breathlessgainer - Tumblr blog

breathlessgainer · 2 months ago

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Office life at 550+ lbs

Word count: 1061

Extreme obesity, mobility issues, work environment, feedee perspective

No gender mentioned POV

Being a working feedee is hard sometimes, especially when your gain slows down to a snails pace despite how much you've been eating. In the last 3 years you've only put on another 40lbs, but you have an easy job that pays the bills and allows you to live comfortably so you can't complain too much. The only part of this job you hate though, is the journey inside.

As you exit your car you can already feel the sweat forming between your rolls, it's been taking a few tries lately to stand up after swinging your hefty left leg out onto the concrete. You've even questioned if you should bring your car to the shop to check the suspension just in case your fat ass crashing back down onto the driver seat a half dozen times a day might be causing issues. At the very least you were thankful for your personal parking spot only being about 250ft from the elevator up to the office floor. Only 100ft from the buildings entrance and the cold AC running throughout the building.

And so you begin your slow pendulous waddle, thighs scraping against each other with every step, causing so much friction your jeans always have a distinct wear pattern only a couple weeks after buying them. One foot infront the other you waddle, repeating the laboured motion as your breath grows heavy and your belly slaps against the tops of your thighs. Halfway to the door now you hear the clicking of heels against the concrete, 2 interns whizzing by you without a word. You can't even imagine moving as fast as they do, or why they'd even want to move that fast in the first place. Your sense of urgency left you a couple hundred pounds ago.

Another 20 heavy steps later you reach the door, a mailman on the other side who was about to leave opens it for you, clearly staring at your mammoth size and brow covered in sweat. You make it inside and can barely catch your breath to say thank you before he's gone. The AC graces your hot sweaty skin and you feel relief, you spot your double wide chair HR had fought to get installed for you last year, and plop down on it with a huff. All there's left to do is catch your breath for a couple minutes, walk 60 steps through the lobby, turn right, walk 10 steps to the elevator, a minute of standing, and another 30 steps to your cubicle. Where you will then chow down on a couple snacks you brought and rehydrate before looking at spreadsheets and grazing on more food for 8 hours. A routine you had grown so accustomed to that it became second nature.

You look at the handle bar bolted into the wall and remember when you found it insulting, but now it was a necessity. Gripping the bar you start to stand hoping a second try isn't needed because of how many people were in the lobby. You can feel your heart quake and your knees whine but thankfully you hauled your lard laden ass off the seat in one attempt.

The second journey begins and the heavy waddle ensues, gut bouncing, thighs scraping, mouth open and breathing loudly enough that you're attracting attention. You try to ignore their stares but it's only fueling your appetite, already making a mental list of what you're going to grab from the vending machine once you get off the elevator. A few minutes later you round the corner and take the final few steps only to notice a sign on the elevator. You can't read it yet but you can feel your heart sinking already. It can't be right? They would've told you. They would've sent an email or a text. "Out of order".

Panic sets in, you can't climb 4 flights of stairs, you bought a one story house for good reason, you haven't had to climb more than a curb in years at this point. Your mind is growing frantic as you feel the burden your legs are under grow stronger, anticipating if you're really gonna be expected to climb the stairs.

Your phone buzzes, a text from Susy in HR

"Hey! I'm so sorry 'your name', this just happened like an hour ago and I totally forgot to tell you. The elevator is having some major issues and we don't know when it'll be fixed. I dug up that old paper work you filed 6 months ago about work from home and I'm gonna push it through asap! I've sent Lucy downstairs with a work laptop for you to bring home, just take a couple days off while we get all the paperwork in order."

Relief washes over you as you hear the distinct clicking of heels coming down the stairs. You steady your breath and try to seem unfazed, almost certain you look ridiculous.

Lucy: "Hey 'your name', here's your laptop and a cherry cola, figured you would need it before heading back to your car ;). You know I'm gonna miss seeing you around here, less stuff to talk about and no one to gawk at. You have my number so just let me know if you need me to come over to help you adjust"

A quick farewell and her heels were clicking back up the stairs, but all you could think about was how you're never gonna see the inside of that office again. With no where to go and no decency to be upheld there was no reason you wouldn't finally break 600lbs. You chug the Cola, wanting to make one final show for the coworkers and acquaintances you've made over the years, and start the final journey, one to immobility.

With a gassy belly swaying from side to side, your humongous thighs atop fattened lard laden calves carry you through the lobby one last time. Not even trying to hide your burps and groans you walk out of the building, skipping the chair by the door you once saw as a refuge. Thoughts of what takeout you're gonna get delivered and a quickly growing Walmart order forming in your mind as you slowly waddle through the parking lot one last time. All fueled by the dream of being an immobile work from home piggy

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breathlessgainer · 2 years ago

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Re-posting an old gem. Enjoy!

Boy so fat #5

**Like, comment and reblog! :)**

I want to go on a blind date with a pathetically out-of-shape superchub. To a buffet, naturally.

I’ll already be sitting at a table when he arrives, and I’ll be taken aback by his size when I first lay eyes on him. He’ll be sharply dressed: a simple (albeit enormous) purple v-neck sweater paired with stretch-waistband khaki trousers. His pants are pulled over his belly and it’s clear that his overhang rests heavily about 8 inches above his knees. Its breadth makes it almost impossible for his pants to be pulled up far enough to cover the fleshy midriff beneath his tight sweater. Self conscious, he repeatedly pulls down on his sweater to ensure he isn’t exposing himself as he waddles towards my table. His fingers can hardly reach his waistband, and with each forced step his pants slip a little bit lower.

His smart attire contrasts starkly with his gate, which is an uncoordinated, laboured mess. Before we met, he told me that he gave up on any sort of excess physical activity a little over a year ago, and it shows. Despite his size, his face and legs are surprisingly thin. The rest of him, however, has the muscle tone of a lava lamp. His belly, chest and lovehandles wobble and roll around unsympathetically as he moves across the dining room. His walk seems unnatural and complicated, each step a reactionary series of motions used to keep himself moving forward without losing his balance: shifting his mass from one foot to the other, his thighs pushing against his overhang, his arms swaying ferociously with intermittent attempts to hike his pants back up or pull down on his sweater. What a show.

His face lights up when he reaches the table. I stand up and extend an arm to shake his hand. He enthusiastically mirrors the gesture, stepping forward. Before our hands touch, however, his overhang hits his chair, knocking it into the table. Embarrassed, he mumbles something about recent growth. I smile and invite him to take a seat. He graciously accepts and comments on the length of the walk from the entrance to the table. He’ll say something like, “boy, did you purposely choose the furthest place to sit?”, and I’ll feel my cock grow knowing that he isn’t joking.

He pulls his chair several feet away from our table and carefully lowers himself. His face scrunches under the strain, and he freefalls the last foot. He exhales loudly upon impact and his gelatinous cleavage bounces visibly through the reveal in his strained v-neck. We exchange pleasantries, during which time I’ll recognize how relieved he is to be seated. I offer to make the first trip to the buffet station on his behalf, and he happily obliges.

I let the feeder get the better of me, and return with several plates piled high with the fattiest offerings. I place them in front of him, and to my surprise he doesn’t so much as bat an eye. Instead, he casually thanks me and prepares to dig in. I sit down across from him and start a friendly conversation. I can’t help but notice how far forward he has to lean to be able to reach the table. He greedily shovels food into his mouth with one limb while his other helps support himself on the table. The amazing weight of his hanging belly threatens to pull him off his chair should his arm give out.

I guide the conversation towards his size, and he reveals the history of his most recent gains. He’s been living on his own in a downtown apartment for the last two years, and although he was by no means svelte beforehand, he was far from the heaving mass of fat seated before me. He explains that he’s committed himself to becoming as out-of-shape as possible. Between bites, he tells me how he strictly limits any and all physical exertion. He has his groceries delivered and only has to venture as far as his front door to pick them up. On the days that he receives his groceries, the effort of waddling to the door and stocking his kitchen pantry meets his daily quota for physical activity. He says he showers every second day, as that in itself is akin to a heavy-duty workout. On the days that he does laundry down the hall, he brings a sturdy folding stool with him. He says that he simply can’t stand for that long without his back hurting and that he doesn’t want his legs to get used to the weight.

As he continues eating it becomes increasingly difficult for him to maintain his side of the conversation. He’s breathing extremely heavily and is starting to sweat profusely. Before long, I can see that his left arm - which had been serving as a kick-stand for his humongous body - is starting to shake under the strain. He repositions his hand every few bites to keep himself in arms-reach of his food, leaving a sweaty hand print each time. It’s amazingly erotic. This hunk is a total slave to his fatty food.

He drops his fork triumphantly after polishing his fourth and final plate. He lets his arms drop to his sides as he leans back in his chair, clearly relieved to have a chance to catch his breath. He reminds me of a hockey player that’s just come off the ice… his flushed face is covered in sweat - even his hair is completely soaked.

I’m fucking aroused.

I ask him if he wants more. He sheepishly bites his lip and nods yes. I tell him to get up.

He doesn’t balk at the idea, even though I have my doubts as to whether or not he even has the strength or cardio vascular ability to stand right now. He slides his chair back a little bit further and raises himself a few inches before falling back into his chair. I offer an extended hand for him to hold on to, but he shoos it away. He takes a deep breath and tries again. He groans loudly as his weak legs lift him out of his chair, causing the couple a few tables over to look over with visible concern. His hands instinctively grasp for his waistline but are met with slick, sweaty, bare flesh. His pants have slipped just a few inches out of his reach, and he knows that if he starts waddling now, that the oscillation of his lard-filled belly and love handles will literally start undressing himself as he moves. His eyes meet mine in a silent request for assistance, and I pick up on the cue. I move close to him, ensuring that he can feel my bulge pressing into his overhang. Holding his gaze, I reach down and pull his pants up higher for him, supporting his heavy overhang in the process. The temporary relief throws his balance. I let go and his belly flops downwards causing him to him to huff involuntarily. I readjust the bottom of his sweater and give one of his lovehandles a healthy slap. His moobs bounce in the aftershock. I reassure him that he should be good for a little while and invite him to follow me to the buffet.

I join the lineup and look back to find that my date has fallen behind. He’s waddling towards me with great difficulty. His legs are doing double duty; working hard to support his weight while effectively lifting his overhang with each forced step. This, of course, compounded by not having fully recovered from the exertion of part 1 of his feast. His heart must be pounding a mile a minute. He joins me in the line and breathlessly asks if I’d mind helping him carry a few plates. I graciously accept. He grabs a large dinner plate and gets to work. He piles one with several pounds of gravy-soaked mashed potatoes and slides it towards me to carry. He grabs another plate, and fills it with a family-sized portion of pasta in a creamy alfredo sauce. This boy means business. He grabs a third plate and stacks a half dozen slices of pizza on it. As we start to make our way back to the dining hall, he admits that he doesn’t think his legs can carry him all the way back to our table. “They’re starting to shake”, he says. I run ahead and find an empty booth, quickly sliding the table fully over to one side to accommodate his size. Although he isn’t especially huge, it’s incredible just how out of shape he is. For a guy as young as he is and his size, it’s amazing how winded even the slightest physical activity is leaving him. I should note that I certainly don’t mind, and it’s clear that he doesn’t mind as well.

He shuffles towards the booth and drops his plates on the repositioned table before squeezing onto the bench. Even with the table pushed far enough over to render the other side of the booth unusable, his soft upper belly still rolls generously onto the table, wrinkling the tablecloth as he wiggles himself into a comfortable position. His legs are thrust comically apart to accommodate his belly, leaving just enough space left on the bench for me to sit next to him. Ready for the encore, he begins digging ferociously into his food.

He continues the symphony right where he left off. His breathing becomes more and more laboured, borderline wheezing when he takes a short breaks between bites. His cheeks are red and sweat is dripping off of his face, further soaking the part of his sweat-covered moobs visible through his v-neck sweater. Our server noticed the change of table, and kindly brings over a pair of frosty glasses and two pitchers of soda. My date pounds through them at a ferocious rate, belching as he scoffs down his mashed potatoes. As he plows through his second course, his whole body oscillates rhythmically in tune with his laboured breathing. The more he eats, the faster the rhythm becomes. His whole belly rocks fore and aft, a large roll of fat sticking to the paper tablecloth as it pushes inwards and outwards repeatedly. Is he fucking the backside of his overhang while he eats? The pace intensifies. His body works in overdrive as his subtle thrusting quickens. His heartbeat bangs loudly in his ears and his hands shake as they shovel food into himself. Sweat soaks through his sweater and beads down the back of his neck as he shoves slice after slice of greasy pizza into his mouth. He finishes his last morsel of food, but hasn’t yet completed the performance. He continues ramming the underside of his belly, breathing heavier and heavier. Finally he grabs my hand and squeezes tightly as his whole body tenses, his underused legs shaking during his last prolonged thrust. He moans softly in ecstasy.

A server passes by just as he wipes the sweat off his face with a large napkin. “Can I bring the bill, gentleman?”, he asks encouragingly.

“No”, my date answers, wheezing. “I haven’t had dessert yet.”

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