Got the Life

“Here are your keys. Check-out is Sunday at 11 AM sharp. If there’s nobody at the desk you can just leave the keys and hit the bell. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Beautiful. Thanks, man…”

“You have a good night…”

Card keys finally in hand I bolt back to the car, grinning at her as she opens her door and the suspension bows. Watching her exit the vehicle is nothing short of majestic. 5’5 and a delightful 350 pounds. Long brown hair and a beautiful, full, face. Her breasts are bigger in real life than the pictures. But it’s her belly that’s the most enchanting part of her. It’s huge, round, and hangs over her pussy, down her thighs, preceding her wherever she goes. In the lead-up to our little rendezvous she sent me her daily step count. She rarely, if ever, took over a thousand steps a day. I’m not that active. And even I manage around 5-10,000 a day. She’s so fat and lazy. Spoiled. She is a feedee, she is the real deal. She’s fat and she loves it. She intends to get fatter. Side effects be damned.

“Go inside, get comfortable. I’ll grab your stuff. OK?” I tell her. She nods and waddles inside. She’s wearing a clingy dress that makes her look like she’s pregnant with octuplets. I can hear her wheezing as she goes in. She waves at me as she shuts the door behind her. My dick twitches. Here we go, man…

It’s very surreal. Being with a woman you’ve known through pornography for… A decade? And this ain’t the GFE. She’s a fan. One of a handful of females that read my repulsive works of sexual depravity and metabolic sadism and get a tingle downstairs. Who roll over onto their backs, phones held with a shaking hand and start to diddle themselves as their eyes scan each word and their fantasies play out like a demented slideshow in their mind’s eye.

I pop the trunk and grab her bags, bringing them into her as she sits against the headboard of the bed, her hands on her belly as her nostrils flare and the light sounds of huffing and puffing fill the otherwise quiet, cramped, little motel room. She fires up a joint and I fetch her an ashtray.

“Thanks, Richie…” She says.

“Get ready, I’m bringing in your snacks next…” I reply.

She lets out an adorable little squeal of excitement as I go back outside, turning the AC on before I exit. She’s a very big girl, and she loves to eat. And so, I’ve gotten her a spread that will put her overstretched stomach to the test. She sent me a list of snacks beforehand, and I got all of them, and I got all of them in Amerifat sizes. There’s family sized and then there’s party size. But there’s only two of us here, and one of us will likely only eat once or twice in the next 48 hours. I have my own buffet of narcotics and liquor for myself. Food isn’t a big priority.

“Oh my God… Richie!!!” She gasps.

“And you’re eating every God damn bite, you understand me?”

Her eyes flash with amorous greed as she roots through the bags like a truffle pig. She pulls out a giant bag of nacho cheese Doritos and squeezes them against herself like a child with a teddy bear. I tickle her belly and dip out again, this time withdrawing my backpack and popping the glove box to get my glasses case, which is full of drugs, out of the locked compartment. We made it all the way without getting pulled over. But my bookish appearance and thin blue line bumper stickers were carefully constructed to minimize any potential derailments. Indeed, she’s the only pig I want to interact with this weekend.

“I’m not gonna finish all this this weekend… But I’ll work my way through it. Thank you very much… You’re the real deal, hm?”

I shrug. “I don’t fuck around. I know that much…”

With all the bags inside I dive right into the drugs. She shares my affinity for nu metal and alcohol. Dabbles in Cocaine. I have a big bag of beautiful Peruvian yayo that I’ve had to hot plate to get down into a snortable powder. I dump some out and rack up a couple of fat rails. Then it’s onto the Patron, of which I bought a handle. A fifth is too little, a handle is too much, but I’d rather have too much than not enough. I hear the bag of Doritos open behind me as shooter number two slides down my throat, chased by the white, slimy, slug of the Cocaine drip. My heart picks up and a light layer of sweat washes over my body. I hop into bed with her.

The drugs alone cost more than the room did for the weekend. The yayo and Patron look odd against the trashy backdrop of the motel room. I throw on some Korn. “Got the Life.” Got the life indeed… Coked up. Cigarette lit. Four shots deep and I have a little warm buzz going. Confident as I look into her eyes and put my arm around her. Finally. We’re here.

“So? Am I even fatter in real life?” She asks.

“Yes… Yes, you are… Fuck me, I’ve waited a long time to do this…”

I touch her belly. My boner pulsates through my sweatpants. I pat it, and it feels even better than I imagined.

“My hands gonna be glued here the next two days, OK? Is that cool?”

“Yeah? You like my big, fat, belly, huh?”

“Like isn’t a strong enough word, gordita… Mmmm…”

She rolls over onto her side. We kiss. I pull her into me. We’d been talking every day for about a month. And even though I was balls-deep into a psychotic stimulant binge wherein I left wreckage that will greet me with a wicked grin and insurmountable anguish when I return home, she still liked me. She gave a fuck about what I had to say. Even when those things were verbal diarrhea transcribed. And I appreciate that, man.

She’s sharp. Pays attention. Perceptive. While she’s currently a professional fat girl she has a master’s degree in biology. She could become a physician’s assistant if she wanted to. But she isn’t. What makes that hot is that she is very much aware of what she’s doing to her body and can explain it in scientific terms if prompted. And she still does not give a fuck.

As we kiss, she turns away for a moment. “Be mean to me…” She whispers.

“Oh, yeah? You want me to dickhead? Huh?”

“Yes…” She asks, nodding, a desperation in her brown eyes.

“Alright… Get on top of me…”

“You sure you can handle that?”

“Get your fat ass on top of me…” I growl.

Y’know the stress dolls you squeeze, and the eyes pop out? I imagine that’s what I look like as she mounts me, wheezing as she looks down at me and her belly comes to rest inches from my face. I bury my face in it, squeezing it, worshipping it. It’s so warm and soft. She leans forward a bit and my ribcage is compressed with a level of force I wasn’t quite expecting. The last girl I hooked up with was about 90 pounds lighter. Still fat, but Camille is in another weight class entirely.

“Well?” She asks.

Now I’m the one wheezing. But I clear my throat.

“Look at you… Jesus Christ. I saw that picture of you on Instagram and I thought to myself, there’s no way she’s that fuckin’ fat. And yet you’re even fatter in person. You were just sitting on the bed, not moving a muscle, and you’re still… Breathing… Like you just did a marathon…”

“I’m not that big…”

“Bullshit. You are. And you’re how old?”

“32.”

“32! Tick tock, young lady! You oughta be out there getting hitched. Having babies. Settling the fuck down. And what’re you doing? Hanging out with some fuckin’ weirdo junky who writes dirty stories on the internet. How many red flags have I thrown up for you, and what do you do? You blow right past ‘em. Life in the fat lane…”

She moans as she tosses her hair back and leans further forward. I can barely get my chest out far enough to take a desperate, shallow, breath. It wouldn’t surprise me if my face was taking on a light blue tone as I try my best to breathe. My heart pounds as I put city miles on the ol’ ticker yet again. While I’m looking thin, yet disconcertingly flabby at the same time, I bet our livers and hearts are in similar states of overworked disrepair. We definitely have a few scars on each organ.

She rolls off me and laughs. I snap back to reality.

“Huh?”

“You almost went out, bro… Breathe deeply… I’m sorry I’m so big and fat… I can’t help it… I just get so hungry…”

“Hungry?!?!”

She frowns and nods. Her second and third chins wobble adorably. I reach out and tickle them, which makes her smile.

I grab the Doritos and open them up, bringing one after another to her lips. I rub her belly intermittently. But as we work through the bag, I linger a bit too long. She grows frustrated. Famished. Poor piggy…

“More…” She moans.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry… Here… There we go… That’s a girl…”

She breaks eye contact to look at my crotch. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“You aren’t?”

“No… I am…More… Mmmmm…”

She smiles through a full mouth. This is our foreplay. Our mutual animalistic breathing grows more labored and worked up until she swallows her umpteenth mouthful and lets out an angelic belch that leaves my cock aching for stimulation. In two good strokes I could nut right there.

“Mmmm… I’m gonna get in the shower, OK?”

“OK…”

“Can you help me up?”

“You need help up, huh? What a fatty… That’s OK, though. It’s what I’m here for…”

On her back, head against the flat pillow, she looks up at me like an overturned turtle. I grab her hands and on the count of three I help roll her out of bed. She goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

I light up a cigarette, toot another line, and pound another two shooters. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I haven’t had sex in a minute. A couple minutes, to be truthful. But she’s into me. She loves my work. She’s a fan. All I gotta do now is bring it home. I crack my neck, my knuckles, and as I hear the water turn on, I put on one song and one song only…

His palms are sweaty, knees weak arms are heavy…

There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti…

Another line. Another shooter. Blue Chew, to ensure that neither interfere with comms to the third leg. Mission control. I take my shirt off. I guess I have a dad bod, if your dad was a junky, which mine was. So, it all tracks. Stuntin’ like my daddy. I told you I wasn’t gay, old man. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He’s looking up from me in Hell and giving me a thumbs up. I swore I wouldn’t be like him when I grew up, yet here I am, doing what he did exactly. Snorting coke, drinking, and fucking fat white women.

I light another cigarette and hop into bed, trying to look natural and organic when I’m anything but either of those things. I reach next to me on the floor and with a twiggy forearm pull a 3.3-liter tank of nitrous oxide from below. I put the nozzle to my lips and twist until the frigid air fills my lungs and I hold, hold, hold…

A delightfully warm and lightheaded buzz comes over me as I exhale and my eyelids lower. Not enough to put me to sleep, but enough to level me out a bit. As I alternate between the tank and my cigarette, I realize it might not be the best idea to smoke around this thing. It could explode or something. But then I think, no way. That’s retarded. I would’ve heard about that. It would’ve happened to a few of my old friends and/or associates in the drug world. Nah, man. You’re good. You got the life. Cocaine. Tequila. Whippets. Blue Chew. Xanax. The ensemble cast that props me up as the leading man in the bloated saga known as my life. A film that’s far less interesting than it thinks it is, one that should’ve wrapped up when I was younger, and all this stuff was cool. At 33 I still think it’s cool. But I’m a junky. My mind stopped developing when I was 17. And until I sober up and come to Jesus, I will forever be a child in my mind.

At last, she emerges from the shower. The Blue Chew works its way through my crowded system and pushes past the Cocaine and Tequila, thwarting their diabolical plot to give me the necessary balls to get to home base and then tripping me at the last second with a malfunctioning cock. Her belly is hanging out of her t-shirt. I don’t know if it was intentional or not. But it turns me on. My dick inflates like a pool toy, becoming abnormally hard and rigid, pointing outward at an angle, like it’s trying to rip itself off my crotch and crawl up the wall to its nest in the corner of the ceiling.

“I guess I didn’t really need to get changed, did I?” She laughs as she pulls her clothes off. Her tits flop out over her stomach, like two ornaments, the side to the main course that is her engorged stomach. It’s truly a one-of-a-kind body. I follow hundreds of fat women on Instagram and she’s the only one that looks like this. So belly heavy it’s distracting in a lovely way. It’s like I had free reign over the “create a character” mode in a video game and used it to make the most perverse caricature of a fat woman imaginable, designed to cater to my fetish as much as humanly possible. Belly meter all the way up. I am a belly man. And her belly is easily top ten of all time. Perhaps even top five.

After having a minor crisis as the Cocaine mania screams in my ear that I’m blowing this whole thing because I keep fumbling with the condom, (not very alpha, not very alpha at all), I’m ready to go. She lays down and I get a pillow under her to jack up her frame not unlike one would a car when they have a flat tire. I go in with pure aggression, my boner is very worked up, with zero rhythm nor technique I just go. She starts to moan, squeezing her eyes shut and grabbing the pillow.

I wonder if she’s lying. Just being nice. That’s always a possibility in my paranoid, scrambled, brain. This was all her just being nice. She took a plane here to come and see me and make pretend that I didn’t suck in bed all because she felt bad for me. This is plausible and very likely true. Yes.

Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. No. No. Cut the shit, man. You’re a kickass writer and she’s a fan and she’s one of the hottest girls in the industry, yeah, I said in the industry. And you’re banging the living shit out of her. Atta boy. Got the life. Crushing it. There’ll be plenty of time for your self-loathing horseshit when this is all over. For now, do it up.

I can already tell that the cocktail of narcotics will never allow me to cum. It doesn’t matter how hot she is. With every thrust her belly sloshes and slams into my pelvis which, if I was sober, would’ve had me cumming right there. But I’d rather she get hers and have that good dick report on my resume than blow my load in two seconds.

It's like doing push-ups on a waterbed. Working around her belly is a labor of love if there ever was one. I get even more primally frustrated with my numbed out cock and my pounding grows even more intense.

“Be mean to me…” She gasps.

“Very well… 32 years old and you’re already on six different types of meds for being fat. Prediabetic… For now. We’ll see. Maybe you’ll turn it around, huh? Don’t make me fuckin’ laugh… Nope… You’re in this for life. You’ve had a taste, and you can’t stop. You’re too far gone. Isn’t that right? Is that right, you fuckin’ pig?! Huh!?”

I sell the dialogue well but inside I’m wondering if I’ve gone too far. I keep trying to figure out where the line is. But it doesn’t appear that I’ve hit it. She’s still moaning and apparently having a good time. I start to get my swagger back as concrete evidence that I’m a good fuck is forced down my throat. My internal heckler is, for the moment, put on mute.

I don’t know what to call what happens next. I guess you’d call it addiction. Yeah. That’s probably it. Addiction happened. I slipped out of her, almost not of my own volition, and snorted another line, pounded another shot, and just as she began to whine and groan for more, I was back in, and more animalistic and ravenous than ever.

“You thought I abandoned ya, didn’t ya? You probably couldn’t even see me over this big, fat, fuckin’ stomach… This big greedy belly. Mmmm… It’s so big… So heavy… It does not belong on a girl as small as you… Height wise anyway. And yet here you are. Defying nature. Defying basic human instinct. Most people are repulsed when they gain weight. It’s in our biological coding. When I look at a tub of shit like you I oughta wince. Look away. But I don’t. I keep lookin’. But the fact that it gives me a hard-on doesn’t make it OK…”

“Ooooooooh, Richie…”

“You have a master’s degree in biology. You’ve studied the human body on a more in-depth level than most will ever know in their entire lifetime. You can’t cry ignorance when the doctor checks your A1B or whatever the fuck it’s called, hey, I’m talking to you…”

I grab her lower jaw as the Cocaine leaves me with a false sense of maniacal confidence. Fully unhinged as my own jaw clenches and releases. I look over at the gum on the nightstand, but it will not get me high and is thus deemed unnecessary for the moment.

I slip out for a second and realize my heart is rattling around my chest. But I keep going. And going. And going…

Eventually I withdraw and collapse, admitting defeat. Despite never achieving climax I take solace in a job well done. Jeepers. Look at me. Sacrificing my happy ending for her pleasure. Like a gent. My Nobel prize is in the mail, I’m far too humble to accept it in person.

I light up a smoke as she catches her breath and comes back down. The Saturday morning sun sears through the cheap curtain. Time flies.

“A1B, hm?” She snickers.

“It’s A1C, isn’t it?”

“Yes…”

“I knew that. Fuck…”

“You did a good job otherwise, though…”

“For real?”

“Yeah. You think I’d lie?”

“I’m glad you had a good time. I might’ve been a little nervous…”

“Is that why you didn’t cum?”

“No, that was the drugs… I can’t do sex sober.”

“You’ve never even tried?”

“Nah…”

“You’re such a tortured artist, Richie… My God… You poor thing…”

“I’m glad you recognize that.” I reply in a faux-serious tone. “It’s good to be recognized for my genius. Geniuses are seldom appreciated in their time. But you’re giving me my flowers before I die on the floor of a Sheraton in five years.”

“A Sheraton?! That’s so random…”

“Either that or a Holiday Inn Express. A Motel Six would be too sad. But yeah. You’re not my only groupie and as a poor, tortured, soul, a misunderstood representation of a generation disillusioned and broken… I have no choice but to die young of easily preventable causes.”

“Groupie!? Fuck off…”

I sit up in bed and reach for the tank, filling my lungs with the culinary grade gas and rejecting my body’s desperate pleas not to hold the poison inside me. Nitrous is odorless, I think. It doesn’t have a taste. But for whatever reason this shit tastes like blueberries. I can’t imagine what awful, toxic, unregulated horseshit they mixed the stuff with to get that taste. Why does a tasteless gas need to be flavored? It just makes it seem like they’re marketing it to children.

Whatever it is, it isn’t bad enough to deter me from holding the tank under my arm and hitting it every two to four minutes. I offer her some and she dips her toe in but is not grabbed and pinned into submission by it like I am. The high lasts but a handful of seconds. Hippie crack indeed.

And so, when the high is over that quick there are few scenarios I can imagine in which it’s inappropriate to do it. If it’s there, I’m doing it. Like Cocaine. Cocaine makes me better at life. So, I can do it at work. Stimulants are the missing piece of me.

“My doctor is constantly trying to get me on Ozempic… Or weight loss surgery… But I always yes him to death. And then I don’t do it. And I go back to see him… And I’m even fatter… And he yells at me…”

I listen to her, but my eyes and hands are glued to her belly. I smile and give it a few pats. “Mhm… Zero self-control, huh?”

“Mmmm… He tells me it’s really bad. How fat I am… But I can’t stop. I won’t stop. I’m too far gone…”

“Too far gone?!”

“Yeah… My eyes are up here…”

“I know. But I’m kinda distracted.”

She laughs as I press my face against it and shut my eyes. Each chuckle reverberates and jiggles against my cheek as I kiss it and squeeze it.

“How big do you wanna get? Let’s assume the stars align. And you meet a feeder who’s the real deal…”

“Mmmm… I think like… 500?”

My eyes bug out even more. “Oh my God… Hey, you wanna order breakfast?”

“Yes…”

Watching her eat is hypnotic. She loses herself in the food as if I’m not even there. She moans. Shuts her eyes. And there’s a rhythm to it, a greediness to her pace, that I find sickeningly erotic. Later in the weekend I watch her house eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, a bagel, and a couple of donuts. And it’s the first time I don’t really wanna touch her. I just wanna watch. Watch her be an unrepentant glutton. That “I don’t give a fuck, I love this.” Spirit is so fucking sexy. Maybe it’s the rebellious nature of such a thing, of being so fat and unapologetic about it. Maybe it’s just the addict in me. Gluttony and excess are forever enshrined in that rose-colored filter that keeps me from seeing it for what it truly is.

When she’s thoroughly stuffed, I take her trash from her. She is the real deal. She finished it all. But now she’s moaning, and her belly is hard to the touch. I cuddle up next to her and kiss her, rubbing her belly and offering little affirmations that she’s a very good little piggy and has done such a good job. After all the vitriol I’ve thrown at her it’s time to be sweet and saccharine. I can taste syrup on her cheek as I make out with her. I wipe her face and drum my fingers on her belly. Her belly. Fuck. It’s so biiiiiiiiiiig…

“Mmmm… You’re a good feeder…” She says with a dreamy sleepiness to her voice.

“I do my best. But thank you. You’re a good feedee…”

“Mmmmm… I’m glad I came out to see you…”

“Me too…”

“It’s probably a good thing I live so far away… I can’t imagine what I’d look like if I had you nice and close… Spoiling me… Stuffing me… Helping me with everything I need…”

“Yeah…”

She yawns. My heart is still racing. I nibbled on some toast and home fries but the rest of my meal remains untouched. I cram it into the fridge. There’s just enough room around all the beer. She falls asleep as I light a cigarette and pop a Xanax, cheating me out of the horrific double-hit of the hangover and Cocaine comedown. Three smokes later and I’m feeling sleepy. I cuddle up next to her belly and let the drugs put me down.

I got another 24 hours of this. Hell yeah.