I hang up, ruminating on the bad news. This is going to be real ugly. Resolved, I pick up the platter of powdered jelly donuts and walk them into the lounge, rehearsing in my head how I'll articulate this unfortunate turn.
My cock starts to throb at the sight of my Tara, obesity on narcissistic display in nothing but her zebra print bikini and her new $1,555 Giuseppe Zanotti purple suede pumps. She languishes on our extra-deep couch, her decadent stomach erupts over the edge to rest on its own individual pouf. Her soft skin is fake-tanned and her stiletto nails are black. She spends her days like this, watching television and filling her face with treats and shopping. I place the donuts within reach, careful not to block the TV.
"BUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRPPPPPP!! Khloé's getting faaaaat!"
She kicks her leg weakly signaling I’m to lift it for her. Gently I obey, holding her delicately by the foot and bloated swaddle of fat that is her calf. I rest her squishy ankle on my shoulder, kissing her chubby tootsies, sensuously kneading firm the thickness of her thighs. Now the blubber of her inner legs is removed, she’s free to fart.
PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRPRPPPPPPFFFFFPPPFFPFPPFFPP
The stink blasts right in my face, the foul gift a cruel attack on me as much as it is relaxing. After about 40 seconds of this ceaseless poison trumpeting I’m sucking Tara’s toes. She kicks my face to let me know I can lower her leg. I know this minute movement is enough to exhaust my fat baby so I pass her another 4ltr of cream soda. The fizzy pink dribbles down Tara’s bimbo face, her mouth and chins and chest all covered in the sloppings of dementedly devoured dinners and endless snacks. Her fingers are orange with Dorito dust. Around her are the discarded junk souvenirs of what little she's eaten since I last cleaned up an hour ago. Pie tins and candy wrappers, chip packets, pizza boxes, plastic pop bottles, brown fast food bags, ice cream cartons and several round silver cardboard bases from the 20 birthday cakes she consumed, all waiting for me to clear away between my other duties fetching food and changing channels for her. She ignores me as I kneel on the floor to massage her gut. It gurgles and growls at me, almost a threat. I watch as she robotically shovels the powdered jelly donuts into her mouth, innards running slowly over her chins as powdered sugar sticks to her recently applied lip gloss. I begin, timidly.
"Princess, my sweet baby angel--"
DIIIIIIIIIING DOOOOOOOOOONG
"LOOOOMP BLEKKK Dadt's my UUUUURPPP SNARRF pizza order, go SMAAKK gid id! BLOOOOOOORKKK HURRY!!"
I obey. Not too many pizza deliveries are made to this upper-middle class part of town, especially this building. Tara’s rent costs more per week than most people make in a month but she spends more on pizza than most people’s rent. Of course, she doesn't pay for any of it. I bring the pizzas back to Tara (donuts now depleted) and begin feeding her, 3 slices at a time. With her mouth stuffed I figure it’s a good time to give her the bad news...
"Angel, I just got off the phone with your dad..."
She continues to glut and chew monotonously like some feasting crocodile, her monstrous mouth wide open the whole time. Inside is a hellish swamp of mashed up cheese and tomato sauce and meat. As she slops and chaws away food is thrown about in a stormy sea of gluttony, splattered outwards across her naked paunch. It’s stained her bikini and is even drying among her ironed, black hair.
"Wen's CHOOMP he sending NYOOOMYYUMMM my SHLUUUUURRRRRPP money? RRAAAAARRRHHHPPPP!!!"
Tara's never worked a day in her life. She made some money modelling when she was 15 but thought even that was too much effort when “guys should be tripping over themselves to pay my way.” Even before she became this big blubber-blob lounging languidly before me she was lazy and spoiled. She barely went to high school, spending those days banging college guys and shopping and bullying younger girls before dropping out early. Since then she's been supported by her father, he's always wiring money to her account and she works her way through it as quickly as if it were food in the kitchen.
"That's the thing, babe... he's not."
A beat passes in confused silence as if I’d just spoken French to her. Then--
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH
Tara screams at the top of her lungs. The high pitched shriek of a dying child, blasting more pizza shrapnel all across her monster titties like a cumshot. I’m hit square in the face. She thrashes her arms and stamps her bejeweled feet, her several hundred dollars’ worth of anklets clattering. I try to calm my sweet little valley girl (soon to be my valley sized girl) by explaining the situation. Her dad said he would give her as much as she wants, he just needs her to go visit home to collect it. I’ve met her father a few times but never her mother and I’ve never visited their home. They live outside the city and Tara never bothers to visit because there’s never been anything in it for her. Enraged, she makes me dial her father and SCREAMS unhinged down the phone about how he should come to her instead of making her run around for her money. This tantrum really was inevitable. She’ll throw a fit for no reason, she once screamed and cried in the middle of Lululemon because they didn’t stock XXL yoga pants. She bawled and stamped her feet during the hammer scene in Endgame ruining it for everyone because they’d run out of pickles for her to snack on. She’d eaten 40 jars and even drank the brine! Her dad apologizes over and over, promising to make it up to her with gifts and vacations, showing even less backbone than I do, but regretfully tells her he can’t leave the house. He really wants to see his darling precious baby Tara (which she scoffs at) and will do anything to make it happen. After a few minutes in which Tara manages to negotiate herself two more credit cards and an Inspirato membership, she finally agrees to visit. She throws the phone at me so I may hang up, calling both him and me a pair of useless ungrateful abusive queer-boy faggots and suggesting we go suck each other’s cocks. She spends the rest of the week sulking.
So now I'm on the Trans-Can-Highway in the back of the limo Tara's dad sent. My face is buried between her legs, pleasuring her as she lies on the sheepskin rug and stuffs herself silly on Taco Bell. We stopped at 3 drive-thrus before we even got out of central Vancouver. I work my tongue skillfully around her clit, sucking and pinching as she sensually moans through mouthfuls of cheese-bean burrito, slopping immodestly across her face and triple chins. She melts orgasmically as the dual sensation of epicurean enlightenment and sexual stimulation combine, slopping beans and beef over her tube top and surrounding pillows. I withdraw from her pussy and move upwards to help feed her. She still dresses the same as she did 390lbs ago. Her hot pink Adidas tube top, designed for a much smaller woman, tucks under her breasts, fully exposing her stomach and coming to barely above her nipples. She's also wearing a pair of snug metallic gold hot pants, straining to stretch across her three-foot wide ass with tights underneath and a pair of reflective silver heels as well as a $400 pair of cat eye sunglasses. She has the usual jangling collection of jewelry on her wrists, neck, fingers and ankles as well as a $12,000 gold floral pattern headband.
The limo pulls onto the gravel driveway of Tara's familial mansion. It's one of the biggest houses in B.C and sits secluded at the foot of the North Shore Mountains. A servant opens the limousine door. Two more step forward to help Tara out of the car, three of us precariously assisting her like a frail paparazzi princess. A fourth servant rolls forward a motorised wheel chair and Tara collapses in to it, the chair gives a hydraulic hiss as the suspension adjusts to her weight. Mr. Pinguis (as I address him) rushes to meet his darling daughter and ecstatically hugs her. She continues tucking into her 3rd KFC family bucket.
"NYOOOOMMM NO! OFF! BUUUUUUUUUUUUUURPPPPP No hugz! BWRAAAAAAARRPPPPP YUUMMMM Werzz my CCHEEEWW SLUUUKKK fuggin LLOORRPPP money?!"
Ignorant shreds of chicken splatter across her father's immaculate business attire.
"Angel, I called my accountant and told him to wire the money through the second you arrived. Fifty-thousand as agreed and an extra twenty grand because daddy is so pleased to see his little princess"
"LUUUUUUUUUUUURRPPPPPPP Good! Abowd UUUUMFFF fuggin dime!! Now, erywon gid me SHHLLLLLRRRRRRPP inside an NYOMMNYOMM gid me sumefink doo GLOMMPP ead!"
Her father quickly shakes my hand and takes over guiding her wheelchair, rolling her into the house while she continues to binge KFC, grease congealing around her mouth. He tells her how proud he is of her and how sorry he is he ever let her down. Tara is working it like a spoiled teenager. She says for disrespecting her like that he should give her double what he already has and she should get a limo of her own. He ebulliently agrees as if this is the best idea he's ever heard.
Everyone listens as Tara brags to her father about her Instagram following and what she’s been wasting his money on. Mr. Pinguis wheels Tara along the opulent hallway of her childhood home, the walls are hung with portraits, curtains are 20 feet high. Spiral staircases lead off to distant floors while smaller passageways descend to servant quarters. Everything in this house is made of ivory or gold or mahogany. Saying Tara's family is rich would be an understatement. I walk behind the entourage of maids and butlers, I’m by long and away the least important person to Tara right now. The help crowds her with platters of treats, she callously drops the now empty chicken bucket onto the imported Portuguese carpet and immediately it’s tidied away. No wonder my servitude never satisfies her if this is the kind of help she's used to.
Her dad steers her into a dining room with a table long enough to sit maybe 50 people, the whole surface covered in the most spectacular buffet all for Tara. Plate after plate of pies, donuts, salad bowls full of ice cream, Twinkies, bear claws, ho hos, ding dongs, cupcakes, tarts, jello, candy bars, cookies, snowballs, cheesecakes, sheet cakes, birthday cakes, wedding cakes, gateaux, Black Forest cake, carrot cake, coffee cake, marble cake and sponge cake just for her. There are burgers and fries, onion rings, pizzas, all sorts of pastas, Chinese food, curry, steaks, roast turkeys, hot dogs, roast chicken, potato salad and innumerable more fattening foodstuffs patiently awaiting her leisure. She begins to moan helplessly at this horizon defying buffet and thrashes her fists until she's rolled over and allowed to gorge. She orders me to undress her now to help facilitate this gut busting banquet.
Tara grabs more mashed potatoes than can possibly fit in her mouth, coating her stylish nails with the stuff. To wash it down she grabs a nearby gravy boat and spouts the creamy thick turkey goop down her gullet. There a bowl of butter-drenched corn on the cob which she snatches up. She slides a whole ear into her mouth (utilizing her deep-throating skills) and sucks clean every last kernel, leaving only the stripped cob and a few scattered pieces of sweetcorn on her chins. A stack of ribs she treats much the same, slurping the tangy barbecue sauce off before tearing the tender meat free. Some she’s so impatient she just bites through, cracking the bones. A plate of fatty German sausages are next and most of them she swallows whole, frankly ignoring the taste. Someone puts a serving tray full of devilled eggs with garlic and bacon in front of her and she throws her face into it like she’s bobbing for apples. I loose count of how many hams she devours, how many cheese platters or Ferrero Rocher pyramids. Every time a dish is emptied servants replace it with a new one and before long Tara is demanding fast food be added to this order. I barely get a look in, I’m quite fast at feeding her but she delegates that job to her father. In the end I just help run food from the kitchen and front door, amazed at the size of this place. In the foyer is a brand new wheelchair for Tara with a gift bow on top. I read the attached card;
Baby girl, I heard my favorite niece wanted the latest model SAKA. Let me know when you outgrow it and I’ll get you a new one. Can’t wait to see you again ASAP.
Lots of love, Uncle Logan
xxx
According to the manual it’s 5 feet wide though apparently the width is extendable on this edition, and it has a cooling-mist system. The one Tara has already is pretty incredible too. She reclines in it right now, a sort of resting halo delicately cradles her head (opposite of putting your face in a massage table). There are two leg rests like gynecological stirrups and a cushioned shelf at the bottom to hold the weight of her distending double gut so she’s not uncomfortably stretched out by gravity. It’s amazing, the size of the wheels, the compact electric engine underneath, apparently it costs over $300,000.
Suddenly among the crash of servants I notice a little girl in a Catholic school uniform. She must be about 11, with similar black hair to Tara, the same thick eastern European eyebrows and intense eyes. “Daddy, I’m home” she whimpers to Mr. Pinguis, nervously aware of the obese naked blob decimating a whole buffet. She’s scared, though not shocked by the site.
“Talia, great, you can help me take care of your sister.”
“But Daddy, teacher said if I don’t finish my homework again I’ll fail science--“
“Now now, that doesn’t matter, we’re rich, Talia. Anyway, you already have a job here for the rest of your life. Now go get changed for Princess, come on, stop being selfish.”
Little Talia mopes off, dragging her school bag behind her. The resemblance to Tara is spot on, strong genes in this family. It’s only the glasses that set Talia apart. She returns a short while later. The 11-year-old now dressed in a tight French Maid’s outfit. It’s obviously from a few Halloweens ago as it’s way too small on her, the bust inappropriately low cut, the frilly skirt too high, the fishnet stockings are obscenely revealing and her pencil heels must be killing her back. Mr. Pinguis grabs his youngest daughter and brings her to Tara.
“Baby girl, light of my life and only thing that matters in the world, look! Your sister is here!”
Tara’s piggy eyes dart sleepily towards the little girl before double taking. A cruel smile breaks her eating streak. She starts to hooooowl with laughter at the poor child. I can only imagine what it’s like growing up with Tara as your older sister. The abuse this girl must have got. Tara once told me she made 4-year-old Talia watch Jaws when they were at the beach house then pushed her into the lake. The toddler panicked and nearly drowned and Tara says it was the funniest thing she ever saw. She’s always treated the little girl like her personal slave. Mr. Pinguis makes Talia bow to her big sister.
“Ewww Tali, are those supposed to be your titties? You look like a plank!” Tara laughs, at the flat chested girl then looks my way to make sure I’m laughing too, I do. “I had such amazing tits by the time I was Tali’s age, didn’t I Daddy?”
“Of course, baby queen, every part of my little Tara is perfect.”
“And I’m prettier than Tali, aren’t I Daddy?”
“Absolutely, pickle, you’re my special beautiful girl and she’s garbage.”
She carries on like this, explaining to Talia how amazing it is to be Tara Pinguis while she herself is such a loser. Apparently Talia likes school and reading so that’s one of Tara’s main targets. Tara makes her climb onto the wide arm of her chair, leaning over her bloated queen sister’s fat sweaty belly to feed her. As she tries to settle herself in the shifting softness of Tara’s body Talia’s little butt wiggles in the air, tight in her nylons. The real reason Tara wants her sister so close is so she can whisper terrifying threats to her without their dad hearing.
Tara orders me to suck on her neck so I may listen.
“If you ever complain about serving me again my boyfriend will beat the shit out of you and then we’ll Photoshop pictures of you sucking off a Rottweiler and spread it around your school.” Talia says nothing, she knows any answer she gives will result in more cruelty.
“Uuugh just LOOK at my sexy boyfriend, I bet you wish you could have him. But you’ll never have a boyfriend, you’re too ugly. Isn’t she, babe?”
“Yeah,” I sycophantically agree, “she’s like a gargoyle.” Tara giggles and strokes my tongue with hers, she’s getting cruelty-horny. “You know, baby, I bet Tali is so desperate for a boyfriend she’ll let any guy bang her. Don’t you? You take whatever cock you can get you little skank. I bet you bang your teachers too and that’s why you love school so much. I bet you like having two or three inside you at the same time, one in your raggedy pussy, one in your ass and a couple in your mouth.”
Tara’s breathing is heavy now, she’s getting excited.
“DADDY!!” she snitches, “Tali’s been fucking lots of guys at school, you need to punish her.”
He sighs “Okay” obviously going along with this to make Tara happy. He grabs little Talia and sits down, forcing her squealing over his knee in front of everyone, facing. Tara giggles idiotically at Talia’s face pointed towards her. Daddy pulls her skirt up and sharply rips down her panties. As she wriggles and cries and tries to escape Tara moans, running her nails all over me. With his belt Mr. Pinguis starts to BEATher backside. Little Talia shriekswith every crack until 15 minutes later Tara is satisfied.
“Stop, her screams are annoying me!”Talia is released back to work.
Tara eats for 3 more hours, filling her face endlessly while the rest of us run around. After some time, the buffet almost depleted, she announces very loudly that she needs to shit. I knew this was coming, her farts have been getting more gruesome over the last 45 minutes. I can withstand the worst of them but these are bad. Weirdly, none of the staff seem to mind. None of the workers even bat an eyelid at this stench as if it’s normal. Tara’s can be particularly vicious. She won’t want to stop eating so she’ll put off going to the bathroom as long as possible. That means whenever it comes time to move her she’s fit to burst. There have been no accidents so far but it’s a matter of time. Almost immediately two servants wheel over a large steel portable toilet. It looks just like a regular one but for its considerable width and a mini 55 gallon septic tank attached. I laboriously help my girl onto the toilet. Before we even have her over the bowl she lets loose an intolerably foul fountain of diarrhea all over the seat. This encourages us to work harder and we get her over the bowl properly. At the top of the septic tank is a dial, Tara's dad explains that the toilet also acts as a scale when you sit on it. For a minute I consider asking why he has this for his daughter until I notice the scales read 569lbs!! Tara's gained 19lbs between the car journey and now. She eats a bunch of meatball subs while I’m on “door duty” paying the Uber Eats drivers. During this back and forth I get to know some of the staff. “What’s it like seeing her again this fat?” I ask them. I’m a little confused by how unfazed they are. One of them just says “This is nothing” and I’m about to ask what they mean when they rush out to pick up more Sonic. They’re a weird bunch, many don’t speak English, one guy has a tattoo on his neck that just says "N" and gets pissy when you ask him about it. I’m interrupted by Tara bellowing for me. She's finished shitting and I am ordered to operate the bidet function of her toilet, giving her great pleasure as I clean her anus while she continues to pig. Her whole naked forefront is a mess, slopped in the casualties of her war on hunger, her breasts and paunch are covered in sauce and gravy and syrup and ice cream and grease and melted cheese and an entire supernova rainbow of slopped nosh. She sits there, sweating heavily and burping between pained breaths, stuffed like a drug smuggler’s teddy bear.
“Phew! I can’t wait for dinner.”
“Baby,” her father starts, “would you like to visit your mother?”
“Not right now, I’m actually full for once, I need to use this opportunity.”
She demands we manoeuver her out into the grounds so she can take pictures of herself looking extra fat for her Instagram. She makes her dad take pictures of her in a couple different bikinis. Most of them are next to the pool striking over-sexualized poses, many her dad shoots from below as she runs her fingers over her pussy. She demands I join her, which she does occasionally just to show me off like a new piece of jewelry. Her dad snaps happily away as we get into sexy couple shots, my arm around her throat from behind, my hand going into her bikini bottoms, me pulling her hair as she massages her gut licentiously. Sufficiently convinced that’s enough to make the internet jealous, she calls an end to the impromptu shoot.
“That’s great, my little Tara-bear, can we go see your mom now? She’s been dying to catch up.”
Tara rolls her eyes and capitulates, obviously wanting to get this out of the way. All I know of Tara’s mother is she’s disabled, confined to her bed and completely reliant on her servants. The poor woman, that can’t be easy, especially with Tara for a daughter. A group of us help Tara back into her wheelchair and despite the lordly feast she just finished Tara keeps snacking. Rested on her soiled paunch is a platter stacked with sticks of fresh creamy butter. A slab in each hand, she glomps on these as if they were hot dogs, smearing the soft yellowness all over her lips. She manages to eat 12 of these platters before we get to her mother’s chambers. Approaching the room I notice the door frame to be considerably wider than normal, in fact I would put it at about 10-feet wide. The door itself has been entirely removed leaving just the opening. Again I question why her dad has done this but assume it’s a good precautionary measure when you live with Tara.
We enter and I realise all at once; the door frame, the scales, the food, the dead-eyed desensitized workers, none of it is for Tara.
It's for her mom.
At first it seems as if a tidal wave of pink rubber has invaded the room, a fleshy hill of dough squirming and squelching. It's only after a moment you realise this is a human being. Tara's mother is fat beyond belief. Beyond reason! She lies resplendent on her side on her chaise longue like an obese Roman empress. A bank of hip blubber lets her languish comfortably in her swaddling weight. Her bunching up back-and-hip-bulk supporting her comfortably, the airplane-pillow rings of her neck fat cushioning her so cozily she’s almost falling asleep. Her titanic stomach hangs languidly over the edge of the chaise longue spreading 8 feet in front of her, dominating the floor. It stretches downwards away from her for at least 20 feet. From this angle Mrs. Pinguis’ body seems simply to end at her stomach like a naked fat mermaid, her legs hidden within the tide of wideness. As she’s laid lazily on her side the apex of her outer hip reaches 10 feet high and sways as if in a breeze. Her breasts are proportionately massive and sit comfortably (clamminess preventing them sliding away) on her enormous paunch. Her vivid pink nipples are as thick as diamond and wide as dinner plates. Like the rest of her body these are exposed and gently jiggling with her heavy breathing. Mrs. Pinguis’ comparatively tiny arms are flaccid and useless. They're segmented into mounds of blubber, starting off as pink monster truck tires for her shoulders and decreasing in sections to where her hands would be were they not annexed by arm fat leaving only slapping fat flippers. What look like gold bicycle chains are rested around engorged wrists, extravagant jewelry crafted specially to fit her monstrous girth. It’s difficult to tell what positions she’s actually lying in, her concealed limbs make Mrs. Pinguis largely shapeless. She looks like a hill of pink lava, undulating and swelling and shifting. She’s like an alien landmass, blasts of foul gas releasing from both ends and every unfurling fold. She’s a flesh mountain range.
The only definition is her head in its little nook, a pool of drool and slopped food forming in the valley of her face. The family resemblance is obvious, she could be Tara's twin elephant. Her golden brown eyes would be identical were it not for more levels of greed and malice behind them. Her snout is bunched in by her chubby bowling ball cheeks and her Ferrari-red lips smack constantly up and down in a familiar fashion. Her hair is the same jet black as Tara's but for a slight tinge of cougar silver. It’s similarly matted with dementedly devoured dinners. I count 8 chins under her face though they’re bouncing too much to be sure. Between many of them I can see different bejeweled pendants and necklaces being continuously swallowed up and spat out by the shifting chin folds of her constant chewing.
To accommodate her nonstop eating, two feeders kneel by her head expertly plying her. I admire their dexterity, able to work together to keep her mouth permanently full, popping food into her without getting in each other’s way, slowing down or getting their fingers bit off. There’s also a pink feeding hose dangling from the ceiling. Seemingly by intuition one of the feeders will pull it down to her mouth and pump her full. I can’t tell what it’s delivering but a yellow translucent sluice dribbles from the corners of her bloated lips. To keep up with her expert feeders a myriad of runners, as they’re know, constantly deliver platters and trolleys of sweets. Several buff shirtless young men, at least 10 of them, attend to her massive stomach. They constantly massage it, salaciously rubbing her many slurping rolls and repositioning her corpulent shelves of flab to stay comfortable. Two more servants use a step trailer to reach her buffalo shoulders, as they sensually massage one of them whispers something into her ear that makes Mrs. Pinguis giggle deliciously. Obviously it's not just the food making her drool. From behind her, a beautician summits a step ladder so she may reach her mistress' flabby pillow like arms, an apprentice peeling back the encroaching sleeve of fat to expertly manicure the dainty sausage fingers hidden within. At the other end of her chaise lounge three more girls struggle with her calve flab to pedicure her entombed feet. Buff boy-servants fan her with palm leaves from every direction as her rubbery flesh shimmers with sweat. Others ladle cool water over her body to keep her many flaps moist. Something like 30 people make up her feeding, grooming and sexual satisfaction entourage.
Talia now ditches Tara and runs over to help her mother. “Ey!!” Tara yells between mouthfuls of melting butter. “Oh that bitch is gonna get it!”
Mrs. Pinguis continues to feast with enthusiasm that puts her daughter to shame. Mr. Pinguis jovially steps forward to address his beloved wife.
"Sweetheart..." he meekly begins. Mrs. Pinguis is ripped from her epicurean bliss. Her vicious eyes finally focus, rage and impatience lasering directly at her irritant of a husband. Her expression changes on a dime from sleepy indifference to offended outrage.
BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRPPPPPPP
The carnage of her mouthful flies out with elastic force, spreading widely all over her loyal feeders and doting husband. The stink of her burp hits us like a hot wall, foul and thick. Worse than Tara’s farts. I detect hints of tuna and beer and McDonalds. She roars like a furious tyrannosaurus.
"WAD NNYOOOOMM da CHCHEEEWW FUGG SSHLOOOOMK SHNUURR do yoo BLOOORRRRSH NYAAAAYRM wond??? LLUUUUUUURRPPPP”
"Ummm... well... uh... Tammie, precious... it's just that Tara is home... and I thought perhaps you might like to possibly see her... maybe."
"SSHLOOOP I TOLL yooo CHOMMNYOMMM nod doo GLOMMP BUUURPP in-err-upp me BBLOOOOOOOOORRRPPPPP NYAAAAMMM unless id GLACK BLEEHH woss SSHLUUUUUUUUURPPPPP BRAAAAAARRPPPPP im-bor-dand!!!!" "
Sorry, angel cakes, it's just that... she's our eldest child and... umm... well... you haven't seen her in almost a year..."
"BBLLUUUUUURPPP I szdill aven't NNYOMMOMM fu-gidd-en GGLACK her for SCHMAKK SHLLUUUK when she GLOMMP LAAAARRPP ade SSLUUUURPP harf CHOOMM my BLOOOORPP food!!"
"Yes, Sweetheart, but you were pregnant with her at the time..."
Mother throws a look of utter contempt at daughter, who right now is hand scooping out and devouring several tubs of margarine and washing it down with maple syrup. Mrs. Pinguis clearly still begrudges Tara's in utero infidelity.
"SHHLUUUUUURRPPPPPP wad a fat NNYOOMNYYOOMMM liddle BUUURRRPPPP slut yoo GGLLUUUKKKK turned owd GUUULLP doo be. You sure dind GGLUURRRPPP in-err-it SSSSLLOOORPPP my BLLOMP SSHMAK good loogs LOOMMMMM BBUUUUURRPP or hod body!! LAAAAAAAAARPP!"
Then she notices Tara is eating a large block of high fat cheese and SCREAMS with an Old Testament ferocity, the severity of her wrath evident in her servants' intimidated faces. She turns so red with the fury she looks like a circus tent.
"IS SHE EATING MY FUCKING FOOD???!?!??!!!?"
"N-N-No, Pumpkin" her obsequious husband replies "W-We g-got her her own f-f-food, and we t-t-TRIPLED your food stock j-just to k-keep you happy"
This seems to somewhat abate Mrs. Pinguis' anger.
"HMMFFFFFF!!! Well SHHLUUUUURRPP id'll HAB doo GLOOOORRPP do I suppose. BUUUURRRRPPPPP bud I SHMAKKK wond yoo MMYYOOMMM doo QUA-DOO-PULL my SHLAARRPP GLACCKK foo. Den NNYOMM I MIDE juss fink BLLOOOMPPFFFFF bowd NYOOMM forgiving BLLUUUUURRRKKK yoo!!"
With that she settles back in to her previous breakneck feeding speed like a famished anime character.
"Oh... umm... of course, dear... and also... eh... this is... Tara's boyfriend Jay. Jay, this is my wife, Tammie."
She opens her mouth even wider reminiscent of a screaming toad, presumably to launch another warning burp at him for interrupting, but her eyes dart to me and something changes. Her eating slows down for a fraction of a second and suddenly a torrential wave of drool begins to flush from her lips. The ends of her useless arms undulate pathetically as if her concealed hands are moving within, attempting to reach me.
"SSHHLLLUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRPP Tara!! Yoor CHOMM boyfriend is HOD!! SHMAAKK Let SHHRRIPPP mommy haff SLLUCKK a go CLAAKK GLLOMMM wid him!!! LOOOORRRPPPPP!!!"
Her hippo tongue slides slimily across her lips in salacious invitation. She salivates madly while skillfully swallowing back whole birthday cakes. Tara doesn't like where this is going.
"No, mom! He UMFF berong CCHEWWW doo ME!! BURRRRRRRRRP!"
I stand here amidst this titillating tyrannical tirade of tonnage. Clearly there are some mother/daughter issues here. I'm as in love with Tara as can be but, honestly, if I’d met Mrs. Pinguis first Tara wouldn’t turn my head. The tight bulge in my jeans is getting painful as Mrs. Pinguis’ massive body jiggles and wiggles and wriggles. She’s moving her arms the most minimal amount like she’s treading water in treacle. Apparently sexual excitement gets her energized. Tara continues her protest through mouthfuls of chocolate truffles, now being hand fed to her by servants.
"Yoo orways GLOMM sdeal CCHEWW my boyfriends PPLOORRRPP mom, I'm GGLARRRPPP geepin KLLUURRPP dis won!!"
Her mother ignores this and turns her head (as much as her head is capable of turning) towards me.
"Wad doo BBUUURRRPPP yoo wond GGUULLPP wid NOM NOM dat skinny liddle GLUURRMMPP whore CHLLURR wen RAAAAWRR yoo SNARRKK gan SSLOPPP haff a SLLUCKK egg-speri-enced BRAAAAAHHPP woman FLOOOORRPPP like ME?!? GUUUUUUUUUULLLPPPPP I'm basically a porn star BLLAARRGG SHHRRIPPP CHOMM LORRK SCHHMAKK GGLOOMMP"
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pinguis--“
“BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRPPPPPP call me Tammie.”
“I’m sorry, Tammie, it’s not that I think you’re not beautiful--“
Tammie snorts and rolls her eyes patronizingly.
"RRARRRRPPPPPWell DUH BRAAAAAAAAARPPPPP of COURSE I’m URRRPP CLLOORPP beautiful--"
As she continues with her seductive speech a deep and distant RUMBLING sound echoes through the room as if a storm approaches. Three of the men massaging her gut jump to attention and run behind her. The rumbling grows louder into a whining squeal, the sound of agitated cattle and geysers pressurizing. It pitches into a bubbling whale song. Via a number of mirrors including one wall-length directly opposite Tammie (so she may admire her largeness) I can see what's happening behind her. The three men are standing right by her massive ass, which is approximately 9 foot wide and would be even bigger if she weren't lying on her side. The three of them steady a big circular sheet made of some kind of vulcanised material. I can’t tell. It looks like one of those safety nets firemen use to catch people who jump out of burning buildings. As I'm pondering this a fountain of feces ERUPTS from her anus, her projectile defecation flooding forth with all the violence of a damn bursting. Most of the shit gets caught by the three men but it’s quickly piling up, two more groups of workers wait behind them with their own bathroom pads. The stench fills the room like God. Everyone coughs and chokes, rubbing their stung eyes and trying to breathe through the poisonous air. Tammie, Tara and Talia are about the only ones not effected.
Tammie ignores all this and carries on with her seduction.
"-- beautiful GGLOORRPP I gan RAAAAAARPPPP tell from the CCLURMP bulge CCHEWW in SSHLAK your CHHOOMMM pants"
My erection is as obvious as the lung puncturing miasma from Tammie's toxic anus. Tara's dad sidles up beside me.
"Look, Jay. My wife can get pretty demanding and I've always got her anything she wants. So just name your price and we'll all be happy"
Tara lets out a long loud moan. She’s pouting for her father, doing her big baby eyes like when she’s pretending to be demure in bed to tease me.
"Dadddyyyyyy! Don't let mommy take my boyfriend!!"
Then, histrionically snapping out of this effected innocence she turns to her staff with a sense of hungry impatience.
"Hey! How about BUUUUURRRRRPPPPPPP some fucking FOOD here? I'm STARVING for Christ's sake!!"
Her ladies in waiting kneel, presenting platters of triple chocolate glazed donuts so she may eat at her leisure.
"MMMFFFFFF an sumwon GLLRRPPP gan gid RRARRR me YYUMMM a LLOORMMM fuggin sponge bath!!"
Another of the maids steps in with some flannels and soapy water to clean Tara's naked body. I turn back to her massive mother, moaning orgastic as her biblical flood of liquid shit BLASTS unbroken out of her. The heavy stench of demonic flatulence haunts the room.
"RRROOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPP!!!! MRRRFF 'urry up UMMFF an GLLRRPPP fugg me CHHMMM already!!!! I'm SSLUURRRPPP a biddzy GGRARRPP woman!!" Three final men appear from behind her carrying a trampoline sheet buried in a 2-foot molehill of Tammie's steaming stinking excrement. The shitting is over, Mr. Pinguis sees this and suddenly becomes excited. "A-alright sweetie… it's t-time to w-weigh you" As if to distract her the feeding speed is radically accelerated and she slips back into her comfortable consumption coma. Mr. Pinguis explains that they weigh her every time she's had a shit. Apparently she goes 15 times a day but her weight changes so often that it's necessary to keep up. A couple of stewards winch hooks from the ceiling and lock them into respective latches either end of Tammie’s chaise longue. The rope goes taut as a mighty engine struggles in the room above us. Mr. Pinguis then explains, as if he's passing down wisdom I might need for his daughter one day, that trying to lift his wife would be impossible. The machine records resistance and they’re able to calculate her weight that way to within a hundredth of an ounce accuracy. Tara's dad checks his iPhone and joyfully announces her weight.
"12,125lbs, that's about 5-and-a-half-tonnes!! Good work everybody!!"
There’s a polite round of applause (most of the staff seem pretty miserable at this job) which brings Tammie angrily back into reality. She furiously berates her slaves, demanding they "quit fucking around" and do their jobs pampering her “for once”. She then eyes me up again, clearly having forgot I was there. She restates her offer, or should I say order? Unfortunately, I realise at this point how long I've needed to use the bathroom and excuse myself. I wander down the long ostentatious hallway, followed by Tammie’s screams that I am to return to fuck her as soon as I am done. For her, it’s a given.
I finally find a bathroom and finish up. It takes a good deal of willpower not to jerk off over what I just saw, knowing full well I may have to save my load for Mrs. Pinguis should Tara agree. If not I can just fuck Tara and think of her mother. Don't get me wrong, I'm madly in love with Tara, but her mom is gorgeous and I'm only human. To be fair Tara has slept with an average two other guys a week since we started dating so… maybe I’m being an idiot.
As I'm walking back to Tammie's lounge something distracts me. I spot a servant, very obviously trying to stay out of sight down a segueing corridor. It’s one of the runners, the guy with the tattoo. He’s on his cellphone.
"Yes, I think so... Candidate four... One-two-one-two-five... a very possible Nitida... Further observation recommended..."
This guy is sketch.
"The daughter may also be a potential candidate..."
"Hello?"
He sees me and bolts. I consider chasing him but that second Mr. Pinguis appears, coming to me at the behest of his wife who's demanding she be allowed to fuck me immediately.
"Jay? What's the matter?"
I explain. It strikes Mr. Pinguis as worrying.
"Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. What did his tattoo say?"
Weirdly I hadn't mentioned he had a tattoo at all, I wonder how he knew that. "
Just… N"
He responds to himself, "So, they think it's her..." I'm about to ask what he means when--
“ASSHOLE!!” the voice roars from everywhere, “bring the stud NYOOOMM BRAAAAARRPPPP NOW!! BUUUUUUUUUUUUURPPPPPPPPPP”
Mr. Pinguis explains he has the intercom system installed throughout the house so his wife may scream at her servants wherever they are. He says she also has CCTV all over the place so we better get back immediately. He gets no arguments from me.
When we arrive Tara has her own chaise longue, also naked and spilling over its confines. Next to her mother though Tara looks comparatively tiny! A grape girl next to a watermelon woman, this is the sexiest sight I think anyone has ever seen. Both these obese babes splayed lazily, obsessively consuming right in front of me and both beckoning my attention.
"Daaaddyyyyy!!" Tara fake cries, "I don'd GGLLORPP SMMACCKK wond GGUULLLPP dem CCHOMM doo KKLLOORRPPP fugg!!"
"Princess" her dad replies "If you just let him do this for your precious loving mommy I'll give you anything. I'll get you a better apartment, a yacht, the new SAKA bed! What do you say baby?"
"BBURRRPP Yoo should SSHLOOMMM be buying me CHHEWWW RRAWRR all dadt GLOORRRPPP NYUUMMM stuff anyway!!"
Her mother blows me a slobbery kiss and beckons me over through a mouth filled with 3 buckets of shrimp. Tara whimpers sweetly while chewing on a whole roast duck. She grabs my hand, nails digging carelessly into me.
"Yoo are BLLAAAARRPP NOD lea-vin GGNOMM me, SHHLLURPP yoor GGNAWW my liddle pet. I GOORRRRP neey yoo SSHMAKK NYOMM doo bring me food GLLARGG CCHOOMMM an fugg me LLARRRPPP an dress GLOMM me an LYYUMM luv me…”
She hesitates on that last one, slightly uncomfortable with whatever she was about to say next. The malice in her eyes fades only for the slightest moment. They’re glistening, helpless as she looks up at me.
“… and wipe CHHUUU my ass. SHHLURRPPP You're NEBBER BLOORPP leabin me!!!"
She delivers this as an order rather than an emotional appeal, narcissists don’t love after all, right? But I can tell my Tara is pained. Making my princess happy is definitely more important than getting laid.
"Tara, baby, of course I wouldn't leave you. I wouldn't ever make you take care of yourself, you mean everything to me. I love you."
To this poignant reveal, the promise that I will always love her and treasure her and obey her, she BURPS straight in my face.
"Well BLLUURRRPPPPPPP in DAT case NNYOMMM I dond gare CHOOMM wod SSHLUURRRPP happens GRAWWRRR as long as GLOMMPP you CHEWWW still my YUMM slave!! LLARRRRPPPPP SSHMMAKK BBRRAWWRR NYOOMMM CCHOOMMM BUUURRRPPPP GGLARRRPP CHEEWWW NNYYARMM BBLOOORRRRPPPPP!!!"
I lean in and kiss her on the forehead.
“Thank you, baby. I am always yours.”
“BUT!” she turns to her father as something strikes her, from the smirk it’s something evil, “in return I want…”
He kneels before her, offering all sorts of gifts. She accepts each one before finishing her main demand.
“… I want Talia.”
The little girl gasps with fear, it must be terrible growing up with that mother but at least Tammie ignores her, if Tara owned Talia she’d be bullying her all day every day.
“Please Daddy!” Talia hugs her father, “Don’t make me live with Tara, I’m scared! I wanna stay with Mommy!”
“DEAL!” Tammie yells
And with that teams of feeders shovel food into Tara and Tammie’s starving faces. I look from my 570lbs girlfriend to her 5-and-a-half-tonne mother who is already shitting again, gorging on her 30th helping of stuffed roast boar. At her command, attendees bring her belly forward so there’s space between it and her GIANT thighs for me (and I mean giant, if thick thighs save lives then Tammy’s have done more than the measles vaccine). A mechanical cradle gently lifts her uppermost leg so I can slide inside, a curtain of blubber draping down as well as a rainforest atmosphere of dripping sweat. It’s like falling between the cracks of a living moon bounce. The movement of her many folds releasing all sorts of stinks as well dislodged food and general slime. I dig through the heavy soft pasty white sunless blubber until I finally find it. Her waxed pink pussy, a lot smaller looking than I imagined.
With new excitement I take a deep breath, think of Tara, and dive right in!