Laundry Day (Patreon)

He arrived at his apartment building’s laundry room later than he’d planned. The laundry machines were a scarce commodity that were constantly fought over, and anyone who didn’t want their wet clothes pulled out of the machine and tossed onto the dubiously clean laundry room floor knew to arrive at least a couple minutes before the 42-minute wash cycles completed.

But Everard was slower these days, and the elevator was broken again, so even though he only lived on the second floor, getting down to the basement laundry room for a second time that day took him far longer than he would’ve liked, and the exercise of hauling himself down the stairs left him feeling heavy, tired, and far too warm.

He’d hoped doing his laundry in the middle of the day on a weekday would save him. He hated when strangers touched his laundry.

His luck had almost, almost held. He opened the laundry room door, panting and slightly sweaty, and grimaced internally when he saw one of his neighbors reach into the washer he’d used. Before he could say anything, the neighbor—a woman he’d ridden the elevator with a few times—pulled a pair of boxers from the twisted mass of wet clothes. She held them up in front of her, eyes widening in surprise.

This was exactly why he didn’t want strangers touching his clothes.

The woman’s mouth dropped open a little as she took in just how large the garment was. She could’ve fit herself into a single leg of his underwear with room to spare. Gobsmacked as she was, she didn’t notice him as he walked up. “I believe those are mine,” he said with an apologetic smile, trying to hide his shame and irritation.

“That makes sense!” she chirped awkwardly before stuffing the wet boxers into his hands. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been waiting for a washer to open up for a while, so—”

“It’s fine, I’ll be out of your way in a minute.” He realized he’d forgotten to bring down his laundry basket, so he grabbed as much of his laundry as he could and carried it over to the dryers, and of course ended up needing to make two trips. He could feel her watching him, and tried not to think about how gigantic his ass looked in his worn black sweats as he bent to grab his laundry out of the front-loader. He was all too aware of his belly pressing against his thighs as he leaned down, the way heavy inches of belly fat pressed awkwardly into his diaphragm. Between the anxiety and the activity, his heart was beating too fast, and he had to work to keep from breathing too hard and too loudly.

He dumped the last armful of clothes into a dryer. “All yours,” he said with a smile, cringing as he felt his tits and belly wobble as he turned toward her.

“Thanks!” she said, stuffing her clothes into the now-empty washer. Everard was grateful she didn’t try and make conversation.

He left the laundry room and headed back toward the stairs. He stood at the bottom of them for a moment, catching his breath even though he knew he’d be huffing and puffing after just a few steps. He was right, too—it only took about four steps before he could feel himself struggling to lift each immense leg, fleshy thighs wobbling against each other and making the going even more difficult. By the time he was done with the first flight, he was cursing whoever put the laundry room in the basement under his breath.

His humiliation was not yet complete, however. As he stood puffing and wheezing in the stairwell, his neighbor came up the stairs quick as you please, her only words to him a quiet “Excuse me” as she passed him and continued up the stairs like it was nothing. Excellent. So now she’d held his underwear and knew he couldn’t make it up a single flight of stairs. Not that she couldn’t have figured that out by looking at him. At his size, it would’ve been surprising if a few stairs didn’t cause him some trouble.

It took an age for him to finish the climb all the way up to his apartment. He was so exhausted he couldn’t even attempt to hide it, practically falling into his apartment after he unlocked the front door. He stood for a moment, swaying on his feet while he tried to decide if he wanted to sit on the couch or just crawl into bed. But then the final insult arrived: his phone alarm going off and reminding him he needed to turn right back around and get his clothes from the dryer.

He let out a whine and stripped off his sweaty clothes and tossed them grumpily to the floor, considering yet again whether he could afford to upgrade an apartment with in-unit laundry as he dug into the freezer for a half-gallon tub of his favorite ice cream. He sorely needed something cold in his belly after such herculean effort. The muscles in his legs were trembling. Getting back down the stairs again would be a dicey proposition, and climbing back up them while carrying a basket of clothes?

He couldn’t bear it. Let his nosy neighbors paw at his clothes—he wasn’t planning on moving an inch once he sat down. Not until he’d finished his ice cream, anyway.