd never seen himself before. His reflection was too wide, but he eyed most of his doughy form. He lifted his heavy gut up and dropped it, arousal burning between his legs, lard wobbling. With a dumb smile painted on his face, he belched again, and sank a finger into his belly button. It felt good.
"I've only put on a couple pounds," he said, absentmindedly squeezing his moobs, then his nipples. "I'm just a little bloated."
On cue, he waddled back to the couch. Sinking into the same ass imprint, putting on the same channel, ordering the same food. It was automatic; he didn't think about it, he just did. To keep his hands busy, he eased more gas out of the gurgling mass. He didn't blush when he moaned out loud - just reached into another bag of chips to tide him over. It was no wonder how he'd shot up a few hundred pounds. He was a mindless eating machine.
"Didn't your doctor tell you to... to cut back, a little?"
Wyatt heaved his fat ass up to get the delivery before he considered the question. There was no hint of embarrassment in him with he came back with an armful of take out. He just dropped into his seat, resumed his show, and started to stuff himself. Only with a mouthful of greasy food he thought somewhat clearly. He tried to ignore his gassy gut for the time being, and focus instead on the probing questions.
"I did!" It came out nearly as a whine. Then he patted the spherous, bloated mass with a smile, forcing a burp up. "I quit drinking, just like he wanted."
And he replaced it with thousands of calories, pounds of sugar, and turned himself into a tub of lard. The only reason he was still mobile was sheer height alone. Closer to seven feet than six, five hundred pounds was a hamper, not a disability. Although that was liable to change, as the numbers on the scale crept closer and closer to "error". It was obvious to everyone except Wyatt, who crammed more in, and more spilled out of his clothes.
"Don't you think about excersize? Eating healthy?"
Wyatt shook his head, enthralled in his show. It was hard for him to focus on so many things at once; his food tasted good, and so he gave some attention there; his show was bright and loud, and he gave some attention there. There was little left in his head to listen and respond. Not with his belly growling angrily, gurgling angrier. He moaned when a fart slipped, and it was downhill from there. His fingers sank into the mass, forcing more gas and moans out.
"I eat pretty healthy," he finally said, sucking ranch off his fingers, placing another doordash. "And I only eat 'til I'm full."
Which was almost never. If he stopped to think about it, he probably wouldn't remember was being full felt like. Every day he just gorged himself more and more, stretching his capacity, pushing his limits. It was easy work for a food- addicted half-wit. When his second batch of delivery came, he had no qualms about answering the door. Despite his gut bulging further out, despite the sauce stains on his shirt, despite his fat clogged arteries begging him to eat a salad. All he could focus on was his tastebuds and cock screaming for more. He was just so hungry. He couldn't just not eat. He hated feeling hungry.
"Why don't you just take care of yourself? You know... shower? Clean?"
He looked at the TV screen dimly, like he couldn't understand the program. A look of focus flashed across his features, and a long fart erupted out of him. He laid back into the seat contentedly, food still in arms reach. Between the constant gas, aroma of food, and musk of his own body, Wyatt was in heaven. It wasn't disgusting to him - it was amazingly putrid, and he was proud of the terrible smells he could produce. Just another marker of his gluttony; a diet so poor his own digestive system could hardly process it. In his briefs, his tiny cock begged for pleasure.
"I don't go anywhere. I don't have to. And I'm pretty clean..."
Clean was not the right word. Greasy-haired, rotten-toothed and disgustingly, horrifyingly fat? Maybe. But not clean. For a grown man, he had more acne than a teenaged boy. His once bare face had sprouted lazy stubble he himself was too lazy to keep trimmed. His already greasy skin was always dripping with sweat from his own body heat. The pits of his once-white t-shirt told that story well, stained with years of sweat and other mystery discolorations. He took a whiff under his arms like the acrid fumes would back him up, and smiled like they did.
"Maybe some hobbies, then? To keep yourself active... or just... busy?"
He hardly had to answer that. His biggest hobby was cramming junk down his throat, followed by channel surfing. Occasional tastebreakers included forcing gas out, jerking off, and never moving unless absolutely necessary. Wyatt was more whale than human, always beached on his overstuffed couch. He hadn't thought of excersize at all the last hundred pounds. Not that they hadn't piled up so fast he hardly noticed. He smiled big, furry chins bulging.
"I do lots of stuff. Like watch my shows-URRRP. And, uh..."
He didn't rack his brain. He just let his mouth hang open, nearly drooling. His eyes hazily traced the events flickering on screen. It was much too hard for the piggy to think and watch at the same time. No wonder he'd lost his manners and self-respect so quickly. It was just too much to juggle in his empty brain. All he could think about was pumping more calories in - as long as they tasted good and gave him pleasure. His stomach grumbled on cue, still bloated from two full meals. He felt just as full between his legs, and knew he lacked the willpower not to touch. His meaty hands probed his doughy gut, and he moaned again as gas escaped from both ends.
"Don't you realize how out of shape you're getting? You're destroying your body. Don't you know that getting this morbidly obese will put you in an early grave?"
There would be no coming back from this. Wyatt's tiny brain might not have been able to think that deeply, but the abundance of angry stretchmarks told the story for everyone else. Once he'd been slim, able to climb a flight of stairs, or get off the couch without his joints protesting. The first hundred pounds wasn't a death wish. It filled out his tall frame and made him a good cuddler. The second hundred pounds stripped him of ever being an athlete again, but he could have slimmed down from there. Even his portions were mostly under control. The third hundred pounds sealed his fate. Three hundred pounds up, he'd mindlessly gained his starting weight twice. There was no stopping that kind of wanton gluttony. There was no adjusting those portion sizes, no monitoring those blood sugar levels, no waddling without wheezing.
Wyatt tore his eyes away from a commercial, hardly realizing he'd grabbed his cock. From his gluttonous throne, he surveyed his kingdom of empty takeout boxes. Then he smiled, heart hitching under hundreds of spare pounds.
"Keep going."
