Flabby Little Sister by Kairuk,

“Get your head in the game, man!”

The sound of gunfire signals my pretend-death on the screen before us, and my eyes flick back to it, fixing themselves on the tv, where they’re supposed to be. In my sweaty hands, I grasp a controller, though I fail to use it to the desired effect.

“Come on, Ty, you’re supposed to be a pro at this. Where’s your expert marksmanship?” my friend Mike bemoans..

I manage to come up with a response quick enough; “What do you mean? I only got a kill less than you!”

“You’re better than me, though!” Mike flings his arms in the air in frustration. “I’m gonna get another drink, you want something?”

“Sure, I’ll have whatever,” I mutter, dismissively.

“Let’s see if whatever’s distracting you is done when I get back.”

Mike stands up to leave the sitting room. He’s right, I am distracted, but it doesn’t look like the distraction is leaving any time soon. Curled up in an armchair across the room is Mike’s sister, Amy. She’s a couple of years younger than us, 17, I think. She’s definitely a woman, though; fully-developed, and; well, voluptuous was probably not strong enough a word to describe her.

Out of her grey tracksuit lolls a big, soft belly, unconstrainable by the elastic of her waistband. Her sweater struggles too, rolling up, possibly pulled taut by the considerable size of her bust. While one hand holds the book she’s poring over, the other alternately dives in a deep bowl for chips, then wipes itself on her top, leaving orange stains across the breadth of her belly. Amy’s chubby fingers bring the snacks to her mouth seemingly unconsciously, as she never once breaks her focus on the book, steadily munching away, and creating a ring of cheesy dust around her lips and on her plump, pink cheeks.

She pulls her nose out of the book, and looks around through semi-rimless glasses. They look like the sort a secretary would wear, and her curly auburn hair, pulled up into a bun, would have fitted the look, were it not so carelessly messy. She pouts a little, and-

Oh, shit, she’s looking right at me.

“Hey, Amy,” I say, casually as I can manage. Had she caught me staring? I watch her face carefully, whilst trying to look blankly naive to any suspicions she might have. Eventually, she smiles at me, and I’m off the hook.

“Hey, Ty,” she respsonds, cheerfully. I hang out with Mike a lot, so his sister knows me by name. We don’t speak too much, aside from filling in awkward silences like this one, but I’ve seen Amy frequently enough to have developed a mild obsession with her pudgy physique. “I hear you’re shit at video games all of a sudden,” she teases.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, don’t listen to your brother; he’s an asshole. I’m just not concentrating.” Changing the subject, I ask what she’s reading.

She raises the cover of the book for me to see, while she swallows a mouthful of chips, then narrates the title to me; “Mansfield Park.”

“Oh, cool. Is that for school?”

“No, just for pleasure,” she responds, then laughs nervously.

I hope that didn’t made me look like a boor. “Oh, right, we read that in school, you see. If you need anyone to analyse some themes for you, I’m the guy for the job.” She laughs at my joke, so I carry on. “Yeah, we took turns reading it out in class. Everyone got a character. I was Crawford, your brother was William.”

She thoughtfully sucks the flavouring off her fingers, then comments, “That’s a bit unfair on you. I’m sure you’re not that villainous.”

As I watch my friend’s little sister’s belly seductively bulging out of her clothing, I mull over the statement, before somewhat-dishonestly agreeing with her. Amy returns to her reading, and I watch. Each time she turns a page, she cleans her hands on her top. As she does so, her fingers sink into the surplus flesh, showing off the soft and squishy flab of her stomach. I can almost feel it myself. I cross my legs to covered up the powerful erection that’s sprung up defiantly beneath my jeans.

Mike comes back, handing a Coke to Amy and one to me.

“You ready to get back on the horse, hotshot?” Mike ribs.

I glance over at Amy, who’s struggling to get her greasy fingers under the can’s tab. Her round face is getting flustered.

“Uhh, sure.” That’s not really the answer- well, I am sure of something, but that’s how inconveniently my distraction is remaining. Mike loads the game back up, and commit to live up to my reputation this time.

No distractions, I say to myself. That ethos works better in my head than in reality. It’s so hard to focus on a game I’d played a thousand times, when mere feet away, Amy’s blubbery rolls are begging to be played with instead. I keep glancing up to see her chugging down her soda or picking at the last crumbs of the chips in the vast bowl she’d filled, then to Mike, who’s visibly irked by my ineptitude. Even when my eyes are on the tv, I can still hear Amy, crunching, gulping and belching away. Legs crossed again. This is impossible.

I hear a little sigh, but this time, it isn’t Mike lamenting over my performance. On her comfy chair, Amy wipes her mouth, and raising the empty snack bowl in the air, informs us that she’s off to restock. I kind of want her to stay; I’m hungry for more. Then again, watching the forbidden fruit was driving me crazy. Having her leave isn’t my dream scenario (that’s probably R-rated), but it’s better than nothing.

Amy lifts herself out of the chair, landing on the carpeted floor with a thud. Brushing her food-littered clothes off with one hand, she pulls at her sweaty tracksuit pants between her cheeks. This is the first view of her ass I’d gotten today; she’d been slouched in that chair all the while. Her cheeks aren’t her best feature, flabby and somewhat square. Still, they filled out her sweatpants nicely, and payed homage to how much time she spent resting on them.

By now, I’m not even pretending to play the game, though fortunately Mike seems too occupied with picking up my slack to notice my checking out his sister. Book under her chubby arm, Amy pads out of the lounge, and I gaze longingly after her until the door slams shut behind her. I shudder with pleasure. I’ll have to do something about this infatuation.

I shift my eyes back to our game. Looks like I could still bring it back. The image of Amy’s toneless backside is burnt into my retinas, but it floats in front of me like a pleasant reminder of her steatopygia while I salvage the session for Mike.

“There we go,” I brag, elbowing him in the side, “I was just getting warmed up.”

My next brush with Amy is at dinner. Mike invited me to stay and eat, and since my parents were out of town, I certainly wasn’t going to pass on a cooked meal. As I sit down at the table with Mike and his parents, I remember my sweaty palms have been on that controller all day.

“Sorry, I’m just gonna wash my hands,” I excuse myself.

“That’s quite alright, Ty,” Mike’s mom says with a smile, then, shooting daggers at Mike, pointedly adds,“If only everyone was as fastidious as you.”

Mike groans. “Alright ,fine. I’m taking this floor, Ty can go upstairs,” he says, rushing out to stake his claim on the bathroom.

I mutter something about charm, and trudge upstairs. Amy is on the first floor landing, putting her laundry in the airing cupboard. She turns her head to greet me.

“Hey Ty, sorry. I’ll be down in a sec.”

“Oh, no, there’s no hurry. I just came to wash my hands,” I explain.

“I see! Alright,” she smiles, “Go on past, then.”

Easier said than done, I think. Mike lives in an old, Victorian detached-house, and its halls are punishingly narrow. Not so much a problem for me normally, but there definitely isn’t room for me to get past the generously-proportioned Amy without a squeeze. Part of me wonders if she’s even aware how just how fat she’d got. Other parts are simultaneously excited by the chance at physical contact, and repulsed by my perverse enthusiasm for it.

I turn to face her and sidle by. Even up against the wall, in the tight hallway I can’t help but press past Amy’s vast, plush rump. Her asscheeks push up as I moved, separating out when I reach the crack. I’m overcome with lust. I want to fuck her, now. I feel a boner growing as the soft flesh caresses my lap, and speed up, hurrying to the bathroom in the hope she won’t notice.

With my hands clean, I listen at the door for the sounds of Amy going downstairs. I don’t want any more awkward contact with tonight. When I’m confident the coast is clear, I return to the dinner table. Mike’s already there, and Amy’s just sitting down. Her mother tuts at the state of her sweater.

“Oh, Amy, that top is filthy,” she complains, referring to the stains from earlier. “We’ve talked about this. We do have company.”

“Sorry, mom, I’m doing laundry today,” Amy justifies. It seems like this is a regular problem, but at least today she has an excuse. “Besides,” she continues, gesturing towards me, ”Its only Ty. You don’t care, do you?”

I try to find a diplomatic response. I really don’t care; if anything, I think it’s adorable. That’s definitely not the proper answer, though. Thankfully, Mike’s dad saves us by bringing in the dinner, spaghetti bolognese We tuck in, some more than others. Mike wolfs down his food. Amy’s surprisingly restrained with her portion, given the appetite she’s demonstrated already, though I she’s grazed like a cow all day. She’s probably not too hungry.

Like her brother, though, she’s not a graceful eater. As she consumes the meal, the tomato sauce is splattered on her face and atop her bust. The top of her belly billows out onto the table. I do my best not to stare.

We all have seconds. I thank Mike’s dad profusely, both for giving me a meal that hasn’t suffered my own inexpert cookery, and for giving his well-padded daughter more reason to eat. I make sure to eat slowly, so I can stay and observe for as long as she eats. Amy mops up the sauce on her plate with garlic bread, then finishes off the rest of the loaf. She wipes her buttery hands on her thighs.

“So,” says Mike, “How about a game of Mariokart?”

“I don’t know,” I answer sheepishly, “I should probably start heading home soon.”

“Oh, come on,” he pleads, “You can stay over here, we’ve got a spare bed.”

I agree, thinking only of spending more time with Amy. It’s starting to get pretty obvious at this point, I can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t see her for the rest of the night, though. I’m disappointed. I lie awake mulling it over. Maybe it’s best if I just avoid her from now on? This doesn’t seem like too healthy an infatuation. I make a sort of sleepy resolution to try and dial it back a bit. Play it cool, I say.

It’s ruined the next morning, at breakfast. Mike and I are up reasonably early, with his mom. Amy waddles downstairs in her pajamas a couple of hours later. They’re powder blue button-ups, patterned with little yellow stars. Her belly spills out over the waistband, and makes great gaps in between each button as it tries to force itself out. She needs new pajamas, clearly, but as she sits down, the pajama bottoms slip down, displaying her ass, and the nightwear is suddenly alright in my book.

I remember the resolution from the night before, and try to look away. Across the table, Mike’s mom says good morning to Amy, then switches to a more serious line of conversation.

“Amy, we really need to talk about your math today. If you’ve not come up with another solution, your father and I are going to get you a tutor.” I sense this has been a long-running discussion.

“Oh, mom,” Amy moans through a mouthful of Lucky Charms, “Come on, I don’t want a tutor.”

“Amy, sweetie, I think it’s for the best. Now, I’m going to ask around and see if there are any good ones about-”

“Well, what about Ty?” Amy interrupts. I’m surprised, to say the least. “Yeah, Ty, you said you’d help me out with English, right?” she begins, referring back to my joke from yesterday, “What about math?”

“Ty is good at math,” Mike butts in, “Really good. You couldn’t skimp on his wages. He’d know. He’s that good.”

Their mom looks thoughtful for a minute, then turns to me. “Ty, what do you think? I’m happy to pay you a fair amount for your time, if you’re interested? I’m sure it’d be better for Amy to be taught by someone she knows.”

I’m conflicted. “Yeah, I’m happy to help, but, I really don’t need paying,” I explain. To be honest, I do want to do them a favour. It’s just, I’d feel weird about taking money for it, when I, you know, feel like I do about Amy.

“Oh, come on, Ty,” Mike counsels, “I’d take the money, if I was any good at math. Say, mom, she doesn’t need any phys. ed tutoring, does she?”

Mike’s mom tuts at both of us. “Now, really, Ty, I’m happy to pay you. How does twenty dollars a session sound?”

I mumble some agreement, and everyone looks satisfied, apart from Mike, who pouts with envy.

“I’ll consider that sorted, then! You can work out a time that suits you with Amy. If you’re round here all the time, you might as well do something more productive than games,” she jokes.

“Just as well,” Mike adds, as I glance over at Amy, “It’ll be nice for you to have a break from getting your ass handed to you.”

And so it is, I've become Amy’s tutor. Any hopes I’d had of quashing my crush on my friend’s little sister fade away as we agree to meet up twice a week at her place. Only five days later comes our first session, 4pm on a Thursday. It’s fall, so it’s starting to get dark already as I arrive. I wipe my shoes in the porch and peer through the front window.

As I’d expected, Amy’s in there, sprawled on the couch. Just like always, she’s absentmindedly snacking; today, she lazily feeds herself Cheese Puffs from a colossal cooking bowl as she watches TV. Her transfixed eyes are glazed over behind her secretary frames. I notice she’s watching some reality show; a teenaged blonde, probably a bit younger than Amy, is organizing a birthday party. She samples champagne with a hand on her skinny hip.

The TV blonde and Amy are wearing the same pink sweatpants; they say “juicy” on the buttocks, in silver sequins. Amy’s are of course many sizes bigger, and wrapped around the lower portion of her bloated belly. She’s not wearing the matching tracksuit top, though. Instead, a white tank top is tucked into her pants and smeared with food stains, particularly beneath the chubby hand that rests on it.

I ring the doorbell, and Amy rolls over, swinging her legs off the couch and brings her body upright. From behind the sofa, she retrieves the tracksuit top, then slips it over her arms. When she opens the door, I see it’s only been zipped up to her navel, leaving the top part of her belly bulging outwards as she greets me.

“Hey, Ty! Come on in.”

She steps back, and I say hello, crossing the threshold. I kick off my boots and look around.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Nobody’s home yet. I think my parents are going to be out late, but Mike should be back soon. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him?”

“Oh, yeah, he said he was going to someone else’s house after school. I think he’ll be back pretty shortly,” I explain. Amy’s brother, Mike, and I go to school together, though not the same as hers.

“Oh, cool,” she says, smiling. Then, wiping her fingers on her top, she begins, “Shall we get started? We can go work in my room, I’ll just grab us some snacks.”

I wait as she descends into their basement, wooden stairs creaking under her girth. After a minute, I hear here return, rustling with her cargo. Her arms are laden with a gigantic bag of Doritos and a six-pack of Diet Coke. Handing the drinks to me, she grabs her bowl from the living room, then leads me upstairs.

Amy’s ass is level with my face. “Juicy” indeed, though, she’s not naturally bootylicious- any volume to her butt has been hard won by her rarely rising off the thing. As such, it’s less round, and more soft and flabby. Still, well-deserving of my appreciation. Her cheeks are tightly constrained within the bright pink pants, jelly jiggling behind the soft fabric with each step. She keeps having to unflatteringly pick wedgies out of her deep ass-crack.

“Just up here,” she puffs cheerfully. She seems out of breath from going up and down all these stairs. I hadn’t realised before that Amy was so unfit, but it makes sense, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her do any exercise of her own volition.

She leads me into her bedroom. I know where it is, from hanging out with Mike, but I’ve never been inside before. I’m hit with an unusual smell; flowery, perfumed and girly, but with an undertone of greasy, cheesy snack foods, and musky sweat soaked up into clothes. This must be what Amy smells like. I’d have guessed as much. It’s not unpleasant. The room itself still has some holdovers from the little girl’s room it used to be; the wallpaper is, pink and the bedsheets flowery. The rest is more befitting a mature teenage girl. A desk covered in schoolbooks is pushed against one corner, an office chair tucked under it; with arms, seemingly too-small for the room’s occupant. A wall-to-wall shelving unit stands opposite Amy’s double bed. It houses a huge, 26-inch television, and row upon row of DVDs. She clearly likes her TV. Again, no surprises.

“Right, well, lets get comfortable,” Amy invites me, then throws herself into a mountain of pillows on the bed, bouncing slightly as the springs respond noisily to her weight. She tears open her bag of chips, then pats the bed as an invitation to sit down. I place myself at the end of the bed. Amy extends her legs behind me, and crossed one over the other. On her feet are extra-fluffy grey socks. We’re uncomfortably close, but I try to ignore it.

“Sure, so, uh-” I think about what to do. This is my first time tutoring anyone. “What do you need help with?”

“Pretty much everything,” Amy admits, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly.

Everything. Sounds like we’ll be spending a lot of time together. I feel a stab of excitement in my heart.

“Alright, well, that’s fine,” I reassure, “We can just start with whatever you’re doing in class now.”

She fills the bowl with Doritos from the massive bag, not even emptying it, and takes a sample. As she chews, she silently offers me one. I pop one in my mouth, and she take the bowl back for herself. That must be the minimum politeness quota met, since she doesn’t share them for the rest of the night.

When she’s swallowed her food, Amy tells me that they’re currently studying long division at school, and I decide that’s a good place to start. The teaching is tough-going. It’s not like Amy isn’t bright. She’s obviously really clever, albeit, not so hot at math. But both of us seem to be facing a challenge here.

For Amy, it’s not being good at something. She’s too smart for her own good, really, and that makes her lazy. Well, maybe it’s not the only thing that makes her lazy; being too smart doesn’t tie her to the couch every time I see her. Still, she struggles with putting the effort in.

I try and explain everything as gently as I can, so I don’t scare her away. Part way through, though, the effort of thinking becomes too much for her, and she collapses on her back to save energy. I shuffle up next to her, holding the paper over her protruding belly as I make notes so she can see from her reclined position.

She seems to be eating more than usual, too. Like I said, I don’t get any more Doritos than the one I was offered, and only one of the cans of Coke belongs to me. The stress of working is leading Amy to comfort eat. She’s seriously stuffing her face. Any time I want her to write, I have to wait for her to finish gorging to give her the pen, and then her fingers leave stains all over the papers.

I don’t mind all that, or anything, it’s just an observation. In fact, if she indulges when she works, maybe I should give her harder work. I wouldn’t mind seeing her a bit fatter, if that’s even possible. I could definitely ply her with more food. I could buy some with my wages- damn it, this is weird. This is the problem I’ve got; I’m finding it hard to concentrate when I’ve got this big, blubbery goddess right next to me.

Any time I’m not talking to her, I just start fantasizing. That’s just one of them, “what if Amy got fatter.” A more common one is “what if I made out with Amy.” Or, you know, more than make-out. She’s just so fuckable; those thick, pillowy legs bursting out of her tight little pants, that vast belly, swelling and subsiding as she breathes in and out.

Sometimes I accidentally make contact with her flab, and I stay as still as I can, making the most of the closeness. Sometimes I intentionally touch her; just a light brush of the hand, here and there. When the lazy thing straightens up, I slip my hand behind her so she’ll on it as she reclines. It’s pervy, I know, but I get so excited feeling part of me absorbed into her great asscheeks. She apologizes and blushes when she realizes, I graciously accept. I don’t think she knows it’s intentional, so dealing with the work- and scarfing down snacks.

But it’s all wrong in so many ways, and I’ve got a job to do. I just cross my legs, and try desperately to ignore my urges.

The hour’s over, surprisingly quickly. In fact, we go over by about ten minutes, only realising when Mike arrives home. I guess I’d been too transfixed to look at my watch. I don’t know about Amy. Maybe she was just too polite to kick me out.
“Looks like we’re done for today,” I announce. Thankfully, Mike’s sudden appearance snaps me out of my stupor, and I stand up to pack my books away.

“Oh yeah,” agrees Amy, “I guess I didn’t notice!” The Dorito sack is empty, and the bed littered with crinkled Coke cans. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hands, and rubs her palms on her thighs before standing up to join me. I’m escorted downstairs, where Mike is taking off his shoes.

“Hey, man. You up for some CoD?” he asks, cheerfully.

“No offense, pal, but I quite fancy going home,” I respond wearily.

“Fair enough,” he remarks, nodding, “She can be pretty tiresome.”

Amy shoots him a dirty look, then turns to me as I lace up my boots. “Ty, my mom says she’ll pay you for both days tomorrow, alright?”

“Awesome. Well,” I say, heading for the door, “I guess I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you! Thanks a lot, Ty,” she says, and as I step outside, I roll my eyes, hearing her opine through the door, “Jeez, I could use a snack after all that hard work.”

That night, just like every other, I think about Amy.

The next day, I walk with Mike to his house, after school. He jabbers all the way about some video game or other; I’m not really paying attention. Amy’s not in the living room when we arrive. He lets me in with his key, then excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

“Amy’s probably through in the kitchen. Or, maybe my mom’ll be there. See if you can get some money out of her,” he instructs.

I follow his advice, and head down the hallway to the kitchen. There’s people in there, like he said; through the frosted glass of the door, I can see a tall, slender silhouette, and a shorter, much rounder one. Amy’s talking to her mom. I stop outside, in case I’m interrupting, and listen in on the conversation.

“...just concerned. I mean, it does seem like you’ve put on a few pounds lately.”

“Yeah, I know, mom. It’s not a big deal.”

“I mean, what did the nurse say?”
Amy sighs. “God, mom, relax. I know what you’re thinking, it’s not like I’m morbidly obese. Whatever that even means...”

“Al- Alright, sweetie, I’m just thinking about your happiness. Can I ask how much you weigh?”

“I dunno, really, I haven’t checked in a while.” She sounds thoroughly disinterested. I sense this is a conversation she’s well used to, not to mention bored of.

“But, surely the nurse weighed you?”

“Yeah, about two... Two-something. I can’t remember exactly.” She doesn’t sound entirely honest. From the noise her mom makes, it doesn’t sound like anyone’s buying it.

“Well, maybe it’d be a good idea for you to take up some exercise.”

“Alright, yeah.”

“And maybe try watching what you eat?”

It sounds like Amy’s eating while they speak. I have to stifle a laugh. Amy sounds like she’s getting annoyed, though.

“Ugh, jeez, mom. You’ve already got me saddled with two hours of math a week, can you just lay off for a while?”

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

Wow, Amy’s mom folds easily. There’s a clatter of crockery, another concerned growl, and Amy announces, “Alright, I’m going to see if the tutor YOU hired is here!”

She storms out of the door, and straight into me. I bounce backward off of her soft, protruding stomach. Oof-

“Oh, Ty, I’m so sorry!” she exclaims, and extends an arm to steady me. I guess Amy’s a lot more stable than I am. To be honest, she seems most concerned that the fat slice of cake in her hand is alright. “Have you been here long?”

“Oh, er, no,” I fib, “I just this second arrived.. Mike let me in.”

“Oh, good. I was hoping you didn’t overhear my mom and I. We... Well, I’ll explain in a minute.” She lifts her cake demonstratively, then asks, “Do you want some?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” I’m not really hungry, and anyway, I wouldn’t like to deprive Amy of sweets.

“Alright, well, I’m gonna head up into my room. You can get us some snacks from the basement, if you want?”

“Sure, I’ll meet you up there.”

It looks like that’s the answer she’s hoping for, since she gives me a grin, and starts toward her room. In turn, I open the cellar door and walk down the stairs. This is a new low, collecting food just to feed Amy up. But, god, there’s enough of it down here. Under dim, flickering light, I can make up rows of bulk-quantity snack foods. Are these all for Amy? No wonder she’s so big. The sack of Doritos from yesterday was just one of many. I tuck one under my arm, and collect a six-pack of soda.

As I make for the stairs, I have second thoughts. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to bring a little extra? I slip a regular packet of Cheese Puffs in a bowl, then cover it up with the bag of Doritos. Pretty sly, I reckon.

This is a slippery slope, though. I’m totally aware of this, as I let myself into Amy’s room. She’s reclined on her bed waiting for me, licking her lips as she polishes off her slice of cake. Seeing her eyes light up at the sight of the snacks, and the way her pudgy hand sinks into her belly. any thoughts of morality are pushed from my brain.

Amy shuffles over, and I sit myself next to her, hanging over the goods to the eager fatty beside me. She tears open the Doritos, and neglecting to pour them out or offer me one, begins to eat, angrily.

“Ugh, alright,” she begins, sounding ticked off, “What you missed was my mom, getting on my back about, well, my weight.” I raise my eyebrows, trying to look surprised. “I know, right?” she continues, “I mean, she’s always nagging me about it, but I’ve got so many other things to do, like, school stuff. And, I’ve got to have some time to relax,”- she seems to have plenty, I think -”And, you know, I don’t even care that much about how I look. It’s not a big deal to me.”

I nod, appreciatively.

“She was getting at me being obese, she’s always worried about that. Anyway, I totally am, I have been since I was fourteen. The big deal now is ‘morbidly obese’. I promised I wasn’t going to get that big, but I saw the school nurse last week, and, well, I am. I don’t care or anything, I just want to get it off my chest.”

I instinctively glance down at her chest. It’s pretty proudly displayed. I try and look away. Amy’s put away a lot of those chips during her rant. She spits food as she speaks.

“You don’t think it’s a big deal, do you?” she asks. She stares at me with her wet brown eyes.

For a second, I’m torn. Amy is big, she’s very big. Her colossal gut is bulging along with her every breath, constantly threatening its meager fabric container. Her jumbo thighs are spread as wide as they’ll go to make room for it, and that’s not very wide. Even her feet are pudgy, her fat toes wiggling in sweat-drenched socks.

And she’s only a teenager, I mean, that’s got to make it worse. It’s pretty weird for someone her age to be this unfit, and she’s only gonna keep going, the way she acts. Constant eating, she never gets up... Do I want to encourage her? Shouldn’t I be the responsible one?

“Not at all,” I reassure her, “As long as you’re happy with it, it’s fine. I mean, I’ve never thought of your size as a problem, and you know, this ‘morbid’ thing; it’s only a milestone, right? What does it even change?”

I’m rambling a bit, but she looks pleased with my answer. She puts a hand over her heart, leaving a sweaty, cheesy stain on her top, and exhales deeply. I guess all that ranting put her out of breath.

“Thanks a lot, Ty,” she says, with a gracious smile, “Now, let’s do what you’re paid for.”

Yes, I decide. I’m totally fine with encouraging her.
There’s six days between seeing Amy each time, that is, assuming I don’t hang out with Mike over the weekend. This time, I don’t, so it’s six days. I’m counting down, eagerly, but it’s not because of my obsession. Mostly.

Okay, it’s partially because of my obsession; I always want to see Amy again. My friend’s exaggeratedly-doughy little sister plays on my mind at all times. I can’t stop thinking about her uniquely fleshy physique; her obtrusive, double-roll belly; her magnificent, self-flaunting breasts; her flaccid, untoned, almost-rectangular arse, expansive not by generous genetics but by generous overindulgence.

And, I guess you could say it’s the obsession’s fault, but what I mean is, the main reason I want to see her this Thursday isn’t just to spend more time admiring her. Last week, she asked me for advice before our study session, she wanted to know what I thought of her weight. Obviously, I think her weight is fantastic; I could have spent the hour with her singing praises of her massive excess of body fat; so I said it was fine. I said she shouldn’t listen to her mom’s criticism, and that she should just carry on as she is. Carry on being a glutton.

I’m wondering if it’s reasonable advice, or if I went mad in a moment of lust. On the one hand, the responsible thing to do would have been saying, “Do some exercise, eat your vegetables, brush your teeth, whatever.” All that stuff. But, on the other, I don’t think it’s really my responsibility. She’s only carrying on how she was before, after all. Who’s to say my advice even changed her mind? Knowing Amy, she was probably just fishing for the answer she wanted.

I look online in the six day gap, checking out the deal with “morbid obesity.” I stay clear of medical websites, I already know what they’re going to say. Instead, I look for some actual testimonials. Turns out, there’s a lot of fat girls on the internet. I guess it’s a popular hobby, what with the lack of movement involved. Sure, I’ve looked at pictures and things before, (I’m only human.) but I haven’t heard the thoughts of real women until now, and, they all seem pretty happy. “Fat and proud,” they say, that sort of thing. And, by god, some of them are hot. Not as hot as Amy, mind you, but still, good looking.

I reassure myself in this way, over the weekend, and Monday and Tuesday. Still, come Wednesday, I can’t help but worry about tomorrow. Will Amy have taken my advice to heart? Maybe she’s spent all week gorging herself. Maybe I’ll find her twice the size I last saw her. And a little voice behind the worry says, wouldn’t that be great?

I don’t any of these thoughts to Amy’s brother, Mike. In fact, I try my best to avoid bringing her up at all. That’s one of the many things that makes this situation awkward. I don’t need Mike finding out about my crush. I admit, he’s not the perfect friend, but still. Fancying his sister would be a low blow. Fattening her up, ditto.

So, when Thursday rolls around, I warily change the subject any time Amy’s name comes up. Mike and I walk to his house after school, where I’m going to be tutoring her, so she’s a hard subject to avoid, but fortunately, Mike doesn’t really have a lot to say about her.

Mike settles himself down in the living room to play video games, and I cautiously follow in, to meet Amy. She’s lounged in her usual seat, reading, and to my delight, she’s not put on five stone over the weekend. I’d been worried over nothing. She’s retained her trademark super-casual dress sense, and disinterest in personal hygiene, but that’s nothing new. Just regular old Amy.

She lifts herself out of the armchair, and greets me with a surprise hug. I guess our relationship’s a little warmer after our chat last week.

“Hey, Ty! Nice to see you,” she coos, as her luscious belly and breasts attempt to engulf me, partially succeeding. I’m a little put out when she retreats, but I suppose we couldn’t go on any longer with Mike around, anyway.

“Hi Amy. You ready for some math?” I say happily, relieved that my concerned fantasies hadn’t come true.

“Sure, you just go on upstairs, I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

I follow her orders, while she heads into the kitchen, looking for snacks, no doubt. By now I’ve learned that any work is an excuse for Amy to indulge, and she hates to miss an opportunity.

While I wait, I have a look around her room. I should stress, even though I spend a lot of time thinking about Amy, I’m rarely with her. Two hours a week, maybe a little more, that’s it. So when I get an opportunity to learn some more about her, I’m ready to investigate. The floor is littered with dirty clothing. A veritable mound is piling up beside her bed, and the back of her chair is draped with capacious bras. She must have cleaned up last time I came, if this is what it’s normally like. Browsing her vast DVD collection, I see a lot of girly rom-coms, some period dramas, a select few action flicks. Her top drawer is open; I don’t want to snoop, but seeing as it’s plainly visible, I check inside. It’s full of underwear, of all it XXL or bigger. There’s a load of lacy panties, and a surprising number of revealing thongs, as well as some plainer numbers. It’s an odd mix. I get the feeling Amy doesn’t particularly care what she’s wearing, as long as there’s something clean, and the plethora of undies is probably to help her put off laundry as long as possible.

Looking through her panties is getting me way more excited than is reasonable for a study session, so I settle down on the bed to wait for her. The study session is no different from usual; I teach, Amy eats, and I struggle to restrain my roaring libido. It’s even harder this week. To be honest, my willpower is wearing down a bit, but I make it through the hour. She’s got more food than usual, that’s for sure, but not by a significant margin. I was imagining her banqueting while we worked. Her respect for her clothing seems slightly worse, as she cleans her filthy hands on her top, but it’s pretty hard to tell, given how poor it was to start with.

Friday’s much the same. Today I notice Amy’s knees for the first time; I’ve never thought of someone’s knees as sexy before, but Amy’s... Swollen with excess fat, they hang down a little over her shins, and form a sort of doughnut shape, with a squishy indent in the middle. I’m loath to get up at the end of our session, stalling for time while I wait for my insolent boner to subside. In my defense, she’s wearing some very form-fitting clothes. Green sweatpants, and a tight pink tank top that give way to an unreasonable level of bulging. It’s awkward. Maybe the tightness of her trousers is why her fatty knees stood out to me. Then again, maybe my growing lust is just making me more and more desiring of things to idolise.

Regardless of my own hopelessness, Amy seems her typical self. I go home considering the week a success.

I’ve not got my fill of Amy, though. I’m not sure I can ever get my fill of Amy, really. On that note, I’m personally a bit amazed that she’s not picked up on my infatuation yet. It really seems like she should have; I’ve done some very unsubtle manoeuvres in the name of perving on her, but everytime I expect her to call me out, she just carried on obviously, distracted by food, or TV, or whatever else is entertaining her at the time.

But, that wasn’t my point. I still want to see more of her, so when Mike invites me over on Sunday, I jump at the chance. By now, I’ve all but forgotten my silly fears. I’d worried I was some kind of demonic influence, ruining Amy with malevolent whisperings about the joys of morbid obesity. Turns out, it didn’t affect her all that much. That makes hanging out with Mike a lot more relaxed. i meet him at the bus stop, after he’s got off work, and we walk up to his house together. I’m a lot less defensive about Amy now, and we’re absorbed in a heated discussion about something ridiculous, possibly Halo. I’m surprised at how quickly we find ourselves at the door.

“Let’s go in the living room,” says Mike, “I’ll clear Amy out.”

I’m about to protest, then I think again. After last time, I’ve learnt that Amy’s a huge distraction. It’s probably best if she’s not with us while we play. I should say hi, though. Kicking off my boots, I enter the lounge, where I’m met with a surprise.

Amy’s in her chair, there’s no change there. But that’s just the problem; no change. It looks like she’s been there all weekend. She’s wearing the same clothes as last time I saw her, with a grey sweater added to the ensemble, though it’s so covered in greasy marks and cheese dust that it appears orange from a distance. Her tight, green sweatpants are pulled down considerably to free her stomach, the lower roll of which is tucked into a threadbare panties. I hope she’s at least changed those, I think to myself.

Her low pants show off quite a lot of her flabby butt, which spreads across the breadth of the chair, packed in between the arms. In contrast, her socks are pulled up high above her thick ankles, and are so drenched in sweat that they cling tightly to her feet, showing off each individual pudgy toe. Those definitely haven’t been changed since Friday.

On one side of the chair is a small stack of snacks. In a ring around her lie the remains of many more. An unreasonable number of packets litter the floor by the chair, some tucked inbetween Amy’s chunky thighs and the cushy chair’s arms. She’s currently munching her way through a party-size pack of Cheetos, and swigging a Diet Coke.

She’s got her laptop and some books to hand, but right now, Amy’s transfixed on the TV. There’s a marathon of My Super Sweet Sixteen on MTV. The star of this episode is in tears, as her father refuses to buy her a throne for the party. Feet up on a stool, Amy reclines on a throne of her own, looking perfectly satisfied.

Mike enters the room, and I manage to snap out of my stupor. “Hey, Amy,” I address, still slightly bewildered.

It’s disgustingly erotic. Or erotically disgusting? I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s both of those things. I definitely feel like this is the sort of behaviour I should be revolted by. It’s the kind of thing that’s frowned on by polite society, oh boy, is it frowned upon. But, me? All I’m certain about that I’m still finding Amy as hot as ever.

The couch potato acknowledges me with a greeting in return, but her eyes don’t move from the TV screen.

“Me and Ty wanted to play some Halo. Think we could use the TV?” Mike asks, leadingly.

Amy grunts discontentedly, then pleads with Mike, “Do I have to? I’m in the middle of watching something.” Mike looks at the TV and frowns. Right now, the adverts are on. She still doesn’t look at us, and her sentences are punctuated by steady, incessant munching.

“Yeah, come on Amy,” Mike affirms, “You’ve been down here since Friday night, let us have a go.”

“Fiiiine...”

Amy slowly and steadily makes to stand up. There’s a slight ripping sound as her fat bum becomes unstuck from the seat’s fabric. She heaves herself up by the arms of the chair, then pauses midair for a second, before her digestive system stirs, and lets loose a long, wet belch. The excess on her body ripples a little in response. Relieved, she fully erects herself, for the first or second time today, I’d imagine.

I’m treated to a generous view of Amy’s bare backside as she bends over to collect her things. I assume Mike’s rolling his eyes, or something, but I don’t know for certain; I dare not look away for a second. It’s glorious. Two great, milky, cellulite-pitted slabs out on display, textured like cottage cheese. I breathe in sharply through my teeth, Amy groans as she straightens back up. Then, snacks tucked under one arm, she waddles out of the room. As she passes us by, a malodorous cocktail of perspiration and cheap snack foods confirms that she’s neglected showering. I’m turned-on, and confused by it, tempted to chase her out the room.

“She’s getting worse,” Mike tuts, then turns his attention to the television. “How about some Halo, then?”

Fuck, I think. I broke Amy.

Dinner is a tense affair. Amy’s not cleaned up her act since I last saw her, still looking unkempt and slovenly, body bulging up against the tabletop to boot. Her parents frown, in turn shooting concerned glances at each other and the gorging girl sat across from them. Meanwhile, I admire her for her enticing figure, and enrapturing attitude towards eating. I’m turned on watching what will soon result in more Amy; specifically, more padding on her already cushioned body. More of the best bit. I’m thankful the dining table conceals my erection, but I’m still concerned about someone catching me as I gaze toward her, so I fervently check the where the others are looking, just in case.

Amy isn’t looking up from her meal, except to pile extra helpings on her plate. I try and figure out whether she’s enthralled by the act of consumption, or simply trying avoid awkward eye contact with her judgemental parents. The latter seems the obvious choice, but knowing Amy like I do, I wouldn’t discount either option too quickly.

The only person who’s perfectly comfortable is Mike. He obviously eats his dinner, and chats away to no-one in particular, everyone else seemingly more interested in his fat little sister.

Amy is so graceless when she eats, but after an apparent three days of eating, it’s impressive how much she’s putting away. As she shovels food into her mouth, specks of sauce find themselves layered on top of a crust of chip-dust, already dirtying her chubby face. I also notice, she eschews eating with a knife and fork, instead grasping a spoon in one pudgy fist, for optimal food intake.

It isn’t long before the cooking pot in the middle of the table is emptied. Amy pushes her chair back and reclines, freeing her distended belly. She’s got food all over her face, and her eyelids hand lazily, in a sleepy, satisfied way. She straightens up a little to speak, letting out a belch before she does.

“Oof, excuse me!” she simpers, “Is there any dessert?”

Her mother raises her eyebrows in surprise, as her daughter looks at her expectantly, rubbing her full belly.

“Not tonight, sorry sweetheart,” comes the response.

“That’s alright,” says Amy. As she stands up to excuse herself, she lets out a series of smaller burps. “I think that meal’s given me gas,” she comments.

“Maybe you ate too quickly,” her father offers.

“Maybe you ate too much.” her mother corrects him, interrupting.

Amy misses the message, waving her hand to brush the subject away. “Well, I’m going to have a lie down. Let me know if you need me.”

“That’s the most talkative she’s been all weekend,” her dad notes positively, once his daughter’s out of the room.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” replies her mom.
I might know what’s gotten into her, I think. I’ve got a pretty strong theory that my supporting her obesity might have turned her into a bit of a slob. I couldn’t not have, though, I justify to myself. Just look at her. She’s so beautifully huge.

I admit, I don’t really want the blame if she carries on like this, but I can just keep it a secret. People have kept worse secrets for much longer. As dark secrets go, mine’s a drop in the ocean.

My thought process is cut off, as Amy’s mom addresses me.

“Ty, do you think you could have a word with her?”

“Me?” I act shocked. “I don’t think she’d listen to me about this kind of thing,” I reply, intentionally ignoring the fact she totally would, and has done.

“Well, maybe, but I do think you’ve got some influence on her, and she does trust you. Do you think you could just suggest to her that she try and cut back on her eating, or do some sports? You could just drop it in, while you’re tutoring her. I know it’s a lot to ask...”

“No, I mean, alright. I’ll do it,” I confirm, reluctantly. I’m pretty susceptible to this sort of guilt trip, and the woman does look like she wants my help.

“Thank you, Ty. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“Not at all,” I defer. She looks reassured; that’s a good thing. But, I really don’t want to talk to Amy about this. Not after I already told her otherwise. And, anyway, I don’t want her to lose weight. I like her the way she is! Or, you know, maybe a little bigger would be fine.

Either way, I’m not sure if I can keep the promise I made. I quickly feel even more guilty than I would have simply refusing.

“I think I’d better get going, actually,” I say. I can’t hang around here tonight, not with that lie hanging over my head. “Thanks for dinner, it was great.”

Over the course of the next week, I’m eager to hear Mike talking about Amy. He brings her up once or twice, but never talking about what I want to hear; her laziness, her overindulgence. I guess he just doesn’t care that much. I still don’t want to bring up the subject myself. Showing overt interest might give away my crush.

Meanwhile, I’m considering the promise I made to his mom, and strategizing. By Thursday, I’ve come up with a plan. It’s not a good plan, but my hands are tied here. You couldn’t describe it as clever, devilish, witty, or even a suitable product of three days’ thinking time. I basically intend to lie, and pretend I talked to Amy about her weight. The only hitch until now had been my conscience, but as always, Amy’s allure inspires me with new ways to ignore my moral compass; I’ll tell her that her mom’s concerned. Just mention it, off-hand. That way, I’ve more-or-less fulfilled my obligation, and all I’ve done is told Amy something she already knows. No more interference by me, no blood on my hands. And, incidentally, no encouraging Amy to use her wardrobe of sweatpants for their intended purpose.

Of course, even though thoughts of this scheme have been milling round my head all week, when I finally go and see her, they vanish. It’s just so hard to think straight with her before me. Mike lets me in the house, as always, and Amy’s immediately stood there before us. We’ve caught her mid-trip, as she journeys to the kitchen for more snacks. Her arms are full of bags of chips, and drinks; it’s the standard fair she normally gets out for us to eat while we study, but more, and obviously intended solely for her.

“Oh! Ty, hey! I wasn’t expecting you this soon,” she exclaims. I’m not really sure what she means, since this is when I normally show up. I suppose she just lost track of time, a tendency of hers which might explain how she manages to spend whole weekends watching TV. “I guess we’ve already got snacks,” she says, looking down at her haul thoughtfully, “If it’s not enough, we can always come down for more. Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”

I nod, and murmur in agreement before following her to her room, obediently. It reminds me of the Pied Piper, except with fewer flutes and rats, and more swaying, fleshy buttocks. I can’t help but wonder about Amy’s comment, about needing more food. This is above her normal intake for one of our sessions, especially considering she normally pretended like I was going to eat some of the food. This had clearly originally been all for her, and she still thought it might not be enough. Had she really begun eating that much more?

She looks a lot better than last time I saw her. She’s had to go to school today, of course, so she’s cleaned herself up a bit, made herself presentable. And she’s had less time for lounging around, so less time to dirty herself up. Her grey tracksuit is still marked with foodstains, but that’s been a staple since before her descent into slobbery. Generally, she appears pretty similar to how she did a month ago.

The main exception is that her clothing looks a little bit tighter. It’s hard to tell if she’s put on weight or if it just shrank in the wash, but the former seems more likely. It’s not a lot, but Amy’s shows slightly more belly than she did before, and her pants are starting to show the top of her ass, even when she’s stood up.

As we enter the bedroom, all the traces of Amy’s fall from grace are back. The floor around her bed is littered with food packaging. The waste bin overflows with garbage, so she must have resorted to dropping trash on the floor, rather than emptying it. Sitting down on the bed, I see she’s been dropping empty drink cans down one side, so they’re obscured from vision from the door. There’s quite a pile building up. On the shelving unit across from her bed, a row of books has been removed, replaced instead with snack treats.

“Ooh, those stairs,” Amy laments, as she drops her food onto the bed, then clambers up next to me. She releases her belly from being tucked under her waistband, and massages it soothingly. “I’m seriously considering just giving up on exercise,” she jokes.

I take the opportunity; “Well, speaking of that, your mom-”

“Ugggh.” Amy interrupts with a long, drawn-out groan, “My mom. You know she asked Mike to try and talk me into working out, or something? And he actually said he would? How creepy is that? It’s just so controlling.” She waved her arms in the air, mimicking a puppetmaster.

“”Oh, uh, yeah, that’s pretty bad.”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you, Ty?”

Shit. Well, I tried my best.

“No way! Come on,” I say, “I’m sure you’re old enough to make decision like this on your own.”

She looks happy with that response. It’s great making her smile, one of the best feelings.

“I know, right? Thanks, Ty. Now, then!” Amy tears open some chips, pushes a fistful between her lips, then playfully drums on my knee with her hands. “Teach me some math!” she cheers, mouth still full.

I’m stuck with the lie now, and that places me firmly in the pro-fat camp of the fight for Amy’s body. No need to make it obvious, though, I don’t want to make any enemies. Her mom corners me as I leave, and asks me how it went while she pays me. Money in my hand, I look her in the eye, and lie through my teeth.

“Yeah, I had a word with her,” I say, then realising that there’s going to be no results, since I didn’t actually fulfill my task in any way, I add, “I’m not sure if it really sank in, though.”

Amy’s mom nods knowingly. “That’s just like Amy. Thanks anyway, Ty.”

So, it looks like I’ve got away with the deception. All it would take for it to fall apart is that Amy’s mom mentions my mission, but Amy doesn’t seem particularly communicative with her parents. When she’s eating, which is a lot of the time, she’s not very communicative with anyone. Besides, I can always swing it in my favour by highlighting to Amy how well I refused, hence what a good ally I make. That’d surely help me to do whatever it is I want to do to her, once I figure that out, anyway.

The situation now is, I’ve got all this cash weighing me down, and not enough to do with it. I could save it, sure, that’s the smart thing to do. However, it seems more fitting I spend some of it in an Amy-themed way, since that’s how I earned it. And, after all, it’s not been like real work. I’m getting payed to do something that I get a kick out of.

Friday afternoon, I excuse myself and head to the store. I purchase a box of chocolate cake rolls, and stash them in my backpack. They seem a good place to start. Even though Amy would love me for it, I can hardly wheel in a wedding cake without her getting suspicious. A little treat is the best way to go, I think.

It’s the usual routine, when I get to her house. Mike lets me in, and I go to rouse Amy from her chair. Amy’s mom looks disapprovingly as we head down into the cellar for snacks. How disapproving would she be if she knew I was smuggling more in?

When we’re safely in Amy’s room, I reveal my goods.

“I brought something extra to help us work.”

Amy breaks out in a grin, and begins eating immediately. Through a mouthful of cake, she tries to be polite. “Aw, Ty, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, you know, I’m getting all this money for the tutoring. Almost too much. I’ve got to siphon some off somewhere, or,” I tease, “I could always just ask for less?”

She’s got too much in her gob to speak, which is saying something for Amy, but she frantically waves her hands to signal ‘no’, before swallowing, and voicing the opinion. “No, no, that’s fine! You can keep on bringing food,” she says, with a grin. “Sorry, I should offer you one. They are yours.”

“That’s alright, I’ll just have a Coke.” The perfect answer, for Amy. And for me, too, I’m happy for her to eat it all.

We sit quietly while she eats, and I admire her. She’s quite pretty, really, aside from everything else I admire. Not a stunner or anything, but good-looking enough. Her eyes are wide, and her lips are plump. She flutters her eyelashes daintily as she tucks in, like a huge, grungy Disney princess. As always, her auburn curls are all pushed up on top of her head, and help messily in place with a single bobble. Maybe it’s a practical decision? To keep her hair out of her food, of course.

Having her hair tied up shows off her neck. It looks like it might be long and elegant in an alternate universe, but here it’s thick with fat, merging seamlessly with her plump chin at the front. Her shoulders are fairly slender in comparison. At least, if she wasn’t so calorifically-engorged, they’d be slim. It’s hard to judge what sort of figure Amy has. She’s got big boobs, and a giant belly, so I guess you could describe it as ‘apple-shaped’, especially owing to lack of natural prominence afforded to her butt. She’s got really thick legs, though. Massive, hanging, fatty thighs that stretch the fabric of whatever she’s wearing.

Speaking of stretching, she’s got her tightest, green sweatpants on. Her belly looks like it’s painfully tucked inside, and her legs are apart, showing off a considerable cameltoe, nestled under a blubbery overhang. I shudder with delight noticing it. Those pants have gotten more revealing, too. I wonder how long they’ll last.

She finally frees her belly from its prison. I think she likes having it contained when she’s stood up, to stop it bouncing around in front of her, and maybe to try and disguise it a little in front of her family. That said, Amy’s not really about the subtlety. I doubt she’d bother hiding it away.

As she lets her gut free, she has to spread her legs wider to accommodate, and prizing apart her toneless asscheeks releases a sharp burst of gas, along with a high squeal. Embarrassed, Amy’s hands cover up her bright red cheeks, letting her belly fall onto her thighs, with a plop. She winces, but I just laugh it off and change the subject. Secretly though, I’m fascinated that there’s something that still embarrasses Amy. She’s so open about everything else she does, including a number of bodily functions.

Attempting to distract her from her flatulence, I make some polite chit-chat, whilst simultaneously prying as subtly as I can. “So, me and some of the guys are going to play some football this weekend. You know, since it’s starting to warm up a bit.”

“It’s probably still a bit too early,” she comments, gesturing to the window. I guess it is pretty chilly for football. I would imagine insulated Amy would mind that, though. That is, of course, if she went outside.

“You got any plans?” I inquire.

“Well,” she begins, resting her hands on her stomach, and resting the thumbs in between the rolls of fat, “I’ve got some episodes of Gossip Girl taped for tonight, then there’s a Biggest Loser marathon on Saturday...”

The list goes on, and it seems like non-TV plans don’t even register in her mind. I can’t help but smile, wryly. Another slovenly weekend for my favourite slob, then.
The next couple of weeks are quiet ones. No big events. After I promised to try and talk Amy into getting fit, Amy’s mom seems to be waiting, to see what happens. Nothing does happen, of course, and that’s because I didn’t tell keep my promise.

The already-blubbery Amy grows gradually larger. Each time I visit her for her tutoring sessions, I see her wedged in her customary seat, a cushy armchair in the living room. Every time, she’s filling up ever so slightly more of it. I know I’m not imagining things. She’s got the stretch marks to prove it, and everything. When we’re alone in her room, she releases her belly, and there they are; little red lines, evidence that her body is struggling to keep up with the rate she’s expanding.

It’s an exciting new frontier. I’ve admired Amy for a long time now, but I’ve never closely watched her put on weight.

While Amy’s growing wider, I feel like I’m changing, too. Recently, I’ve been getting more loyal to Amy. Or, loyal to her fat, I guess. I know, it sounds weird, but I’m starting to feel strongly about it. The turning point was lying to Amy’s mom, I think. Now, me and Amy have got this little secret, and it really feels like I’m on her side.

It’s crazy. I don’t even have anything against her mom, but I’m starting to see her as the enemy. She’s the one who wants Amy to lose weight. That’s exactly what I don’t want. We’re at war. Before, I could sympathise with her worrying about her daughter’s weight, and I still appreciate that to some extent; Amy is kind of a cause for concern. She is worryingly fat. Morbidly obese, in fact. My obsession for her, however, outweighs my pity for her mom on the matter.

So, I’ve started doing weird little things to show my allegiance. A while back, I started bringing cakes and things for our studying, on top of Amy’s already plentiful food supply. Well, that’s not let up at all. I’ve even increased it. Last week, I brought twenty four doughnuts to one session. Twenty four, and I only ate one of them.

Another thing is, I’ve started moving on Amy’s behalf. So, if she wants something on the other side of her room, I’ll go and get it for her. I don’t even think about it, it’s instinctive. She doesn’t go down into the cellar for food any more. I make the trip for her. I can’t tell if it’s because I pity the poor little fat girl, having to exert herself by walking about, or if I subconsciously just want to limit the amount of exercise she does, keep her how I like her.

I hope she doesn’t notice. She’s obviously aware, since she willingly accepts my help. Now, she expects me to go and get the food for her, as standard practice. I just hope she doesn’t think about it too much. I don’t want to freak her out by being creepily servile. She almost certainly isn’t aware of my crush, though. Between her food and her TV, Amy’s kind of oblivious to everything around her. I think it’s a family trait. Her brother’s not aware I fancy her, and her parents aren’t aware I’m supporting her campaign of self-indulgence.

Pretty soon, Amy’s mom is back on the case. She realises I’ve not turned Amy around to losing weight, and she starts taking measures on her own. When I arrive to see her, on a Friday, Amy’s out of the house. This is a first, I think. And it’s pretty perplexing. Her mom explains that she’s only gone to the corner shop, and she won’t be long. In the meantime, I play some Mariokart with Mike.

“So, looks like we’re free for a week,” he says, striking up conversation. It’s uncharacteristic; normally when we’re playing games, Mike’s all fighting talk. Then again, Mariokart normally calms him down a bit more than everything else.

“Yeah, it’s pretty sweet,” I respond. We’ve got a week’s holiday from school, Amy too. “Got any plans?” I inquire.

“Well, this weekend I’m hanging out with Vicky, you know, just the two of us- Haha! How’s that taste? Victory is mine.”

I laugh at his enthusiasm. Mike’s undoubtedly better than me at Mariokart, though I don’t hesitate to remind him how often he loses at Halo. “You want another race?”

Mike glances out of the front window, then shakes his head. “Nah, looks like Amy’s back. You’ve got work to do. But, how about when you’re finished?”

“Yeah, sure...” I dismiss, already distracted, looking out front.

Sure enough, there’s Amy, treading up the front path. There’s a single, mostly-empty plastic bag in her hand, and on her pink face is a disgruntled look. She clatters in through the front door, then there’s a loud thud. I find her at the bottom of the stairs, having dropped herself down onto the step to catch her breath. Her force of gravity made quite the impact, as I’d heard from the lounge, but it looks like her bountiful padding saving her any further pain than walking to the shop.

She certainly didn’t enjoy that task, though. It’s only a short trip to the shop, but Amy seems thoroughly enervated. She’s flushed, and sweating, her clothing damp from perspiration. Curls of auburn hair are plastered onto her sticky brow.

“Are you alright?” I greet her. I’m genuinely concerned, but I can’t help raising an eyebrow at her extreme unfitness.

I wait a minute for her answer, while she recovers more, then she nods, and slides a fat finger into the heel of her pumps, prizing them off her feet.

“My mom sent me out... For milk.” Amy huffs. I nod knowingly. That makes perfect sense. Clearly, convincing Amy isn’t going to work, so she’s simply forcing her into exercise with menial tasks.

“Can I help?” I offer, full of sympathy for the struggling girl.

“I’ve got to take this in,” she responds, brandishing a milk bottle, “But you can go get us some snacks, and... HUFF... Meet me upstairs.”

Amy then extends a pudgy hand, which I grab and drag her to her feet. I enjoy the rare moment of intentional contact with her, even if it is just a sweaty palm. By god, though, she is heavy. It takes a good bit of effort to pull her up, but I try and play it off like it’s nothing. She’s too busy with her own athletic struggles to notice mine.

As she walks away, I spot something. Amy’s dressed in her tightest sweatpants, the roll-hugging green pair. In between her jiggling cheeks, though, there’s a flash of pink. I try to get a better look before I head up stairs, but it seems like she’s finally torn a hole in them, and her panties are showing through. Is she even aware? She must’ve gone out like that, too, unless she did it in the past five minutes.

I should probably tell her, I think, but I want to check first. In her room, I decide to set a trap. Having brought upstairs a plethora of salty foodstuffs, I lay them down on her carpet, along with a six-pack of Cokes. I take one for myself, then recline on the bed and listen out for Amy’s approach. Eventually, a series of slow thuds signals her ascent up the stairs, and she practically falls into the bedroom, hanging breathlessly onto the door handle.

She makes for the bed, but I halt her as she stumbles towards me.

“Before you sit down, grab the snacks, will you?” I nod my head over to where I laid them.

Amy puts her hands on her thighs, preparing to bend over. With the massive weight about her belly and breasts, she has to go very carefully as she retrieves her prize. Immense buttocks wiggling in the air, the tear is pulled open, clearly revealing her underwear; pink with little yellow dots.

It takes no small effort to haul up her paunch and upright herself, effort being something Amy is particularly not fond of, but with a grunt, she manages to come join me on the bed. She looks exhausted. She quickly downs a Coke, and then immediately moves on to a second, having built up quite a thirst from the day’s exercise.

“Uh, Amy?” I begin, gingerly broaching the subject. She turns her head and looks up at me. “I think you might have a rip in your pants.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, I know, I tore them this morning.”

I don’t know what I was expecting. “You should probably change them,” I comment, the first responsible piece of advice I’ve given her in a while.

“Ugh, you think? I thought you’d be okay with it.”

“Sorry,” I offer meekly.

“Fine then,” she agrees, “But I’m making you do all the work.” Amy points toward her dresser, and snaps her fingers.

I’m speechless. I try not to look too enthusiastic as I jump to my feet, but-

“I can’t believe you were actually gonna do it!” she giggles. Her flab wobbles as her chest heaves, chin pulsing frantically with amusement. She puts a hand to her chest, and wipes her eye a little. “You can still fetch me some new pants, though, since you are the one making me change. I won’t force you to undress me though,” she says with a smile, clearly under the impression that she’s letting me off the hook, rather than snatching away the prize.

I fish about in the drawer, retrieving a fresh pair of sweatpants. Unfolding them, they’re clearly at least twice as wide as me. Amy shuffles over to the edge of the bed, and starts to remove her torn pants. She slowly unpeels them from her sticky, sweaty legs, picking cloth from the slight crevasses of flab folding around them. As she does so, her huge, milky legs are revealed to me, bare for the first time. They’re dimpled all over with cellulite, expansive, with the beginnings of fatty rolls appearing around her knees and thighs.

Amy casts the defunct green sweats to the floor, where they land amongst piles of other trash, mostly food debris and soda tins. I reluctantly hand her the new pants, secretly pained as I enable her to cover herself, and she stands up to accept them. She has to bend over, and carefully work them up over her thick ankles. Her giant ass, spilling out of strained pink panties in almost every direction, jiggles at me tantalisingly all the while. I want to reach out and grab it, reach out and sink my fingers deep into the masses of succulent, excess flesh. I want to throw her on the bed and fuck her senseless.

Soon enough though, her sweats are back on, and the show is more or less over. It actually takes her a while to pull them all the way over her hips, but the time seems to fly by for me. Job done, Amy falls back onto the bed and sets about eating, with voracity like she’s trying to tear these ones too.

Back downstairs, Amy pleads with her mom, while I play Xbox with Mike. I’m distracted, as I listen in on their loud conversation.

“Mom,” Amy orders, as she munches her way through some chips, “I need a new pair of sweats.”

“What happened to your others?” her mom inquires suspiciously.

“I br... They broke,” Amy corrects herself, “Just one pair, the old ones. So, yeah, if you could get me some new ones, that’d be great.” Waving a hand, Amy turnsto leave, only to be stopped by her mother.

“I’ll pay for them, Amy, but you’ll have to go and buy them yourself. After all, you know your size better than I do.” Eyebrows raised, she looks pointedly to Amy’s expansive waistline.

“What? No, come on,” the slacker protests, shocked at the thought of going all the way into the town center, “I don’t know my size, anyway. We can just measure me now, and then you can go.”

“No, young lady, you are going yourself. Now, come with me, and we’ll measure you up.”

Amy’s marched out of the room. God, I desperately want to follow. I can only fantasize about how wide she must be, Gigantic, really. And the thought of that tape measure, squeezing her fat, sinking into the doughy cellulite of her legs and slipping under folds and rolls...

Fifteen minutes later, Amy returns. That took a while. I guess it’s kind of tricky for her to slip out of her pants. And there is a lot to be measured.

“Alright, so, it looks like I’m gonna have to go into town, now,” Amy announces to us, discontentedly, “Mike, can you give me a ride, tomorrow?”

Mike shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m seeing Vicky tomorrow.”

Amy groans. “Surely your sister comes before your girlfriend? Blood is thicker than whatever, or whatever?” Getting nowhere, she turns to me. “Ty, how about you? I mean, I wouldn’t normally ask, but, you know, I really don’t want to have to get the bus.”

This is it, I think. Spending my free time with Amy, and she’s not even being forced into it. Well, she’s really only using me for my car, I admit, but I’ll take anything to be with her. Trying to sound casual about it, I reply, “Sure, no problem. I’ve actually got some shopping to do of my own.” That was true, at least.

“Oh, yes!” she squeals with delight, then plods over to me. Bending over to hug me, her huge rack is at face level, pushed up against me. Does she realize that? Is it a reward of some sort? I enjoy it, whatever the case.

“When should I come get you?”

“Well, I probably don’t my mom to know you’re taking me. I think she’d disapprove of me just taking the car, or whatever. But, anyway, the parents are going away for the week. When are they leaving, Mike?”

Eyes fixed on the game, Mike grunts back an answer, “Three.”

“Come get me at three?” she pleads, staring me down with her big eyes.

I can’t believe Amy would be out of bed before then, anyway, but I agree, nonetheless. It’s a date.

As requested, I arrive at Amy’s in my car at 3pm, on the dot. I don’t want to be late for our shopping trip. She’s clearly dreading it; I can’t imagine Amy ever being excited to leave the house. I’m delighted though, a chance to spend more time with her, even if she is only going with me for the ride. I see her parents have left already- it’s the school holidays, and they’ve left for a week away. Mike’s out, too, with his girlfriend, so I ring the doorbell and wait for Amy to get up.

I stand there for a while. I knew she wouldn’t be awake! It’s alright though, she’s definitely home. I can’t really picture a situation where Amy would spontaneously decide to go out. A few more trills of the bell, and I hear her coming downstairs. The door opens, revealing my rotund sweetheart, clad in fraying, flannel pajamas. The checked pattern is faded, and they’re obviously many sizes too small. Her belly bulges out the bottom of the shirt, and her boobs out the top; Amy’s left a few buttons undone at either end to make room for her corpulence. The pants don’t cover her up fully, either. Even facing me, her ass is visible, spreading out sideways, and clearly spilling out the back.

“Hey, Ty,” she yawns, rubbing her bleary eyes. As always, her frizzy red hair is gathered in a messy bun on top of her head; the minimum-effort hairstyle. “What time is it?”

“Ten past three,” I inform her, glancing at my watch, “But, hey, don’t worry about it. I’m not in a rush.” As she leads me into the house, it occurs to me that she wasn’t going to apologize, anyway. I’m not offended, though, I’d rather she didn’t feel guilty about it. It’s not like Amy to feel guilty about anything, really.

“There’s a good plus-size store at the mall, so, we’ll go there once I’ve had some breakfast, okay?” Amy informs me. I nod, obediently.

In the kitchen, she pours herself a glass of chocolate milk, and fills the toaster with bread. While she waits, she helps herself to a chocolate bar to pass the time. Not wanting to interrupt her eating with conversation, she makes no effort to entertain me, and I watch silently in turn. The only noises come from Amy’s chewing. After a minute, the toaster dings. Amy retrieves her breakfast, then immediately refills it to capacity. Parking herself in a chair, she begins to slather each piece of toast with a mountain of butter.

Grease drips down her fingers and chin as she tucks in. The toaster dings again, and she points to it, clicking her slippery fingers as best she can, signalling for me to collect her toast.

“Do you want, er, more?” I ask tentatively, cautious, slightly hopeful she does.

“No, we should probably get going soon- butter those for me- I’ll finish off breakfast, then we’ll leave,” she mumbles with a full mouth. “In fact,” Amy adds, as I take care to cover her toast with as much lard as humanly possible, “Bring those upstairs when you’re done, I’ll go get dressed.”

I quickly finish off the job to chase her to her room. Is she comfortable with me seeing her change? I had done once before, but just to be safe, I knock before entering.

“Just a minute!” grunts Amy, followed by a brief bout of whimpered creaks and groans while she squeezes into her underwear. Then, sounding a little out of breath, she calls me in.

She’s won the battle with her bra and panties- now she’s attempting to cram herself into some sweats, a pink pair with the word, “Juicy” emblazoned in sequins across the ass. They’re a favourite of mine, although, regrettably, it looks like they’ll be the next pair to split in two. I think about telling her this for a second, but then change my mind. If we put off buying replacements, I might get another shopping trip with Amy out of it.

I hand Amy her breakfast. She throws me some thanks, before devouring the dripping pieces of toast practically whole. In the absence of a top to wipe her hands on, she instead rubs her buttery fingers on the seat of her pants, hands sinking appropriately into her fleshy rump.

Next, she slips into a thin white t-shirt, whose sleeves are too short and bite into her great, globular upper-arms. An attempt to zip a hoodie over her vast double-belly succeeds in covering the flesh left exposed by the shirt, but not a great deal more. Her breasts bulge out shamefully far.

“All ready!” Amy declares, “Now I just need some socks and shoes, and we can get going.”

She retrieves a thick pair of wooly socks from her drawers, and makes for the doorway As I follow on down the stairs, I’m curious. “Are you not gonna put those on?”

Amy drops down on the bottom step, and pulls on her socks while I don my boots. “I’ve still go to put my shoes on, you know?” she points out, with a smile. “Why bother standing up twice?”

She stuffs her pudgy feet into her Converse Hi-Tops, cankles just about disguised by the tall heel. With the assistance of the mulepost beside her, Amy gets to her feet, and grabs her handbag. Slinging it over one hefty shoulder, she locks the front door, and we head out to my car.

Now, here is a problem I hadn’t thought about, in all my fantasizing about today. My car is kind of old; not enough to be a jalopy, but you could probably class it as a lemon. It runs fine, but its age shows in the design- garishly patterned seats, a cassette player, and the size. I have more than a little trouble squeezing my porky princess into the tiny old car.

I roll back the seat and recline it as she squeezes in. Even with the chair pushed back, Amy’s belly still comes close to reaching the dash, while her extravagant thighs and ass overflow from the seat, and spill down delectably over the sides. The cars a manual, and she’s almost smothering the gearstick. The safety belt gives an unhappy click, halting a few inches from its holster as she tries to strap herself in. Its strap digs deep into her belly flesh. She giggles a little, entertained by my car’s inadequacies.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t think about that,” I gush, apologetically.

“Heh, it’s fine,” she breaths, reclining the chair further, and sucking in what she could of her belly to help pull the belt past. With a little effort, the buckle clicks into place, and Amy exhales, her chub expanding again and wrapping around the safety belt. “I’m used to it, really. Although,” she adds, slyly, “Your car is a little tighter than others. Maybe you could make it up to me with something from the food court?”

I smile at the thought. She looks up at me pleadingly, and I agree as I put my foot down on the pedal. We make idle conversation as we go, Amy pleasantly cheerful, considering she’s been forced out of her bed. At first it’s tricky to avoid looking at her, but my good sense overcomes her beauty, and I manage to keep my eyes on the road. By now, I’ve built up a pretty good mental picture of her, anyway, so a roughly accurate, replica Amy floats in my mind eye as she chats away.

Something’s amiss, though, and I try to unravel what’s irking me as we talk. Half way through the journey, it occurs to me that Amy doesn’t have a lot to say, really- for a good fifteen minutes, we’ve talked entirely about television, or herself. I guess it should be obvious that an inveterate lounger like Amy wouldn’t have much to comment on, outside of her immediate experience at home. But the germ of a nagging fear is planted in my mind. It’s not just that she’s got nothing to talk about. She seems less bright, less perceptive. Superficial, and ditzy, like those valley girls she watches on MTV, only a couple of hundred pounds heavier.

She shows a little more initiative when we arrive at the mall.

“Here, head round that way,” Amy orders, “If we go round the other side, we can park right by the door, and it’s closer to Miss Plus.” She smiles sweetly at me, then happily explains, “Less walking!”

I guess she reserves all her quick-thinking for avoiding exercise. In keeping, she waits in the car, while I go pay the meter. Amy wraps a pudgy paw round my wrist when I return, and I help winch her out of the restrictive car. Pleased to be free, Amy tenderly strokes the outsides of her thighs, then guides me to the store.

I say ‘guides me’, but I already know where it is. Miss Plus is the name of the only plus-sized clothing outlet in our mall, and it’s always fascinated me as I pass it. I’ve craned my head while walking to catch scores of outsize shoppers disappearing inside, their invariably jiggling asses leading my eyes to where there are surely many more of lusciously porky women waiting. I’m secretly very excited to have an excuse to go in, never before having succeeded at more than a stolen glance of its patrons.

Though Amy did her best to minimize the walk, we’ve still got a way to go before we get there. Logical mall planning would have placed a store for fat people near the entrance, I comment. Amy responds with a giggle.

“Yeah, I’d sure like that. Maybe they could even have a drive-thru version?”

Amy walks more slowly than me, so I reduce my pace to match her heavy, plodding steps. It’s mostly her girth, and her abject laziness that are weighing her down, but she’s also preoccupied with adjusting her tight clothing, to ensure the other shoppers don’t see any more of her bare flesh than absolutely necessary.

Nonetheless, she still attracts a lot of looks. I don’t think Amy’s shockingly fat; I’ve seen bigger, hanging around Miss Plus, anyway; but I suppose for her young age, she’s absolutely colossal. A number of heads turn to see this flabby teenager, wheezing from the strain of walking unaided and struggling to keep from spilling out her clothes. Boys snigger, and women tut, but Amy doesn’t seem to notice, lazily making conversation as she waddles along.

In the store, Amy browses the racks, while I fervently admire the other customers. The biggest here are the older women. Middle-aged, but still good looking, with great, stand-out bellies that announce their entrance at least a foot ahead of them. They all seem very confident. One woman in her late thirties, with heavy gold jewellery adorning her fat fingers and a low cut top revealing a sizable pair of breasts, smiles flirtily at me as she brushes past me with her gargantuan stomach. She’s the biggest in here, virtually too much to fit through the aisles. She’s hot, in a kind of cougar way, but I try to be a bit less obvious with my staring after that.

It’s like looking into Amy’s future. She’s the youngest one here, by far. There are no other teenagers that I can see, and Amy’s even bigger than most of the twenty-somethings hanging around the shop. It makes me wonder how much she’ll have grown in ten years. I mean, she does zero exercise, and eats like there’s no tomorrow. I can only imagine Amy will be bigger than anyone else in here; heck, she’s probably going to match the woman with the rings in a year, let alone ten.

“Here we go,” pipes up Amy, summoning my attention to a rack of sweatpants, “You know, this store has way too many jeans and things. You’d think at sizes like this, they’d go stretchy- hey, this bit’s on sale!”

“How about these?” I suggest, holding up an extra-large pair of dark sweatpants, with bright silver and pink highlights. They dwarf me, but on Amy, they’d be tight and form-hugging.

“Hmm,” she voices, checking the label. “No, these are kind of small. How about... these?” Amy unfolds a huge pair of grey sweats in front of herself. “Yeah, these look good,” she opines, “Let’s go try them on.”

Amy hikes her descending pants back up to her waist, and I follow her to the changing rooms. Through the tightness of her sweatpants, her underwear is clearly visible, not only in color, but also where it digs into her malleable, play-doh ass.

I sit outside while she changes clothes. The padded bench dwarfs me, its extreme size designed to accommodate the needs of the shop’s overly-large clientele. I watch women of varying sizes waddle in and out of the booths, ranging from just over half as wide as Amy, to around her size, and then a few bigger still.

Eventually, Amy emerges from behind her curtain, looking slightly pink in the face from the relative acrobatics of swapping her pants. She gives a half-hearted twirl, that’s almost-but-not entirely-inelegant.

“What do you think?”

They’re a terrible reasonable fit, especially taking into account the restrictiveness of her usual fare, at least. Light gray, with a pink waistband and highlights. They’re a size or two too big, surprisingly, sagging around the waist and held up on her fatty haunches. I point this out to her, not wanting her gorgeous legs to be unnecessarily obscured.

“They’re very nice, but, er, maybe a bit big? I mean, you could probably go a size down, if you wanted.”

That makes her smile. She explains, “No, that’s ideal. I want some growing room, you know? Just in case. These shopping trips really take it out of me!” She puts a hand on her belly and exhales, to make a point. “Might as well keep them infrequent. Speaking of which, I’ll take two pairs of these. Will you go pick some up and pay for them? I could use a little sit-down.”

Amy hands me her card, then returns to get changed again. She sticks an arm through the curtain to hand me the pants when she’s done, and I set off to grab another pair. I check the label as I go; “SXXXL.” Admittedly, they are a bit big for Amy, but still, that’s pretty impressive. At the till, I ask the cashier about it. Probably about twenty-two or so, she’s ever so slightly on the chubby side. Next to Amy, she’s like a Barbie doll.

“How big do these sizes go, by the way?” I inquire casually as I hand over the sweatpants.

“We carry up to SSSXXXL in-store,” she replies monotonously, absentmindedly checking the labels, “That’s two sizes up from these.”

Wow. Only two sizes left before Amy outgrows the store completely. Judging by some of the women in here, that top size must be pretty large, but the thought still sets my mind racing. Where will she get her clothes after that? Online, I guess, but at the rate she’s heading, maybe she’ll need them custom-made not long after that.

I thank the cashier, and head back to find my ward. Amy’s sat happily on those extra-large seats by the changing rooms, making them look significantly less extra-large. She waves her feet cheerfully, tapping away at her smartphone with the speed of far-less sausagey fingers.. Accepting the shopping bags and her credit card back off me, I expect to hear a thanks. Instead, she reminds me of my promise.

“So, you said you’d buy me something to eat?” she purrs, looking up at me with puppy-dog eyes.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I respond, sounding a little put-out, but as always, perfectly happy to indulge Amy’s eating habits, “Shall we go to the food court then?”

She makes an exaggerated show of considering the idea. “Hrrmmm... We could... Or... You could go for me? And I’ll wait outside the store?” Her eyes sparkle cheekily. We head outside, to where Amy parks herself on a bench by a fountain. Or perhaps in a bench, considering how her thighs nearly touch both arms on their own.

As I turn to head off, she grabs my waist, and looks up at me. “Don’t skimp.”

“I know, I know...”

I think about that as I queue at Lardburger. What does ‘not skimping’ mean to Amy? I’ve sure seen her eat a lot. The cash in my wallet from tutoring her, and my natural urge to feed her up scream for me to splurge. 28 burgers for $20? Amy could eat that, surely?

I come to my senses, though. That’s fantasy. This is real life. Amy might be the biggest food-hoover of a teenager I’ve ever met, or even heard of, but she’s got limits. I return to her with two cheeseburgers, and an extra-large milkshake, then she puffs along side me back to the car, between bites at her food and loud slurps of her shake She seems satisfied, so I guess I got the amount right, but I can’t help but long for my dreamy ideal of plying her with thousands of greasy calories of fast food. I play with the idea in my head all throughout the drive home. Then it hits me.

“Thanks for taking me out, Ty. I really didn’t want to have to get the bus in, or, you know, walk.” Amy laughs at the very thought.

“Hey, no problem. So, er, your parents are away all week, huh?” I probe unsubtly.

“Sure, why do you ask?” Amy obliviously responds, spitting out a chunk of burger as she does so, then wiping the expelled saliva from her face before tucking in again.

“I was just thinking about thursday. Still up for tutoring?”

She nods the affirmative as we pull up to her house. “Actually,” she suggests as she squeezes out the car door, “You should take this.”

Amy jiggles her way to the front door, then bends over, inadvertently mooning me, to my great satisfaction. I’m almost too distracted by her planetary arse to notice her lifting the doormat up to retrieve a spare key. She then leans in my open window, her immense breadth practically filling the entire thing, and pushes the key into my open palm, her tangy breath smothering my face.

“You can let yourself in on thursday. So, you know...” She pushes herself up on the side of the car, evidently too exhausted from our trip to lift herself of her own volition. “So I don’t have to get up,” she finishes, a broad smile spreading between her red cheeks.

Perfect, I think. It’s all falling into place perfectly. With two days in which to pamper the unsupervised little slob, I make a note to myself as I pull away from the house; “go food shopping, wednesday night.”

A flick of the wrist to wave goodbye, and she disappears into her house, pushing the door closed casually with her meaty hips. And I’m left in the car, already planning ahead as I return home.

I slot the burnished gold key into the back door, giving it a jiggle in the stiff lock until it eventually turns, and I enter the house quietly. Though I’m supposed to be here, there’s a feeling of it all being illicit. Mike’s car isn’t here, which means he’s out at his girlfriend’s, and his parents are away on a week-long vacation, leaving me all alone with his flabby little sister.

I set down on the counter a large chocolate cake. I bought it last night, especially; dripping with frosting and glistening under the florescent lighting, it’s not a massive thing, but certainly far too much for one young girl, for whom it’s intended.

I guess that’s why this situation feels so clandestine. Like every Thursday for the past few months, I’m here, supposedly, to tutor Amy in math. But my over-generous gift makes it pretty obvious I’ve got other intentions.

Sticking my head in the front room, I find it empty- that means Amy’s in her room. I’d only expect to find her in one of two places, and these days, in bed seems much more likely. She’s always been a lazy girl, as long as I’ve known her, anyway. She always used to spend all day in the big, cushy armchair here, watching TV. It still shows wide, buttock-shaped indents from the hours of her considerable weight pressing down on it. But, she’s gotten even worse lately; lazier, fatter, you name it. I suppose walking downstairs in the morning is too much for her now.

Picking up again my offering, and a knife from the kitchen drawer, I make my way upstairs, to the lair. The insides of her room emit a TV’s blare, then the fizz of an opened Diet Coke. She’s awake, at least, I think to myself. I set down the cake on top of a laundry hamper, freeing my hands to turn the knob and let myself in. I push the door against debris on the floor, catching haphazardly-discarded packets and cans. The pigsty’s stench bursts forth as water from a dam, so vivid as I inhale it that it’s almost visible. Salty junk food, vapourized sweat, stale air and plenty of wholly unsavoury gases caress my nostrils, the stagnant odours from the sexy societal-recluse who reclines before me.

“Hey, Amy,” I call, gagging a little, though I don’t really mind.

She gives a low grunt in response through a mouthful of chips. Pretty standard, really. This is another thing; lately, Amy’s become somewhat less quick-witted. That is to say, I remember back when she would read a book as she pigged out, and we could talk about it on an intellectual level. These days, she only watches TV, and she becomes so absent-mindedly absorbed in it that she barely cares about anything else. I wonder how much attention she’s even paying. Her eyes are fixed on the screen, but glazed over. She looks pretty spaced out, kind of like she’s on auto-pilot, just munching away.

I look around the room as I wait to see if she’ll further acknowledge me. The wall opposite her is lined with shelving units, the TV in the center. Those used to be covered in books, but ever so gradually, I’ve seen the books disappear, and their space repurposed as snack food storage. Looks like she’s finally got rid of all of them; now it’s just row upon row of bags of chips, and s cookies, all to save her the trouble of going downstairs.

Seeing that she’s content to just sit as she is, I take some action to grab her attention. “Hey, uh, Amy, I brought something for our study session,” I introduce, and her head rolls over to face me, eyebrows raised with piggish curiosity. As I produce the cake, her cheese-dust plastered lips curl up into a delighted smile. Interest finally piqued enough to speak, her brain is stirred into action and she gives me a proper response.

“Thank you, Ty,” she murmurs, perhaps unused to speaking properly after nearly a week of self-enforced seclusion in a cocoon of junk food wrappers. “That’s so- ~urrrrp! - sweet of you...”
She pats the filthy bedsheet beside her, still fully reclined, inviting me to come over. It’s littered with crumbs and stains from spilled food, but I barely notice that. I’m far too excited about getting closer to Amy to notice little things like hygiene.

I park myself on the double bed, pushing myself into the middle rather than perching on the edge. I set down the plate of cake beside me, and begin to slice it. It doesn’t really matter how thick I cut the slices, since Amy will be polishing off the whole thing either way, but I opt for eighths. She watched eagerly, piggish little eyes glistening and fixed on the chocolatey mass. She continues to scarf down chips, even as I prepare her giant snack.

Unwilling as ever to sit up, probably even more so now her unofficial helper is here, Amy grabs at the air from her reclined position, begging pitiably for a slice of cake. I raise an eyebrow at her, slowly lifting a slice, but not offering it to her, teasing as she paws impotently at the air. She moans.

“Mmmrr, Ty, come on,” Amy begs, visibly drooling.

With her stubby little arms barely extended, I’m forced to lean over her to pass on the cake. I place a hand gently on her belly for support, to which she purrs in response. As I place the fat slice in her greasy hand, I’m practically lying down on top of her. I’m sure she can feel it as my boner brushes against her belly, but if she can, she’s too distracted by her food to react.

Amy eagerly pushes it into her mouth, slathering chocolate sauce all over her already-filthy face in the process. As she chews it, she lets out a low sigh of satisfaction. Her breathing is even heavier than normal. Through my hand, I can feel her lungs pulsing quickly, in and out, and her poor, cholesterol-clogged heart beating furiously behind her heaving breasts. I just want to lean forward and kiss her, even if it means diving face first into the week of encrusted food debris on her lips- but I can’t just yet. I still feel conflicted about the whole thing, even after all this time.

That said, with each of Amy’s laboured breaths, I feel my willpower, along with any sense of moral reluctance, succumbing to my overpowering lust.

“At least wait till she’s finished the cake,” I concede to myself.

Amy swallows, grunts a little as she catches her breath, then beams at me, smile framed by her great, round, chocolate-flecked cheeks. “Another, please!” she demands, sweetly, but forcefully. Naturally, I grab her another slice. She takes a large bite from it, grasping it firmly between sausagey fingers coated in chocolate sauce to the knuckle, like she’s dipped them in a fondu pot. My own fingers are a bit mucky, and so I begin to lick off the sauce, before Amy objects.

“No!” she calls, spitting crumbs everywhere as she does. She shoves the remaining cake into her mouth, then pushes her torso slowly upright from the bed. There’s a sound of unsticking as her sweaty back is torn off the mattress, leaving a damp indent from a week of laying down. Then, she takes my hand, and slowly sucks the chocolate off each finger, one by one. It feels so good. I wonder if she’s trying, or if the whole seduction is entirely accidental as she cleans my digits between her plump lips.

“Listen, Ty,” she pants, exhausted simply from sitting upright, “The food... huff... is for me.” She gives me a cheeky smile, before snapping her fingers in the direction of the remaining cake, and collapsing back down with a thud. The mattress springs cry out, and it bounces up and down under the impact of her weight.

Her thick legs shift as she returns to a reclined position, and her gelatinous buttocks are prised apart, letting loose a long, wet fart. The smell is ripe, but the room’s already saturated with Amy’s stink, so it doesn’t bother me. I do note, though, a change. Last time Amy passed gas in front of me, she was mortally ashamed. Now, her face doesn’t flush red, and she doesn’t cringe. Instead, she smiles, raises her eyebrows proudly, and looks at me, as if challenging me to comment. I don’t, though. I just hand her another slice of cake.

After her fifth, Amy’s eating slows down a little bit. She takes the hand I’m supporting myself with in hers, so I lower myself on top of her, resting between her doughy thighs. My heart races. We’re virtually embracing. Wordlessly, she begins to rub her belly with my hand, before letting go for me to continue unaided. It’s so gloriously soft and malleable. I press my hand onto it, sinking into her fat as deep as I can. She seems to be enjoying it. My erection is clearly visible through my jeans. I hand her another slice.

After she’s polished off her final slice, I grab a Diet Coke off the floor for Amy. Looking a little full, but not nearly ready to stop putting away calories, she murmurs thanks, and affectionately strokes my cheek with a sticky finger. Then, seeing the sugary streak left on my face, she reels me in by the collar, so I’m lay on top of her gigantic body, face-to-face, puts her lips to my cheek, and licks off the chocolate sauce. If licking my fingers wasn’t clear enough, this is. As much as Amy hates to waste food, this is clearly a come-on. Does she want me to kiss her? I don’t even know if I want to do that.

So I lie on her, frozen by my inability to make a decision. She looks me in the eye, her breathing on my lips, the stink of days of snack foods with it. I wonder briefly if she’s brushed her teeth at all this week. Amy grabs a mini-muffin from her bedside table while she waits, tossing the paper wrapper on the ever-growing trash pile surrounding her bed. I run my hands along her body, delicately fingering each squishy contour of each of her many softly-hanging rolls. She eats another muffin. She’s so fat, the flab just flows off her, pooling around where she lies on the bed. Another muffin.

Before I can make a decision, there’s a noise from downstairs, and Amy jolts a little beneath me. Mike’s key clicks in the door, and he walks in, unaware of what I’m doing with his sister upstairs. I’d like to keep it that way.

I speak in a low voice. “I guess we didn’t get any math done today...”

Amy looks disappointed as I straighten up. I have to admit, I’m not thrilled to leave, but at the same time, I’m slightly relieved.

“No-one’s home tomorrow,” she whispers, “We’ll have as long as we want...” She swallows another muffin whole, then opens up a new box. “To do math, of course,” she teases.

“Want me to bring another snack?” I ask, gesturing to the empty plate where the cake was.

Amy runs a hand down my chest flirtily, leaving a greasy mark. “Would you?”

I return home to the sweet relief of a cold shower. Afterwards, I weigh up my situation. I desperately want to make out with Amy. More than that. I want to grab her, and fuck her. I don’t know what she’d do. Knowing her, she might just lay there. Maybe she’d carry on eating. Maybe she’d watch TV. Heck, I don’t really care. I just want to run my hands all over the mass of quivering lard she calls a body. I can just imagine each part of her jiggling with every movement, every thrust- I guess the shower didn’t work.

But I am still conflicted. For one, she’s my best friend’s little sister. I wouldn’t want Mike or his parents to find out; especially not his parents! They pay me, I’m supposed to be tutoring her. That’d be a real betrayal of trust, and kind of creepy, though I’m pretty much past caring about that last point.

I also worry about what I’m doing to Amy. By now, I’m sure it’s my support that’s got her to this point. She was already fat, but she’s put on so much weight, so quickly. She looks amazing for it, but it can’t be good for her health.

Her attitude is the main problem. I feel like it’s my fault she’s become so lazy. And not just lazy, but kind of- and this sounds harsh- stupid. She’s just not as bright as she was. I think back to her rows of shelves, all her books replaced with her new love; family-size sacks of salty junk food. All socializing, all reading, all intellectual activities out the window, replaced with mind-numbing reality TV for hours on end. Sure, Amy’s perfectly happy with it, but I don’t know if I can encourage it further.

Finally, she’s slobbier than ever. She was a slob when I met her, but I’ve accidentally cultivated her into a total pig. I think of all the trash in her room, her lack of hygiene, wiping food all over her clothes, and rarely changing them by the looks of things. And I think about her farting today; she’s completely lost all shame. That’s the most disturbing thing of all, she just doesn’t care any more.

With no-one to confide in, I resolve to sleep on the matter. But at 9PM, a thought comes to me, and it seems like my decision is made.

The next day, I unlock Amy’s back door and walk in without shame, safe in the knowledge that the two of us are completely alone. I’ve still got butterflies in my stomach, but it looks like I’m committed. I haul in from my car a plastic sack, slung over my shoulder. Last night, I drove to Krispy Kreme at closing time, both stores in town, and bought out their leftover stock. I blew a week’s wages on slightly-stale dollar donuts, amounting to about 8000 Calories for Amy’s delectation. If I’m doing this, I think to myself, I might as well treat her.

Upstairs, I knock on her door to no response. Taking into account Amy’s recent complete lack of shame, I let myself in, sure she won’t care. Sure enough, she’s lying where I left her, asleep in a pile of wrappers on top of her bed. Head tipped downwards into her bosom, with a puddle of drool forming on her sweater, she looks peaceful, if piggy. The TV plays across the room from her, adverts right now.

I’m not totally sure how I should wake her up. I don’t have a lot of experience with this. Shaking her arm? Or... Her belly? I think about it carefully. No-one would have to know, I reason. Amy would probably be too sleepy to notice... I mull the situation over carefully, before suddenly remembering the huge bag of pastries I intended to fatten up my friend’s little sister with. “Giving her belly a quick jiggle, well, it’s really a drop in the ocean now, Ty,” I tell myself.

Grabbing a handful of blubber, I gently wobble it about. God, it feels just as good as I remembered. The rest of her fat responds by trembling like a blancmange. I get so carried away, it’s not until Amy comes around with a low grunt that I recall why I began in the first place. I say “good morning,” and the irony is surely lost on Amy as the afternoon sun beams through her window.

“Urp... Hey, Ty,” she groans, wiping saliva from her chin. She takes a moment to come to terms with her surroundings, then perks up a little. “Did you bring food?”

I laugh nervously. “Er, yeah, quite a bit. Are you hungry?”

“Almost always,” she replies, completely deadpan, “I just need to take a shit first.”

“Right, sure,” I say, the best I can come up with as a response. I’m a little taken aback by how forward she is, but I don’t know why. Like I said, she doesn’t really do shame any more.

I help Amy get up out of bed. She yawns and stretches a little, letting a wet fart rip in the process. The rare bout of exercise stirs her digestive system into action, and she her gas continues intermittently as she waddles to the bathroom. I notice the back of her pants and top are damp; completely drenched with sweat from being pressed firmly between her mass and the bed. Her flabby square asscheeks hang out the top of her sweatpants.

Her haunches brush against the doorframe as she leaves the room. I take the opportunity to examine her bed, running my hand along the moist crater left in her mattress. I’m a little embarrassed when I stroke the arse-shaped indent and find myself turned-on. My penis jerks forward and starts to stiffen. God, it doesn’t take much.

I sit down on Amy’s silhouette, and briefly imagine her returning her spot with me under her. She’s so much wider than me. I’d be completely hidden beneath her. I can’t imagine it being too painful. She’s damn heavy, but at the same time, she’s pretty much got the consistency of Jello.

Amy’s taking a while. Of course, at her size, she’s bound to have some difficulty, so it’s not anything out of the ordinary. I watch the TV while I wait. I guess these programs aren’t awful. I mean, I feel like it’s making me stupider by the second, but it is kind of enjoyable. I imagine that if I’m going to spend more time with Amy, not studying, I’ll have to get used to watching trashy TV.

The girl herself returns after about ten minutes. She drags herself over to the bed, drops her bottom onto the mattress, then painstakingly lifts her right leg up onto the mattress.

“Here,” I interject, grabbing her leg by the knee, and raising it for her. I take the opportunity to run my hand a little further up than necessary, to where her cellulite-ridden thighs begin to fold over into gradually-developing rolls. I do the same with the other leg. Amy seems pretty exhausted by the whole ordeal. She shoots me a weary look, which I take as a cue to offer her a donut.

As I hold one out for her, she makes a show of struggling to lift an arm up, then letting it drop back down to the bed. “Ugh, Ty...” she pants, “You’re gonna have to feed me.”

I eagerly clamber on top of her, dragging the huge bag of pastries along with me. Amy smiles as I do. I push a sugary donut between her lips. She just about manages to lift her arm and handle it from there. I don’t need guiding like yesterday; this time I start rubbing her belly on my own. We carry on like this; I caress, then feed her, intermittently switching between the two. After a few donuts, my hands wander away from her belly, wrapping themselves around her waist and taking great big handfuls of her fatty rolls.

More donuts for Amy. She eats noisily and messily, with her mouth open and snorting through her nose as she does so. I move my hands upwards, over her sweaty armpits to cup the side of her breasts. Amy’s breath quickens as my fingers stroke her. She grasps my arm with one hand, still stuffing her face with the other; it’s as though she’s turned on, but unable to stop herself from eating. She looks conflicted, and starts eating faster as some kind of compromise. Only once the last donut is put away does she finally crane her neck upward to kiss me.

Her lips are soft and greasy. She tastes bad, but I barely notice. As I grind up against her belly, she belches into my mouth. We laugh, then carry on. I can’t hold back much longer. I pull away from her lips, and begin to peel off her clothes; they’re so tight, and plastered on with sweat. I roll Amy over to get at the back of her sweatpants and begin to inch the fabric down her great, white cliff-face of an ass. She obediently lays there, reaching out for a pawful of chips as I undress her. It’s a lengthy process, as her skintight clothes cling onto her like cellophane. I have to roll her to and fro, but Amy wordlessly allows herself to be toyed with, too lazy to either object or help as my pushes send powerful waves through her freshly uncovered flesh.

I unroll her damp, slightly-sticky and far-too-small panties down over her buttocks, and part way down her thighs until they can no longer stretch wide enough to continue, and catch on a roll of blubber.

My best friend’s little sister gives a sharp intake of breath as a run a hand up her inner thigh, under her overhanging belly, and towards her vagina, exposed, virginal and vulnerable. I unbuckle my belt, slip down my pants, and lean forward. Amy looks up at me. A look of agreement, though, I doubt she’d be fit enough to resist me otherwise.

I push up her stomach. She makes an effort to spread her heavy legs.

I take a breath.

I plunge into the immense blob of quavering fat.

I’ve given in. For better or worse, right or wrong, I’m a complete slave to my lust for Amy from now on. And she’s a slave, to hunger and sloth.
as I was cumming in her, the feeling of her pussy being filled made her squeal. "ohmygod ty!" and sge started to quiver even more furiously. She reached blindly at her sides. I guessed and grabbed a candy bar which I shoved into her mouth, muffling her moans slightly.
After we both came, Amy dozed off. On her bed, reclined on a pile of pillows, she snored and her belly glorped. I lay my head on her stomach, and decided to take advantage of the occasion to explore her expansive body with my hands. God, she was all bulges, fat flabby rolls, and thick, heavy swells. As I lay on her and ran my fingers along the sweaty folds on her sides, she stirred and put her arms around me, sticky hands holding me against her.

"tyyy. tyyyy!" I woke up to amys pleading. Her

“tyyy I need you.” was the text I got. As I was considering what to write back I got another “to bring me food. Moms trying to make me diet. Can u help me eat enough to keep me from going hungry? Plz ill totally be ur slave”
If I wasn’t hard from the first text, now I was so hard I couldn’t help indulging in thoughts of fat amys growing body.
“of course. Can’t have my baby girls hungry tummy begging for food and distracting from your studies. Why is she making u diet anyway?”

“!!! yesss thankyou!” “I got sent home from school today. Wardrobe malfunction after lunch nd they called mum telling that im morbidly obese and dressed inappropriatly.” Then a picture message loaded. “caught on a door handle and ripped : ( “I didn’t know amy owned any non-sweat pants but here she was wearing jeans that had split down the side under the waistband. Plush fat wrapped in panties spilled out of the gap which was maybe 6 inches and went down to her pale dimpled thigh. In the front a plump hand was tugging the hem of her shirt down. “cant believe u got sent home for that. Although I guess I could see how it might distract some ppl.” “I had to undo my button to keep it from ripping open more. pants were really digging into my tummy. R u distracted?” a picture where she wasn’t holding her shirt down showed a thick spare tire of fat with a very noticable mark where her pants had been strangling her belly. “maybe a little. How much food should I bring my slave girl?” “lots. Don’t let my parents see.”

as I arrived at amys with my backpack not weighed down mby textbooks but by junk food I heard amys and her mother: “can’t I have more?!” amy whined “now now fat greedy piglet, this is all you get until you shape up a bit.” “buttt I’m hungry now! And like, ty told me about these sierra club hikes that sound really fun and I’m already signed up to go on one.” “well once you come back from that, then you can have seconds. Good job taking initiative though.”

I don’t remember telling you about the sierra club… my greedy fat piglet.” I said as I sat down on the bed next to amy. amy groaned and leaned against me. I wished she was on top of me, draping me with her flabby, heavy fat body. “my moms been calling me that recently whenever I ask for food…” She paused, then looked up at me with puppy dog eyes and continued in a near whisper. “but when you say it to me… It sounds different. I like it. A lot”
I had an arm wrapped around her and I slid the hand that was holding where the love handle transitioned into a roll of fat. “you want to be my greedy fat piglet?”she something between a moan and a groan of built up yearning released. I kissed her “pamper you and play with you?” “yesssss” Still rubbing the rolls of fat on her gut I felt it gurgle. “ooh does my greedy fat piglets belly need to be pampered and fed?” Amy whimpered and nodded “belly is sooo fat.”

The next time I saw her was a few days later. I got a text from her parents "would you be interested in driving amy to a math-a-thon this weekend? it would be fun, plus she'd get some exercise being out of the house. we'd pay you, and for your gas, etc." then a text from amy "pleeeeease take me. I'm hungry for math."
I pulled up outside amys house and walked in. I greeted her parents and as I was making small talk feeling awkward with what I was doing to their daughter but they seemed oblivious to it. Her mother gave me two envelopes "here, this is for you, and this should cover expenses- gas... food... see if you can steer amy to some healthier choices... but if she does well in the mathathon... I guess she can splurge a little. I just want her to be happy. I heard amy shout from upstairs "tyyyy can you come and give me a hand?" I walked into her room, and it was clear Amy had just gotten out of the shower. I wondered when the last time she'd taken one was. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, towel not nearly large enough to encircle her torso which heaved as she panted to catch her breath. "can... you help me get dressed?" I came to her front and drank in her fat pale form. her belly reached far into her lap, two large fat rolls with a smaller one right under her breasts, which bulged- flushed with her nipples pink. "those purple panties and the sweats we got. put em on together so it's easier. socks and shoes too" she directed. I knelt and pulled the garments up her fatty cellulite ridden legs then slipped socks and shoes on her chubby feet. She put her hand on my head, as if to steady herself, but I think she just wanted to touch me. "help me up?" and she pulled causing me to fall against her as she let herself fall back.
Once she was standing, I pulled her panties up, biting into her hips. the sweats which had been large not too long ago, were noticeably more snug. She pointed to an empty duffel bag. "can you go and get some snacks for the road?" "umm. I brought you a little snack." "little??? boo! please ty. I'm really hungry and it's a long drive...."
after I'd filled the duffel and was coming upstairs, I heard amy lumbering down the stairs. She had a baggy hoodie on, zipped up and concealing her obese form somewhat. "ook by mom!" she called. We walked to my car and I put her bags in the back. I had already adjusted the passenger seat to give amy as much room as possible.
Not long after we began driving, she began to move around, tugging her hoodie off and showing a too small shirt who's fabric was so tight and worn it was almost see through, she scratched at the roll of fat that poked out the bottom. I was having trouble watching the road, trying to watch amy jiggle. "so what did you bring me?" I reached in the back and pulled a box of doughnuts forward. her face lit up.
after eating a dozen, she was reclining and stroking her belly drowsily. "mike has been telling me how fat I look.... you don't think I'm too fat do you?" no. "I mean, I know that I'm fat... but that doesn't mean I can't be cute too right?

as I entered the hall, I saw what drew amy to this event. there was a massive buffet. and it appeared that all participants got a trophy.
as I entered her at registration, she loaded up a tray with food and went to a table. I came to sit next to her. She unzipped her hoodie while looking right at me as she took my hand from the table top and guided it under the table to her bare belly. "mmm that feels nice ty. thanks. I would do this all the time."

towards the evening amy called her mother. "hey ma. I'm really cleaning up here. I made it into the final round tomorrow. yea, that's what I wanted to ask you. Ok. jeez mom, it's just ty. Yea, he said he's happy to- less driving anyway

EPILOGUE

We sit at the dinner table, six months later. I eat dinner here now almost every night. Amy eats two or three dinners, at least.

I glance across at her, with admiration. Since that first time I gave into my urges and fucked her silly, Amy's grown grotesquely fat. Her round face, supported on her wide shoulders by a cushion of neck blubber, is pink and tired with exertion, and she loudly pants as she feeds. The rest of her liquid body spills out of her clothes, on top of the dinner table and hanging down off the sides of her chair.

Stuffing food in her mouth in well-practised and automatic movements, she refuses to let up, or rather, is unable to. An addict, she doesn't stop eating until the table is cleared.

Her parents lean over to slop more food onto her plate. Though they once tutted and fretted and wrung their hands over the state of their daughter, they've long since given up on saving poor, piggish Amy from herself, now catering to her demands when they can.

When they can't, I do. Amy doesn't receive maths tutoring any more. Her abject laziness and refusal to switch off the telly eventually put the last nail in that coffin. But I've still got work; with Amy's "worsening" condition, as they put it, her parents employed me instead as a personal carer for her. She dropped out of school a few months ago, as I finished, and her mother quickly took the opportunity to unload the burden on me, but with a very fair salary.

Each day, I head over to Amy’s house around lunchtime to wake her up. I take her to the bathroom, wash her, and feed her. Anything she’s too lazy, or just too damn big to manage on her own. It’s not glamorous, but there are benefits that make it worthwhile; namely, our ongoing affair. It has to stay secret from her parents, sure, but I get so much alone time with her, that isn’t difficult.

Occasionally I stop to think, when the parents slam shut the front door, and I get ready to stick it in her, maybe it is my fault. Maybe I’m wrong, encouraging her steady diet of junk food and reality TV to fatten the body and soften the mind. But as I take hold of the great, passive teen, too fat and docile to be anything but dozily submissive, the worries always slip my mind.

Each platter licked clean, Amy’s mom turns to me.

“Ty, would you take Amy upstairs now?” she asks, as her daughter languishes, resting after a marathon eat.

I slip my hands under Amy’s arms, sliding them between overhangs of flab and taking two delicious handfuls as I help her stand. She groans as I guide her to her feet.

“With pleasure,” I smile back, and I lead her back to bed.