Diabetic Birthday Boy (Patreon)

Thank you Patrons! Enjoy three stories this month! Here’s the second story. #ThankYouPatrons day.

[Content Warning: This story includes heavily implied BrotherxBrother themes (no actual sex), messy eating, immobility, and extreme obesity related health issues.]

Diabetic Birthday Boy

        I jolt awake from my slumber. It’s probably a combination of my stomach growling in hunger and the anxiety of today’s date: November 19th. It’s my birthday. Most teens would be excited to turn 18 years old because it’s the start of their adulthood. They get all kinds of choices. They choose whether they go to work or college or join the military. A whole world opens up to them at this sacred age. I don’t get choices. At 900-something pounds, I’m just lucky to be alive at the tender age of 18. If I’m lucky, my choices are if I want chicken or pizza for dinner. I will inevitably choose both, if he lets me have a choice. Usually, he makes every decision for me and I’m submissive and helpless enough to let him have his way. 

        The door creaks open and he walks in to my room. “There’s my adorable, chubby little brother! Happy Birthday.” He calls me chubby, but it’s more like super morbidly obese if you ask any medical professional. It doesn’t matter to my older brother, Branigan, who is the ‘he’ I speak of.

        Branigan is everything I’m not. He is already 23 years old with light brown hair that is combed to the right, even if it does look a little messy. He has the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen and a blue nose piercing to match. He’s also incredibly brawny, his muscles always bulging against his tight shirts. It’s safe to say I’m several times his size. I’m not sure what I look like in my entirety as I can no longer stand in front of a mirror, but I imagine that I’m pretty disgusting to the average person just by looking down. My belly hangs well over my knees whether I’m in a supine position or sitting up. My breasts are much bigger than any woman’s I’ve ever met. Electrodes cover varying parts of my chest like a minefield tracking my heart rate. Branigan loves to tease me about how big my ass is getting, bulging prominently over the sides of my full size mattress. 

       “Thanks, Branigan,” I yawn, taking a deep breath from my nasal cannula. 

       “Are you ready for your birthday gift from me? I know you’re trying to start a new diet, but I really think you’re going to enjoy my gift to you,” he grins mischievously. 

       “You didn’t!” I gasp. I don’t even have to ask because I’m food-motivated and he knows how much I want to give in to sugary confections. I also know how relentless he is when it comes to bringing me food. I depend on my big brother to clean me, feed me, medicate me, and entertain me. This also means I’m still at his mercy, whether he’s shoveling junk food in my sick, bloated body or teasing me about how grossly fat I’m becoming.

       He exits the bedroom for a brief moment. When he enters again there is a massive sheet cake is in his arms. “I-I can’t,” I stammer. I hate to admit this, but the full 18 x 26 x 2 inch sheet cake catches my attention. My stomach growls in anticipation, giving my desire away, even though I know cake isn’t in the diet of someone desperate to lose weight. 

        “The doctor told me I can’t keep eating sugar the way I do when he came for a home visit last week,” I inform Branigan.

       “Don’t you like it? Don’t you love me? I got this cake just for you. It’s even your favorite flavors, little bro. Please eat it for me,” he guilts me while placing the big cake box on my fat bare belly. It sits perfectly for easy access. 

       Moaning slightly, I grab a fistful of cake like a starving barbarian. This is so fucked up. Branigan is fucked up. Yet, I can’t say that I don’t want it. I mean, I shouldn’t want it, and my body won’t be able to handle it. Regardless, I grab a handful and shove it in my mouth, swallowing the red velvet cake crumbs drenched in cream cheese icing. Man do I love a sugar high, and this is the first time since being diagnosed with diabetes that I’ve done this. It feels so liberating to eat exactly what I want, even though it can kill me. 

        I take another big chunk of cake. As I’m greedily shoveling it in my mouth, I notice my brother takes off his shirt and pants to reveal his muscles. It leaves him in a jock strap. “I can’t risk getting my outfit dirty,” he says, trying to justify stripping down in my presence. It shouldn’t be as awkward as it is considering I’m naked all the time. 

         I zone out while eating. I know exactly how it all happened, why I’m so big at such a young age. My parents gave me whatever I wanted as a child. Why shouldn’t they have? I was born an entire month early and was born 3 pounds underweight. I almost died several times and couldn’t breathe on my own. I spent the first two months in the newborn intensive care unit, my parents worried sick day after day, until I gained weight rapidly enough for them to send me home. The issue was that the rapid weight gain didn’t stop. 

       Pediatricians and surgeons didn’t know what to do. Bariatric surgery wasn’t an option for a small child born fragile. They recommended diets to my parents. I grew up on all kinds of diets. We would be good for about a week, but nothing happened. Then, my parents would give in to my desire for more food. In grade school I outgrew clothing in mere months. In middle school I crushed any desk the school used to try to accommodate my bulk. By the tine I got to high school, I stayed at home and learned with an online computer program endorsed by the Board of Education. Branigan would give me his extra chicken nuggets or half his candy bar whenever I told him I was hungry. When he got his driver’s license, he would go to restaurants and pick up bags if fast food. He was happy to oblige, watching me become more and more swinish. 

         Hundreds upon hundreds of pounds of fat bury and crush my skeletal system. Looking back, it was obvious that I’d lose mobility beneath this sea of flesh. Yet, my blinders were on and I was oblivious to the last shreds of my mobility deteriorating. In my defense, I had a lot of other things going on to worry about: a diabetes diagnosis, failing lungs, and chest pain, and all that while also managing my final high school courses. It’s one of those things you say to yourself: “That will never happen to me.” Then, one day I was utterly surprised when I tried to stand up and fell backwards under my weight. I had become a bedbound teenager. I quickly surrendered to my dark fate. I stopped putting on clothes because they were all too small for me. Becoming bedbound made me depressed. My parents seemed unconcerned, and my brother willing to wait on me hand and foot if I promised to finish my meals.

         Oh, how we’ve come full circle. I was born nearly dying and on oxygen. I got somewhat healthy, and at the ripe age of 18 years old, I’m essentially dying and on oxygen again. I was out of control. I am out of control. 

         The metal bed frame beneath me creaks and groans at any minor shifting of my weight. It snaps me back to reality and when I look down I notice that half the cake is now gone. It was as easy as tearing through tissue. I pause and refrain from getting more cake. I don’t need anymore.

         “You’re only half done, my little piggy bro. Are you going to just leave the rest?” he asks with a strung-out voice. 

         A belch escapes my mouth. I feel nauseous and lightheaded from my verboten sugar binge.

          “I don’t think you understood me. I bought this cake specifically for you. If you stop eating, I’ll be very angry. Don’t make me punish you with vegetables.”

        Yes, please, make me eat a salad for once, my brain pleads. I try again to remind him about the doctor’s orders. “Branigan, Dr. Morris told me if I don’t get my diabetes under control it could get serious. I already have neuropathy,” I tell him with fear in my voice.

        “What do doctors know anyway? No one is going to take my little bro’s cake away from him, especially on his birthday!”

        My body is a prison, the shackles are the heart monitor and oxygen tube. The warden is my big brother. I take on the task of eating. What else am I supposed to do? It’s not like I can get up and make him stop. I’m bedbound; I have no choice but to cram as much cake as I can into my mouth to appease him despite how sick I feel. I get maybe three more handfuls of cake down and break into a sweat. My bites get bigger and bigger in an attempt to divide and conquer such a massive cake. Every swallow allows for a bigger chunk to be reallocated to my greedy maw. 

         He squeezes his bulge through the thin layer of white jockstrap. “Fuck, you may be younger, but you’re definitely a big bro too,” he pants, trying to brush the crumbs off my mountainous chest. He doesn’t say it, but I know he feels my heart pounding as the organ forcefully, frantically pumps blood through my body. He brushes his hand across my exceedingly plump chest and lingers on one of my nipples. After a few seconds he pulls his hand away. I feel faint. 

       “I-I’m done. I-insulin,” I wheeze with a dizziness. He just looks at me with blank eyes. “Please, it’s too much for my body. Br-Branigan. I need my insulin,” I plead again. 

       “You’re so close to being done,” Branigan tries to motivate me.

       “P-please s-stop…!” I beg.

         “If you can’t eat it all, you’re not going to get your insulin.”

        My stomach churns from fear. He doesn’t understand - or worse, maybe he does - but there is no convincing him to let me stop. “I don’t want to lose my foot to diabetes… I don’t want to die,” I cry. 

         “Then, like I said, earn your insulin. Finish the cake,” he purrs. 

          There’s no way I’ll be able to do it on my own. I try to grab more cake with my bare hands like a child. My hands tremble. I don’t know what else to do. Desperate, I come up with a plan. I’m going to have to tell him things that will please him, even if I don’t want it. “F-feed me, big bro. I need to be fatter for you. I’ll do anything for you,” I whimper.

          He takes the bait to feed me the rest. “I’m going to make you well over 1,000 pounds, little bro,” Branigan divulges to me while taking a handful of cake and lifting it up to my mouth. He pushes it in with his index finger and makes me lick his fingers clean. I feel more crumbs fall on my chest. He scoops them up as fast as he can to make sure the calories get in my body. My chest gets smeared with icing during the process. 

          He loves every moment of feeding me. He especially loves the results, as he touches my naked morbidly obese body between handfuls. It makes us both feel so satisfied when he takes his warm fingers and traces the stretch marks that are seared on my flesh. I blush. This shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

          I’m getting so thirsty, but I have to keep going. He grunts as he shovels in another handful of cake into my mouth. “Eat, hog,” he breathes. 

          I can feel less and less oxygen reaching my lungs because of the constant flow of cake. It’s almost enough to make me choke on the crumbs lingering in my throat. I try to take more deep breaths between bites, but Branigan continues to feed me more aggressively. 

          I feel like I’m at my limit when the cake in the box is completely gone. My body isn’t reacting well to all the sugar. I feel a shooting pain down my foot causing me to wince. Everything seems surreal, like I’m not really there. My vision fades in and out. 

          Icing covers my lips and bloated cheeks. Branigan swipes some of the icing off my cheek and teases me. “You forgot some, messy birthday boy.”

          I’m not a boy. I’m of legal age; I’m officially a man, but to him I’ll always be his baby brother. He puts his fingers up to my fat face. I suck the sugar off his fingers desperately. He just replies with a sadistic grin, holding the crotch of the jock strap with his other hand, getting it dirty with cake.

          “You’ve finished all of the cake like a good boy. Now it’s time for two party pails of ice cream,” Branigan says while fixing up my insulin pump as promised.

          I know it’s repulsive. I’m very much aware that he’s abusing me and cutting my lifespan down to nothing, but what can I do? He’s my big brother and my bedridden body relies on his care. It’s a fucked-up way to show his love, one that I beg for when the addiction causes my deadly cravings. I’d do literally anything for him, or maybe it’s just anything for sugar. I give in every damn day because I know no matter how big I get, how much my disgusting body gets trashed, he loves me. More than he should.