Kinktober Day 9: Can't Reach

It took a while for her to acknowledge that she might’ve gotten too fat for her own good.

The first sign, which she dutifully ignored, was having trouble reaching up into some of the higher cabinets in her kitchen. In the past, that was where she’d stored things she didn’t need to use very often, but were still handy to have. In the past, she’d been able to get up on her tip-toes and just barely reach. But that was before. Now, her belly pressed into the counter, pushing her back slightly, forcing her to lean in even further and stretch another few inches that she just didn’t have. She ended up having to grab a ladle to hook around what she needed, catching it before it dropped onto the countertop. It was a minor inconvenience, all told, and she felt clever after her quick thinking with the ladle. She ordered a step-stool online and, inconvenience vanquished, didn’t give it another thought.

The second sign arrived as she was sitting on the couch. Previously, she had been able to bend forward slightly and pick up the remote from the coffee table in front of her. But suddenly, that slight lean was not enough. There was too much her in the way. She had to heft herself forward, belly pressing into her thick thighs. After she had the remote in hand, she used it to scroll to where she needed to go, and then sat it on the couch beside her. She knew it would probably get lost between the arm of the couch and her soft, spreading thigh but that made more sense than having to dislodge herself from her comfy spot just to spring forward to get the remote off the table again.

The third sign came much later than the other two. She was alone in bed in the dark, cozy under the covers, and felt that familiar, warm throb between her thighs. She reached a plump hand down—and came up short. She hadn’t done anything differently than normal. She furrowed her brow and tried a different angle, but no, that wasn’t working, either. She tried switching to the opposite hand and ran into the same problem. Acknowledging that her belly was definitely the issue, she used one hand to lift and shove her belly to the side, while the other hand reached down toward her mound. Still, this was not enough. She didn’t completely realize it in the moment, but her fat belly was not the only issue. The fact that her upper arms had grown large enough that they no longer sat flush against her body, and her breasts and side rolls had expanded, were equal contributors. She just didn’t have the same reach.

She wound up working out her frustrations on a pillow that night, utilizing her own weight to apply pressure just where she wanted it. But it was inexact, and far less efficient than the practiced motions of her own pudgy fingers. By the time she finally came, she was sweaty and exhausted and buying a long-handled vibrator and learning how to use it properly was at the top of her to-do list.

The fourth sign, and the one that really made her look at herself and wonder how it was possible that she was so huge, was when she was sitting at her kitchen table. Her partner had prepared a particularly lavish breakfast and they were both enjoying themselves. She reached out a hand to grab the syrup. Even just a couple months ago, this hadn’t been an issue. It was sitting in the middle of the table, and should’ve been within arm’s reach. But she came up short.

She looked down and realized that the plush upper roll of her double belly had grown to the point that she was actually pushed back from the edge of the table, and by quite a lot, even when she was sitting as close as possible. She reached forward again, looking down at herself, wondering if she might be able to squeeze just a little further. But no. She was pressed against the table as tightly as she could be.

“Um,” she said, clearing her throat. “Would you mind getting the syrup for me?” She waited for them to tease her, to ask, “What, can’t you get it yourself? It’s right there.” She expected to be scolded. She was scolding herself plenty, after all. How had she grown too fat to reach the center of the table?

But her partner thought nothing of it and set the syrup right beside her plate with a smile.

Maybe it was fine, then. She poured (too much) syrup onto her plate, letting it soak into the remains of the stack of buttery pancakes while she dipped her sausage into it. But as she ate, she looked down yet again and considered what might happen if she got even bigger. Would she struggle to reach her own plate? Would she have to use that soft upper belly roll she’d so lovingly grown over the years as a table instead?

It was hard to be anxious with a mouthful of pancakes, so she did eventually manage to quiet those thoughts down. Still, they lingered, ready to remind her at a moment’s notice of all the things she’d grown too fat to reach.