(SSBHM, XWG, hyper fat, immobility)
A collection of tubes dangled from the ceiling and trailed across the ground. Mounted from the ceiling were several sets of industrial fans, an orchestra of loud whirring echoing through the room. And in the center of the room: a man's body, so bloated and corpulent that it spread across the floor tiles and pressed up against the walls... Your body.
It was hard to think back and remember what your life was like before agreeing to be a part of this. You were big before, sure. A little under 400 pounds. But you always wanted to be bigger, and you knew deep down there wasn't a world where you would turn down an opportunity like this.
You were going to stop once you felt big enough. That's what you told everyone. But feeling your body grow was addicting... your belly hanging below your shirt, your ass spreading out across the couch, your fatpad bulging through your fly. It was too much. And you just couldn't stop coming back.
It was already hot enough to feel your legs chafing against each other when you walked, and your belly bouncing against your thighs. It got even hotter when you felt it dangle down to your knees. Walking was exhausting, from lugging around a half ton of lard, but also from trying not to soak the underside of your belly as your dick jiggled around in your fatpad.
You couldn't keep living like this. Something had to change... and you were too aroused by your own blubber to stop gaining weight. So it was decided. Your new home would be this room. Permanently.
At first it was just a table and chair. You would stuff yourself as fast as you could, until you couldn't any longer. But eventually, after the chair collapsed into a pile of splintered wood and it was replaced with a couch, your belly was just too big to reach over. But it functioned just fine as a makeshift table itself.
You were more motivated than ever to keep shoveling greasy junk down your throat, since it would give you a larger surface to hold things on. But as your belly got fatter, so did your arms, and your fingers were too stubby to use like you used to be able to. Your appetite kept getting more intense, and feeding yourself just wasn't good enough anymore.
Thankfully, a liquid diet did a much better job at keeping you full. With the speed that you were fattening up now, it didn't take long before your love handles were hanging over the arm rests, your moobs were wider than your wingspan, your mammoth thighs squeezing together your dick deep within your fatpad, and your belly taking up more space than a small car.
And at last, the couch couldn't handle you anymore. The arm rests split off from the sides, the back breaks away from the cushions, and the legs are flattened under your weight. Your rolls surge outwards, no longer being squeezed onto such a tiny space, and the only evidence that there was a couch at all are the broken pieces sticking out from under you. That, and the puddle of cum dribbling out from under your belly.
Cleaning you up every time you got a little too horny from your own obesity was beginning to feel like a waste of time. It took a crew of multiple men just to peel your belly off the ground, and then the guy cleaning the insides of your fatpad had to be careful not to jostle your dick around too much, or else it would just start leaking again. It just wasn't worth it.
So instead, it was easier to just hook up a milking machine and leave it at that. Now all of your cum could be collected and reused, mixed into the hyper fattening gainer slop that gets funneled down your throat. It was already near impossible to keep your libido under control with the constant stimulation around your cock, and knowing that your own seed was making you fatter was mind-numbing.
The room was hot. Your stomach was constantly hard at work, processing an endless stream of calories, stretching your skin to its limit. Beads of sweat trickled down rolls you didn't even know you had, and the surface of your body was slick. The cool air from the fans helped on the surface, but didn't do much to quell the heat radiating from deep within your fat. Nothing could.
Your belly got so massive, so greedy, so uncontrollable that one feeding tube wasn't enough to satiate it, hungrily rumbling, shaking the walls. You needed more. More tubes. First it was just the two, and then – why not one filling you up from the other end. And then things quickly spiraled out of control.
The pain from being stuffed so much was addicting. Your mind was completely blank except for when more tubes got jammed into your body. Days passed... weeks... months. There was nothing to do except get fatter.
The fans were moved up high, out of the way of your rapidly expanding folds. Every single part of your body was caked in so much fat that the only thing you could still do was blink. The tubes were like a spider web hanging from the ceiling and around the walls, convulsing with more fattening paste. And when you felt yourself pressed up against the walls, your dick began to twitch. There was more fat in the room than there was air.
And you were going to fill it to the brim.
