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bigggfattt · 1 month

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Sorry for the Inconvenience

You rolled into the lobby of your apartment complex, after barely fitting through the front doors, blissfully unaware of the earth shattering revelation that awaits you. Your focus was of course on the mountain of fatty delicious treats piled high in the basket of your rascal after your most recent trip to the grocery store next door to your complex.

You of course chose this complex due to it’s proximity to the shopping center adorned with fast food joint out lots and a selection of mom and pop restaurants in the strip in addition to the store. Heck, leaving your apartment to eat or get food is about the only thing you do now, outside of seeing the plethora of doctors keeping your sorry excuse for a body going with medications on medications to make up for your consciously bad decisions. Let’s zoom out a bit to set the scene.

You’re sat heavily on the seat of your motorized scooter as it groans away being meant for someone less than half your girth. Your colossal ass cheeks and back tits almost entirely engulfing the seat. It’s surprising you haven’t managed to tip yourself over yet, your thighs and gut spilling over the sides making you three to four times the width of the cart. Your flabby arms are barely able to reach the handlebars having to reach over your huge truck tire sized gut rolls and mountainous moobs. Reaching so purposefully for your tenuous grip of the controls they bunch your moob fat up, which in turn collides with your neck fat leaving your face sunken deep behind a tide of chins, truly illustrating the fact that you are drowning in a sea of your own fat.

And you know what the most fucked up thing is? You want this. No you’re not some weight loss reality TV personality with a sad backstory of childhood trauma causing your sustained weight gain. Nope, you consciously chose to shove every last fatty calorie in your mouth for the simple reason that you found it so undeniably hot. Each goopy pound adding to your frame and sloshing around amplifying the ever increasing pleasure of more. Every struggle and thing you can no longer do due to your size arousing you deep within your core. From the outside someone may mistake your life for one of sadness, but for you, sitting within your cushy throne of your own making it’s a life of limitless pleasure.

That was all until today of course. The day where you might just meet your match. It’s weird how impactful such a common object would be to you. A hastily made sign printed on plain old office paper out of the management office’s run of the mill laser printer, hung up with generic branded scotch tape, heck they didn’t even bother to change from the default font. But it wasn’t the physical aspects of it that caused your already stressed heart to sink even further into your flabby chest, it was the content:

Attention Residents,

The elevator is temporarily out of service until tomorrow. Sorry for the inconvenience,

Management

No, no, no, this can’t be happening. You think to yourself. What are you going to do? You look to the stairs, the thought of hauling your carcass up them increasing your panic. You look down at the food in your cart and seriously ponder sitting in the lobby all night and chowing down, but the pains of the normal sized seat pressing into your less than normal sized body puts a stop to that train of thought. There’s gotta be a way out of this. You call the Super, Victor, feigning an excuse of needing help carrying something into the lobby knowing he won’t come if you immediately ask about the elevator. It’s a common enough occurrence you need help carrying something, so he agrees to come on down. You rustle through the bags of food to find something to settle your nerves while you wait the few minutes it’ll take him to walk up from the sub basement. You spy the pink and blue wrapping of a bag of Double Stuf Oreos, ripping open the top and dumping an entire sleeve into your waiting maw, not caring who could possibly see you pigging out in the semi-public space.

You finish your chewing as Victor opens the door. Victor is not what you would think of when you hear the title Super, being a fit young man with a baby face that hides the fact that he is wiser than his years. You usually love the way his young, agile body plays in comparison to your bloated, overburdened, and astonishingly younger body. You look at him and wonder if you could have looked like him if you had made different choices, but you didn’t, and you wouldn’t anyway. Fuck, yes. But today you don’t feel that, today you are only full of worry. Lazily wiping excess crumbs from your lips with your fleshy forearm you ask him what’s up with the sign hoping that it’s just an inspection or something that you can convince him to make an exception for. Unfortunately he explains to you that it’s truly broken down and the earliest he could possibly get someone out was tomorrow.

I’m sorry but you’ll just have to take the stairs, he says to you, you’re only on the second floor, one flight of stairs won’t kill you, right? His tone was one of joking, but you could tell there was a serious question under there. Was he right? Had you really gotten yourself to the point where you don’t think you can make it up a single flight of stairs? Could he just tell by looking at you that you hadn’t taken more than five steps from your cart to whatever flat surface you collapsed yourself onto next in more than a year? Let alone hauled yourself up from one elevation to another. Disguising your inner turmoil you chuckle joking that you think you can do it this one time. You ask Victor to at least schlep your groceries up as a favor, explaining you don’t think you’ll be able to carry those and this, patting your hands on your expansive belly. You watch him closely as he bunches up your haul, behind his cheery veneer you can see him judging the contents. Not a single vegetable in sight, just sugar, fat, oil, and salt. Just what a body needs. Just what your body needs. God, in any other situation this humiliation would have really got your engines revving, but all you can think about are the dammed stairs.

You follow Victor into the stairwell, your sides again brushing heavily against the door frames. Before you even make it over to the first step he has vanished, lightly vaulting up two steps at a time. You roll yourself all the way up to the steps, hoping to line up the platform of your cart to the first one to save you at least one step up. Before getting up you sit there and think about Victor’s speedy scaling of the stairs. How can it be that something less than a thought or more than seconds of someone else’s life be such an insurmountable obstacle for you? Almost as if in response, your cavernous stomach growls. Taking a moment to make light of the situation you chuckle to yourself. Oh yeah, that’s how. Sitting in your chair a few moments more you contemplate, afraid to take the first step. You eventually realize you need to make a move eventually, using the promise of the delicious treats waiting for you in your apartment to motivate you. Wow, food motivating you, how original.

With all the energy you can muster in your worried state you push yourself up out of the seat, but predictably fall back. You rebound and push up again like always using the built up momentum to pull you into a standing position, your pendulous gut pulling down aiding you in straightening your back as much as you can to get you across the finish line. You take a moment to catch your breath, already being winded from simply standing up, let alone taking a single step. Your mass nearly fills the width of the stairwell, which thankfully means you can brace yourself with both handrails on your journey. Already standing, the clock is ticking. You lift your leg up and place it on the first step, having to move your gut out of the way with it as you do making the even objectively easy first step a partial struggle. With all of your might, you pull with your weak arms and push with your weak legs to complete your first actual step. You’ve done it! One down, only 1, 2, 3.. 18 more to go. You repeat the effort up a few more, but your attitude quickly takes a downturn as you do. Only those few more in, you’re already starting to feel the pain.

Sweat stains begin forming under your pits, rolls, and chins, looking more like a shirt of someone running a marathon, not having made it up four steps. Gasping for air you consider taking a break, but worry about losing what little momentum you have you solider on. Half way up the pain in your back and chest builds, sharp and radiating, your heart pounding through your chest its beat visible even under your piles of chest flesh. Your vision begins to narrow, but you can’t stop now, if you do you’ll never make it up. You’re in a painful daze as you see yourself nearing the precious landing. You realize you’re going to have to walk without the rails for the final trip to the door, so you practically launch yourself forward hoping you can stumble to it. As you do, a new pain rips you back to reality as your knees take on your full weight for the first time, screaming and ready to give out at any moment. You plow into the door, resting your full weight on it to give yourself some reprieve. You stand for only a moment, fruitlessly attempting to tame your labored wheeze.

You reach to grasp the handle with your flabby hands. They’re so bloated and stiff from the exertion that you can barely bend your fingers to grab and turn it. Once you do, you bust through the doorway, your weight pressing on the door causing it to swing wildly and smack the adjacent wall. Still comfortably wedged in the door frame you count up the 10-12 steps to your apartment door, your salvation. Your breath is sharp in your chest, signaling it was now or never. Again using momentum to your advantage you propel yourself. Each heavy step you wheeze as you feel your flabby chest paradoxically tighten. You again collapse against the door, this time your own, as you come in contact you slip slightly, your sweat-laden body and drenched clothing preventing you from gripping the surface. You reach for the handle and try to turn it. Thankfully Victor left it unlocked, your stiff hands likely would having been unable to hold your key.

For the last time tonight you burst through the opening, but this time in your weakened state you lose your balance and begin falling to the floor. In an act of agility unbecoming compared to every other movement you’ve made you grab at one of the bags of food on your table on your way down. Your body lands on partially on its side with a thud, your gut thankfully cushioning at least some of the blow. Without even processing what just happened, you ripped into the bag to see what you snagged. You pull out a package of bacon, ripping into it with your teeth. Holding it with you arm that isn’t pinned down you knaw and slurp the raw rashers into your mouth, grease covering your maw like the hog you are, gulping down air like a fish out of water in between bites.

Not immediately noticing it, a shadow casts over you as you eat, you look up, it’s Victor. Tsk tsk tsk. Look at you… Look at what you’ve done to yourself… Knocking on death’s door from a simple activity most wouldn’t even think twice about, pathetic. With that you see him crumple up the sign from the elevator and toss it into the direction of one of the many garbage piles in your apartment. He knew. He planned this. Laying there in your disgusting state, being judged and tricked, it was all too hot, it was all too much. Just like on the stairs, your vision started to narrow, oh god this is it. Between gulps you desperately try to wheeze he.. hel… What’s that? Help? Victor replies. Of course, he continues in his normal chipper tone, but with a distinctively dark undertone. He looks away, you expecting him to call 911, but he obviously has other plans. His eyes light up as he spies a box full of doughnuts in the outlay of treats adorning the grocery haul that sealed your fate tonight. Without another word, he stares you down as he shoves the first one into your face. Reflexively you begin chewing and gulping ignoring all the other alarm bells ringing out throughout your body. Another one, the sugary goodness lifting you up in your final moments. Another, and another. You lose count as you lose consciousness. Your last breath fittingly exiting as an earth shattering belch.

That’s just like Victor, always willing to help.

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