You stir beneath the thick quilt, the mattress groaning under your immense weight as the scent of frying bacon cuts through the stale, warm air of the bedroom. A gentle hand shakes your shoulder.
"Sweetpea? Time to wake up," comes the familiar voice, soft but insistent. "Made your favorites - extra crispy bacon, a whole dozen eggs scrambled with cheese, and those fluffy pancakes stacked high."
You blink blearily, shifting your mountainous body with a grunt that echoes in the small room; the simple act of turning your head feels like moving a boulder. Your boyfriend, lean and patient, stands beside the bed holding a tray piled impossibly high with steaming food, the sheer volume barely registering anymore.
"C?mon," he coaxes, nudging the tray closer, "gotta keep my girl fueled." The smell is overwhelming, pulling at a deep, familiar ache in your cavernous belly.
Your eyelids flutter open as his fingers brush crumbs from your lips. Each bite slides into your mouth with practiced ease - crisp bacon shattering against your teeth, molten cheese oozing from eggs, syrup-soaked pancakes dissolving on your tongue. Your arms, swollen and heavy as waterlogged timber, barely twitch toward the fork before he guides it away, murmuring "Let me, sweetpea," as he scoops another dripping forkful.
Grease pools in the folds beneath your chin, warm and slick. When the last morsel vanishes, he wipes your muzzle with a damp cloth, the terrycloth rasping against your sensitive skin. Then his hands sink into the vast expanse of your belly, kneading the doughy flesh with firm, circular motions; a low groan rumbles from your chest as the pressure eases the ache of overfullness, the skin beneath his palms hot and yielding like rising bread dough.
A thunderous belch erupts from your lips, shaking the rolls of fat around your neck as your lungs strain against the crushing weight of your breasts - each massive mound pressing down like twin sacks of wet cement. Your boyfriend chuckles softly, wiping syrup from his forearm where your exhale sprayed droplets.
"Alright, sweetpea, shower time," he murmurs, already sliding his arms beneath your back.
His muscles cord with effort as he tries to lift you, face flushing crimson, but your body barely budges; the mattress springs scream in protest, sinking deeper as your gelatinous bulk absorbs the motion like quicksand. Sweat beads on his temples as he braces a knee against the bedframe, heaving again - only managing to shift you sideways a few inches before gasping, palms slipping on the sweat-slicked folds of your flank.
"Easy... easy," he pants, defeated, staring at the mountain of flesh that pins the sheets.
Your wide eyes lock onto his, pupils dilated with panic as your heart thuds against ribs buried deep beneath layers of fat - each labored breath makes your breasts heave like tidal waves against your collarbones.
"Am... am I stuck?" you wheeze, the words thick and slow as molasses, your tongue feeling heavy in your syrup-coated mouth.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, the frame groaning under the combined weight, and wipes sweat from his brow with a shaky hand.
"Yeah, sweetpea," he admits softly, avoiding your gaze as he traces a finger along the valley between your belly rolls. "You?ve... outgrown the bed. Outgrown moving."
When you whisper "What now?", he forces a tender smile, already reaching for the sponge and basin he?d prepared earlier.
"Now," he murmurs, dipping the sponge into warm, soapy water, "we get you cleaned up nice... and then it?s blueberry waffles time. Extra butter."
The first touch of the sponge glides over your shoulder, washing away dried sweat and grease as he works methodically around the immobile landscape of your body.
The sponge bath leaves your skin damp and smelling faintly of lavender soap, the water pooling in the creases of your belly before he towels it away with careful dabs. After your second breakfast, when he pricks your fingertip for the blood sugar test, the monitor beeps sharply - its digital display flashing **HI** in ominous red letters, far beyond the readable scale. The blood pressure cuff strains around your swollen upper arm, inflating until the Velcro threatens to tear; the gauge needle trembles at 210/140 before he releases the valve with a click of his tongue.
"My greedy girl," he murmurs, tracing the angry red line the cuff left behind, his thumb rubbing circles into the puffy flesh. "Pushing all the limits today, aren?t we?"
Without hesitation, he returns with a tray bearing two sizzling cheeseburgers dripping with special sauce, a mountain of golden onion rings, and a chocolate milkshake thick enough to stand a spoon in. He feeds you slowly, methodically, each bite a deliberate escalation - the salty fat coating your tongue, the cold sweetness of the shake following like a chaser. You feel your pulse throb in your temples with every swallow, a drumbeat synced to the relentless expansion of your gut beneath the quilt.
The cheeseburgers vanish into your mouth like stones sinking into a swamp, each greasy bite making your pulse flutter erratically against the fat-padded walls of your throat. Onion rings crunch wetly between your teeth, their oily residue coating your tongue as the milkshake?s thick sweetness chases them down - a cold, cloying tide that swells your already overstuffed belly tighter than a drum.
Halfway through the tray, a sharp stitch lances through your ribs, and your breathing turns shallow and whistling; by the last onion ring, sweat beads along your brow like condensation on a glass, your heart hammering against your sternum with such violence that the bedframe shudders in time.
As darkness swallows your vision, you slump backward into the mattress?s crater, unconsciousness hitting like a black velvet curtain - your boyfriend?s kiss landing on a damp cheek as he whispers, "Rest now, sweetpea," before quietly gathering the empty tray.
His thumb brushes crumbs from the corner of your mouth, the gesture tender yet clinical - like wiping down a well-used countertop. The damp cloth leaves a cool trail across your greasy cheek before he balls it up with a soft sigh.
"Be right back with lunch, sweetpea," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear as he leans over your sleeping form. The mattress groans as his weight lifts away, footsteps retreating across the creaking floorboards toward the kitchen doorway.
From the hall comes the metallic clatter of pans being pulled from cupboards, followed by the hiss of the stove igniting - a low, constant sound like a serpent?s whisper. Soon, the smell of frying sausage and melting butter begins to seep under the bedroom door, thick and insistent, mingling with the lingering scent of lavender soap and your own sour sweat.
Your belly rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths beneath the quilt as you begin to awaken to start the cycle all over again.
