"Fat Trimmings" Volume 9 (Patreon)

“Most Likely to Succeed”

Everyone always thought she was going to be rich. That was what she was destined for. Everyone knew that with a body like hers, she was going to hit it big.

She was never most likely to succeed, no. Those ones go to the brainy kids, or the spoiled already rich kids with such a hefty leg up on everyone else that their success was guaranteed. But she was certainly most likely to be a rich gold digging trophy wife, maybe even a legitimate model before settling down before days spend by the pool relaxing and working on an endlessly perfect tan. That was supposed to be her life, days full of lounging around a palatial mansion and nights fueled with excess.

Well, she did the excess right, for a little while at least. Partying always came easy and when everyone wants to buy you drinks, the drinks are easy to come by. Of course, when one has a taste for both sugary cocktails and beer that can have a lot of consequences. Calories upon calories begin to pile on, and while dancing the night away can help for a little while, eventually it all starts to catch up with a person.

And that’s what happened to her. It was slow at first, hardly noticeable. Then it became nothing a pair of spanx couldn’t hide, or a full on girdle. And the partying kept going because the partying had to keep going. She never could get a job, first because she didn’t want to because it was beneath her, then because she was lacking the qualifications. See, while all her friends and inferiors went to college and made something of themselves, all that partying and all that booze did not exactly make for someone cutout for 8:00am classes, and, while she was very popular amongst the student body on campus, she was not very popular amongst the faculty- at least the more scrupulous members.

So she crashed and burned and then every job she’d try to get was quickly a wash because nobody likes someone whose going to show up consistently hungover. She thought she would at least be able to coast by in one of those salesgirl jobs at the stores at the mall that practically required girls to be models to work for them, and she hoped to in fact get some jobs modeling, but all of those opportunities kept drying up as her party body grew and grew.

Plus size models are one thing, but ones whose biggest asset are their sloppy beer belly aren’t exactly in demand.

The partying had to keep happening because the people she would meet at these parties became the people she would count on, fiding sugary cocktails and sugar daddies to pay her rent and buy her clothes, something she was needing in a higher frequency.

As the dire straights of her financial situation became clearer to her, even through the alcohol induced fog, her downward spiral continued to speed up. This was inevitable because the stress led to stress eating. And sugar daddies got harder to find as she kept drinking sugary cocktails and started scarfing down sugary doughnuts to boot.

Junk food was never a vice of hers before. She used to make fun of those who ate it regularly. She used to rail against its negative effects. But as the attention and affection began to dry up thanks to all her poor life choices adding up, food became the only source of comfort for her.

So her waistline widened. Her abs which had long ago been buried by booze became further covered in a shelf of flab and her thighs blubbered outward until they rubbed together as she walked. Her prized tight ass that she loved to brag about became covered in quivering cellulite thanks. Of course, all of this weight gain meant needing to replace even more clothes at an even faster rate, and thanks to her prospects becoming less and less, the kinds of clothes she could afford became cheaper, less stylish, bargain bin and thrift store kind of finds.

Third rate clothes meant she lost even more of her confidence which meant she lost even more of her attractiveness to certain people. And the cheapness of her clothing and the sloppiness of the way the weight began to settle on her body, meant that she was no longer allowed in the kind of establishments where the men who could afford to keep her deteriorating lifestyle going would be. Even the fat chasing sugar daddies were out of her reach.

She used to be a bitch because she was pretty and popular and entitled, but as she grew fatter her bitchiness increased with her bitterness as she felt everything she always thought she was supposed to have slipped through her fingers. With every additional pound, every new jiggle, she grew angrier and meaner and pushed anybody who could have helped, who could have supported her away. People tried to get her the help she needed, but in the end her attitude drove them all away. She tried to plead for some of them to come back eventually, but they never did.

But bills don’t care about how mean you get. Bills keep coming. And that’s how she ended up where she is.

Scrubbing toilets is not a pretty job. Even if you did it in a five star hotel while wearing a designer dress with the killer heels to match, there’s nothing glamorous about cleaning the place where other people relieve themselves. But that’s what she finds herself doing.

And it’s not even at one of those five star hotels. No, her attitude, fueled by all the alcohol makes getting a job at any kind of decent place an impossibility. She’s stuck at a flea bitten motel right next to the dive bar she’ll go to once her shift is over to suck down a greasy plate of buffalo wings and a few pints of beer. It’s the kind of place where lowlifes like her come to stay, and lowlifes are not exactly the most careful and courteous when it comes to using the bathroom in cheap scumholes like this. It’s dirty and disgusting work and a complete one eighty for the woman who was once so prim and proper and certain that she would be the one getting waited on.

Her body is also far from what she would recognize as her prime.

Her feet have grown wide and far too fat for the designer heels she used to prize so much. Bella’s sausage-like toes find themselves stuffed into nothing but sensible flats nowadays, cheap flats she still has to replace frequently because their quality makes them prone to falling apart in the weather, it’s certainly not from walking great distances in them.

Above her fat feet are a matching pair of cankles. Her ankles were never something Bella had considered as slim before. They were, of course, like the rest of her body, both slim and toned. But they were such an inconsequential thing when held up against the rest of her athletic form that she never really paid them a second thought. They were just a part of her gorgeous legs.

But now that her cankles, already swollen with fat, find themselves regularly double swollen at end of days filled with menial but grueling labor for her bloated body- labor that makes her well aware of their painful existence. And they were a part of legs that were now each easily the size of what her waist used to be which meant that getting herself around on them was extremely taxing.

Her legs quiver with each step she takes and each step she takes is part of a slow and ponderous waddle. She used to have a model’s strut and a thigh gap which she loved to brag about. But those days are long gone as she struggles to get around. She used to love wearing either tight jeans or cute dresses that barely went below her pert ass cheeks and showed of her limber legs, but now all of her clothes are tight and much less flattering and finding dresses that show off her legs would be showing off a sea of stretchmarks and cellulite.

Currently her thoroughly unflattering uniform, which is quickly on its way to once again being outgrown, includes a pair of stained dark gray pants. The back of these pants are stretched to near bursting over the mammoth globes of Bella’s burgeoning behind, twin ass cheeks that move with a mind of their own. The front is currently pushed out by her gelatinous double belly the lower half of which fills the front of her pants while the upper half spills over them and swallows up the waistband while simultaneously pushing apart and stressing the buttons on her coffee and ketchup stained shirt, remnants of a meal from yesterday.

Those stains serve as a symbol for how she has ruined her life and how it is now stuck this way. Just like she'll never get that stain out, she'll never be slim and sexy again. She is stuck as a fat, menial laborer, a sorry slob forever. 

What a loser.

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“She’ll Become What She Hates”

She’s going to become what she hates. That’s the thought that consumes me as I watch her munching on her second doughnut and chasing it with a large iced mochaccino piled high with whipped cream. She is on her way to consuming almost a thousand calories this morning alone, and she seems to be purposefully oblivious to it, just like she seems oblivious to the little sliver of fat that’s poking out from underneath her Underarmor shirt.

She loves to run. Well, she used to love to run a lot more, but now she likes to run just enough to stop here at this wonderful bakery. Her order started out as a black coffee. Then a scone and a black coffee. This became a coffee with cream…. cream and sugar… cream two sugars- three - four. Two doughnuts and a mochaccino right now just like it’s been all week. This is her morning breakfast routine before work.

All those carbs and sugar is going to make for a major crash which will require more sugar with lunch and then a second crash that will make her far too tired to go to the gym like she used to. And soon the scone will be back a part of her breakfast routine as well. Eventually, it’ll big a dozen doughnuts to go so she can bring them to the office for everyone to share.

But everyone would much rather watch her obliviously chow down on each and every one of them.

She’s been a bitch to them all. She’s the kind of high powered good looking type-A, gets what they want even when they don’t deserve it kind of bitch her whole life. She’s done nothing but look down on people and now… well now she’s getting fat.

And soon she’ll be exactly what she’s always hated, an obese slob, a complete pig as she likes to call them, an oinker. I can see it already. By the time she realizes what is happening to her, it’ll already be too late. Then, the only thing to comfort her when her self esteem is shattered is food.

She’ll be waddling in here and double fisting doughnuts as she works her way through and entire box, dropping crumbs down her massive cleavage. She’ll get so fat, her wide load ass isn’t going to be able to handle a stool anymore. That will make her sad which in turn will make her eat even more. She’ll be a whopper of a woman, a double wide emotional overeater who can’t control herself, fatter than anyone she’s ever had the nerve to look down upon.

She’ll become what she hates and hate what she’s become. And there'll be nothing she can do about it.

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“What If?” (Part 9)

What if she runs out of money?

Food costs a lot of money, and she eats a lot of food.

She looks at her belly in the mirror. It used to be gorgeous, tan, six pack abs. Those abs were at one point her prized possession, something that she love to show off, to lord over others.

Now it’s a gut.

That’s the best word for it. Not a paunch. Not a pot belly. A paunch would be too small. A pot belly might be mistaken for being cute. She has a GUT, a big, pale, squishy, spongy gut. A fat, turgid gut, a sloshy, stretch marked, heavy, saggy gut. It’s a big swinging thing far from her sexy abs. It’s a big heavy sack of fat that hangs heavily, and even when she lifts it, rolls that fat in her her hands, she can still feel her gut’s weight carried by her whole body.

It’s a glorious gut, made more glorious by the fact that she had done this to herself, changed herself so much. She grew this gut likes a farmer grows a prized pumpkin. This is her pumpkin, her blue ribbon gut. It is the masterwork derived from all that she has done.

She knows that she’s not ordinary fat.

Ordinary fat people don’t think about getting fat. They eat more for any number of reasons; it’s what’s available; it’s a craving; it’s genetic. She made herself this way. She knew what she was doing when she fought with herself and chose to stuff her face like a pig, to eat like a glutton to grow her gut. She fought her mind and her metabolism and won.

Her gut is her prize. And it comes with a thick side of thunder thighs.

Thick meaty thunder thighs, and a big blubbery butt. She has fought her and earned being called a fat girl.

And her former friends do so love calling her a fat girl, and fatso, fat ass, porker, piggy. She is a greedy, naughty little piglet, and people let her know it. And they love to let her know it. She has been poked, and prodded and have her belly- no- her gut shaken more times than she cares to remember.

It’s this strange thrill to be such a naughty piglet, to have knowingly ruined oneself. There’s a guilt there that comes with letting go, getting fat, feeling the work of one’s own gluttony, their weighty gut in their hands. And there’s a feeling of tremendous accomplishment too, the perverse tinge of delight that comes with doing what everyone says is wrong, a rush of intense pleasure every time she crams another doughnut in her mouth while rubbing her gut, shaking her gut, fondling her gut.

Everything about her is bigger, her gut, her thighs, her ass, her breasts, even her pretty face is starting to chub out. What if it gets so fat that she doesn’t recognize herself when she looks in the mirror? Is that even possible? Would that be good or bad?

As she thinks about that, her gut begins to grumble, loudly calling to be stuffed with more food which brings her back to her previous question. What if she runs out of money? Her food budget is considerably larger now which means a new revenue stream might be needed to keep herself well fed, especially if her gut and therefore her appetite are going to keep growing. If only there was a way for her to make money while eating….

She looks over to her computer and stares at its webcam as her stomach rumbles

… What if?