I saved it a couple years ago, it was part 1 of the story. I think there was a part 2, but I forget the title.
The world fluttered in and out of her vision as she blinked wearily, trying to will herself back to sleep's comforting embrace. It wasn't long before she realized that this was a futile effort, however, and, with a groan of protest, finally decided to hoist herself from the confines of her bed.
Slowly, methodically, she edged her juicy thighs over the side of the bed, one after the other, until they were jutting out into space. She did not need to rid herself of any blankets or comforters; she had long since realized her generous padding was enough to keep herself warm, so instead she just beached herself in the center of her upscale queen-sized bed, with the sheets laying in tatters in one far-off corner of the mattress.
Eventually, after gathering a considerable amount of strength, she finally began the arduous task of lifting her immense upper body to a sitting position. The massive mound of mountainous belly flab that pressed against her bulbous form often made this simple act difficult, and this time proved to be no exception. The big blubbery ball of rippling flesh kept her rooted to the spot, and it was only after several minutes of grueling effort that she finally overcame gravity's brutal hold on her doughy physique.
Now that she was sitting in an upright position, panting slightly, she slowly slipped her legs off the bed. Her plump toes soon touched the chic hardwood floor, an unwelcome sensation to the girl at this time of day; all it meant was that she now had to perform the equally tiring task of standing.
She pressed her chubby hands against the unstably soft surface of her fat-laden thighs and pushed upward with minimal force, and her severely-overworked knees popped under the sudden introduction of unwanted weight. She swayed a bit when she finally stood straight; her hanging belly refused to cease movement along with the rest of her and swung laboriously to from side to side, brushing gently against her round thighs as it did so.
And so, five minutes after her eyelids first flickered open weakly, Flora Reinhold was standing.
"Jesus, I hate doing that," she muttered to herself, rubbing her eyes sleepily. As she did so, she noticed a small dab of sweat gathering just above her brow. Who would've thought that waking up would be so exhausting?
She looked down at her enormous body indifferently. She had never been one to understand the concept of "self image." After all, spending the vast majority one's time alone would give anyone a blind eye in terms of personal appearance. It's probably why she never wore clothes that fit her properly; instead, she opted to wear too-small T-shirts that never fully covered her apron belly, and usually didn't wash them for days or weeks on end. In fact, the dirty yellow shirt she was wearing now only covered half of her massive stomach. And her equally-tight grey sweatpants were wedging themselves in between her rotund ass cheeks; though with a swift and less-than-subtle-tug, she yanked them out, grunting.
After a yawn, she began shuffling her legs awkwardly forward. As her soft feet padded gently against the floor with every labored step, she soon found herself through the doorway and into the hallway. Luckily, the late Augustus Reinhold was wise enough to take his daughter's inevitable horizontal growth into consideration, and made sure to build the doorframe very wide; almost enough to fit three normal-sized people side-by-side-by-side…However, Flora was starting to think her father had underestimated just how large she would get; she noticed her more-than-ample hips brushed against the wooden frame, as they had been doing for the last few weeks.
She ditched the thought wearily and continued her agonizing stroll, down the hallway, through the living room, and inevitably onto the couch, right in the gigantic indent that had formed over years of overuse from its heavy patron.
"Good morning, Flora," greeted a calming voice. Out of the corner of her eye, Flora noticed the pleasantly plump figure of her "mother" Rosie Reinhold taking small, gentle steps toward her.
The young girl in question did not respond. It wasn't morning anyway; as she turned on her TV, she noticed that the time on the cable box read 3:23. "Morning" had been over for hours. Still, "Good morning" was always the first thing Rosie said to Flora, no matter what time of day she woke up.
"Would you like some breakfast?" Rosie asked, undaunted by the girl's rudeness. Flora replied with a grunt that sounded similar to "Pancakes," and the robot nanny nodded once in response, before turning on her heel into the kitchen. "Okay, sweetie."
Flora reached over and grabbed the controller sitting beside her. Holding the large center button, she waited impatiently for the green light on her Xbox 360 to light up in correspondence to the flashing X on the controller.
'There we go,' she thought drowsily as the Xbox dashboard appeared in front of her on the enormous flat screen TV.
And so began another day in the life of Flora Reinhold: she on her couch and Rosie in the kitchen cooking her food. This is how her days began, this is how her days ended, and this is what she expected for the rest of her life. It wasn't a life she was ultimately happy with, but at the same time, it was something she understood, something she had gotten used to, and something she wasn't about to give up. And if her life had shown her anything, it was that she could never be too sure when she would have to give up something…
But still, her day had just started. It was time to enjoy it.
"MOTHER FUCKER!!" shrieked the young Reinhold, directly into her Xbox Live microphone (and subsequently into all of her teammates' ears).
She (or rather, her character) had once again been killed in one of her favorite video games, and she rightly placed the blame on everyone but herself.
"Godammit, will you people get in the FUCKING game?!" She continued to yell into the TV, while simultaneously shoving food into her maw (food, by the way, provided by her very own Rosie, who did nothing to stop the obese teen from shouting such profanity). Crumbs flew out of her mouth as she continued to rant and rave, either collecting in her cavernous cleavage or simply landing on her vast belly.
She didn't bother wiping it off though. She instead grabbed even more handfuls of chips from the bowl next to her and continued to play, shaking the bowl in Rosie's direction when it needed to be refilled. The faithful robot nanny took the hint and grabbed the bowl gently, carrying it into the kitchen so silently Flora barely even noticed she did it. Then again, it was hard to get distracted when you're one kill away from getting to use an AC-130...
But at the last second, she was gunned down by an enemy who was crouched comfortably in the corner, with their gun aimed straight at the doorway.
Oh that set her off. "FUCKING CAMPER!!" she shouted, slamming her plump fist on the couch, sending her flabby body in a wave-like motion.
"Oh my God, will you shut up?!" one of her teammates scolded her, apparently tired of her outbursts. "It's just a freaking game…"
"Hey, screw you kid," Flora shot back. "I'll say what I fucking want to say."
"Whatever, bitch," the player replied, and a moment later a small message appeared saying that he had left the game.
Flora sighed and followed the other player's example, deeming that game un-winnable and giving up. "Dammit, I wish Xbox Live wasn't full of idiots," she murmured to herself. She jumped into another game lobby a moment later, having long-ago given up the pretense of "taking breaks." She'd been through this enough times to know that when the urge to stop playing came up, it was best to just ignore it and push on to another game.
And so she kept playing and eating, playing and eating, and with every passing online match her temper worsened. And yet she never stopped, only pausing every once in a while to change disks.
It was only after a solid five hours that Flora finally put down the controller. The clock read 9:00 PM, and she realized that she could no longer handle her own smell. She didn't like doing it, but eventually it had to be done: it was time to take a bath.
Once again she had to leave the comforting embrace of one of her favorite pieces of furniture, and once she had shifted her bulk into an upright and standing position, she sighed and waddled arduously toward the bathroom. "Make me a pizza while I'm in here," she instructed Rosie before closing the door. "Pepperoni."
The robot's "Yes dear," was drowned out by the slamming of the bathroom door.
Once inside, Flora rid herself of the overly-small T-shirt and sweatpants, letting her fat cascade down her body freely. She filled the tub about halfway with water before getting in, displacing an enormous amount of liquid.
There was no hiding the fact that Flora despised baths, but her least favorite part of the whole ordeal was definitely the amount of trouble it took to get into the tub. Her stunningly wide hips would always slide uncomfortably against the sides as she slowly lowered herself down, making irritating sucker-like sounds as large portions of her moist flab would stick to the tub wall. And even when she finally managed to sit down completely, her rear was packed in so tight that it was hard to imagine ever getting out again. And her stomach rose so high out of the water that it was actually taller than the tub itself. It was like an enormous, pale island that jiggled intensely every time a wave lapped up against its fatty shores. Sure, she could've taken a shower instead, but she'd be damned if she would stand up for that long just to do something she could do laying down.
The world fluttered in and out of her vision as she blinked wearily, trying to will herself back to sleep's comforting embrace. It wasn't long before she realized that this was a futile effort, however, and, with a groan of protest, finally decided to hoist herself from the confines of her bed.
Slowly, methodically, she edged her juicy thighs over the side of the bed, one after the other, until they were jutting out into space. She did not need to rid herself of any blankets or comforters; she had long since realized her generous padding was enough to keep herself warm, so instead she just beached herself in the center of her upscale queen-sized bed, with the sheets laying in tatters in one far-off corner of the mattress.
Eventually, after gathering a considerable amount of strength, she finally began the arduous task of lifting her immense upper body to a sitting position. The massive mound of mountainous belly flab that pressed against her bulbous form often made this simple act difficult, and this time proved to be no exception. The big blubbery ball of rippling flesh kept her rooted to the spot, and it was only after several minutes of grueling effort that she finally overcame gravity's brutal hold on her doughy physique.
Now that she was sitting in an upright position, panting slightly, she slowly slipped her legs off the bed. Her plump toes soon touched the chic hardwood floor, an unwelcome sensation to the girl at this time of day; all it meant was that she now had to perform the equally tiring task of standing.
She pressed her chubby hands against the unstably soft surface of her fat-laden thighs and pushed upward with minimal force, and her severely-overworked knees popped under the sudden introduction of unwanted weight. She swayed a bit when she finally stood straight; her hanging belly refused to cease movement along with the rest of her and swung laboriously to from side to side, brushing gently against her round thighs as it did so.
And so, five minutes after her eyelids first flickered open weakly, Flora Reinhold was standing.
"Jesus, I hate doing that," she muttered to herself, rubbing her eyes sleepily. As she did so, she noticed a small dab of sweat gathering just above her brow. Who would've thought that waking up would be so exhausting?
She looked down at her enormous body indifferently. She had never been one to understand the concept of "self image." After all, spending the vast majority one's time alone would give anyone a blind eye in terms of personal appearance. It's probably why she never wore clothes that fit her properly; instead, she opted to wear too-small T-shirts that never fully covered her apron belly, and usually didn't wash them for days or weeks on end. In fact, the dirty yellow shirt she was wearing now only covered half of her massive stomach. And her equally-tight grey sweatpants were wedging themselves in between her rotund ass cheeks; though with a swift and less-than-subtle-tug, she yanked them out, grunting.
After a yawn, she began shuffling her legs awkwardly forward. As her soft feet padded gently against the floor with every labored step, she soon found herself through the doorway and into the hallway. Luckily, the late Augustus Reinhold was wise enough to take his daughter's inevitable horizontal growth into consideration, and made sure to build the doorframe very wide; almost enough to fit three normal-sized people side-by-side-by-side…However, Flora was starting to think her father had underestimated just how large she would get; she noticed her more-than-ample hips brushed against the wooden frame, as they had been doing for the last few weeks.
She ditched the thought wearily and continued her agonizing stroll, down the hallway, through the living room, and inevitably onto the couch, right in the gigantic indent that had formed over years of overuse from its heavy patron.
"Good morning, Flora," greeted a calming voice. Out of the corner of her eye, Flora noticed the pleasantly plump figure of her "mother" Rosie Reinhold taking small, gentle steps toward her.
The young girl in question did not respond. It wasn't morning anyway; as she turned on her TV, she noticed that the time on the cable box read 3:23. "Morning" had been over for hours. Still, "Good morning" was always the first thing Rosie said to Flora, no matter what time of day she woke up.
"Would you like some breakfast?" Rosie asked, undaunted by the girl's rudeness. Flora replied with a grunt that sounded similar to "Pancakes," and the robot nanny nodded once in response, before turning on her heel into the kitchen. "Okay, sweetie."
Flora reached over and grabbed the controller sitting beside her. Holding the large center button, she waited impatiently for the green light on her Xbox 360 to light up in correspondence to the flashing X on the controller.
'There we go,' she thought drowsily as the Xbox dashboard appeared in front of her on the enormous flat screen TV.
And so began another day in the life of Flora Reinhold: she on her couch and Rosie in the kitchen cooking her food. This is how her days began, this is how her days ended, and this is what she expected for the rest of her life. It wasn't a life she was ultimately happy with, but at the same time, it was something she understood, something she had gotten used to, and something she wasn't about to give up. And if her life had shown her anything, it was that she could never be too sure when she would have to give up something…
But still, her day had just started. It was time to enjoy it.
"MOTHER FUCKER!!" shrieked the young Reinhold, directly into her Xbox Live microphone (and subsequently into all of her teammates' ears).
She (or rather, her character) had once again been killed in one of her favorite video games, and she rightly placed the blame on everyone but herself.
"Godammit, will you people get in the FUCKING game?!" She continued to yell into the TV, while simultaneously shoving food into her maw (food, by the way, provided by her very own Rosie, who did nothing to stop the obese teen from shouting such profanity). Crumbs flew out of her mouth as she continued to rant and rave, either collecting in her cavernous cleavage or simply landing on her vast belly.
She didn't bother wiping it off though. She instead grabbed even more handfuls of chips from the bowl next to her and continued to play, shaking the bowl in Rosie's direction when it needed to be refilled. The faithful robot nanny took the hint and grabbed the bowl gently, carrying it into the kitchen so silently Flora barely even noticed she did it. Then again, it was hard to get distracted when you're one kill away from getting to use an AC-130...
But at the last second, she was gunned down by an enemy who was crouched comfortably in the corner, with their gun aimed straight at the doorway.
Oh that set her off. "FUCKING CAMPER!!" she shouted, slamming her plump fist on the couch, sending her flabby body in a wave-like motion.
"Oh my God, will you shut up?!" one of her teammates scolded her, apparently tired of her outbursts. "It's just a freaking game…"
"Hey, screw you kid," Flora shot back. "I'll say what I fucking want to say."
"Whatever, bitch," the player replied, and a moment later a small message appeared saying that he had left the game.
Flora sighed and followed the other player's example, deeming that game un-winnable and giving up. "Dammit, I wish Xbox Live wasn't full of idiots," she murmured to herself. She jumped into another game lobby a moment later, having long-ago given up the pretense of "taking breaks." She'd been through this enough times to know that when the urge to stop playing came up, it was best to just ignore it and push on to another game.
And so she kept playing and eating, playing and eating, and with every passing online match her temper worsened. And yet she never stopped, only pausing every once in a while to change disks.
It was only after a solid five hours that Flora finally put down the controller. The clock read 9:00 PM, and she realized that she could no longer handle her own smell. She didn't like doing it, but eventually it had to be done: it was time to take a bath.
Once again she had to leave the comforting embrace of one of her favorite pieces of furniture, and once she had shifted her bulk into an upright and standing position, she sighed and waddled arduously toward the bathroom. "Make me a pizza while I'm in here," she instructed Rosie before closing the door. "Pepperoni."
The robot's "Yes dear," was drowned out by the slamming of the bathroom door.
Once inside, Flora rid herself of the overly-small T-shirt and sweatpants, letting her fat cascade down her body freely. She filled the tub about halfway with water before getting in, displacing an enormous amount of liquid.
There was no hiding the fact that Flora despised baths, but her least favorite part of the whole ordeal was definitely the amount of trouble it took to get into the tub. Her stunningly wide hips would always slide uncomfortably against the sides as she slowly lowered herself down, making irritating sucker-like sounds as large portions of her moist flab would stick to the tub wall. And even when she finally managed to sit down completely, her rear was packed in so tight that it was hard to imagine ever getting out again. And her stomach rose so high out of the water that it was actually taller than the tub itself. It was like an enormous, pale island that jiggled intensely every time a wave lapped up against its fatty shores. Sure, she could've taken a shower instead, but she'd be damned if she would stand up for that long just to do something she could do laying down.