Sabotage | Part 3 (Patreon)

Author’s Note: A request for a part 3 of Sabotage. Never did I think anyone would want to read more. This trilogy is done, but I thought this was an excellent idea suggested by a fan and very fitting for the holiday season. Seriously, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I'm happy to work on some of your ideas if I like them or glad to put your suggestions in a poll. I’m sorry for the perspective change, but I felt like this was the best way to set up the story. Enjoy.

Sabotage | Part 3

“Martin, look at what we got in the mail! I think it’s a Holiday card from our boys,” Maria chimes, flashing the envelope at her husband. “I talked to Big Mac over the phone. He’s not sure if they will be able to come in for our Holiday party, but maybe they can come over this spring. Wouldn’t that be fun to have a picnic and be an active family again?”

Maria felt a little somber because this would be the first Holiday party without her son, but she prominently displayed joy for hosting. It’s all she could talk about. Cups, bowls, and spoons clutter the kitchen, baking goodies for her son and his boyfriend. If they couldn’t be there, she decided she’d at least bake Holiday goodies for them to enjoy. She places a batch of cookies in the oven and washes her hands before picking up the card again. “I waited for you to get home to open it.”

Martin grunts and walks over to his wife. Maria takes a letter opener and cuts the edge of the envelope to reveal a card with green and red writing and her two favorite people. “Oh,” she says, trying to hide any trace of concern, “He’s put on weight again. What is he on? Some sort of scooter or something?” Martin ignores her question, making her ask for his attention. “Can you see it, Martin? Are you listening to me?” Maria holds the card to his face.

Martin frowns and grunts. He sees the card, alright. It strikes fear and anger seeing his son lose control of his life; the horrific state his son is in goes against his values and hopes for his son. Martin is a retired small business owner. He believes in honesty, hard work, and family before all else. He also believes in the strength of body and of mind. Martin never lets anyone talk wrong about his family, including McAlister and his boyfriend. However, whatever game they are playing with McAlister’s body hit the point of going too far. His only son deteriorated into an extremely obese, lazy person, probably getting a disability check for being a gluttonous mountain of lard.

Martin saw the issue coming. Every time McAlister came around with his boyfriend, he weighed at least 50 pounds more than last time. Martin doesn’t know the extent of the problem, but he’s suspicious about the dynamics of their relationship. This so-called "boyfriend" of McAlister might be fooling Maria, but he knows there is something dark and malicious at play that includes his son’s mobility and future premature death. That idiot boyfriend wants his poor boy in a bariatric bed. McAlister would never opt for a scooter on his own. Even now, if he cared about McAlister, he would help him lose weight and stop bringing him crap to eat. Martin isn’t going to let this little prick win.

“Martin, do I need to remind you that you were once 500 pounds? It’s poor genetics,” Maria puts her hand on Martin’s shoulder, holding back her worry.

“It’s not genetics. It’s laziness and overeating. I would know because I got my weight under control!”

“Everyone struggles, Martin. Yours aren’t exactly like his. He will make a change or do what is right for him. Am I concerned? Yes, he looks enormous in the photo. I also trust him to make his own decisions.”

“Allowing him to think being this big is okay is irresponsible. We’ve let his weight problem go on for far too long. I’m not about to sit back and watch our child die without a fight. Something is wrong about this whole thing!”

“Oh, Martin. Please don’t drive my baby boy away. Maybe we can get him a gym membership as a present with the goodies I’m baking him,” Maria suggests.

“I’m going to go make a call,” Martin storms out of the house to his car. He opens the door and sits in it. How can no one see what’s happening? Why is everyone okay with McAlister’s failing mobility and health? Maria wants to send him holiday goodies? He needs a strict diet of vegetables. Martin takes a deep breath, picks up his phone, and dials his son’s number. After all, something has to be done. He refuses to sit by until he finally gets a call telling him his only child died of a heart attack before his 30th birthday. That’s for damn sure!

*~*~*~*~*~*

McAlister sits back, chewing the decadent dessert. His naked, expansive back rolls propped up against a plethora of pillows. He’s somehow grown more bottom-heavy, as evidence by his enormous ass edging it’s way to the side of the mattress. No one could complain he didn’t have a belly to match, though. McAlister is a sea of fat, anchored under a stretchmark riddled stomach, thick upper arms with sagging bingo wings, and a triple chin and chubby cheeks trying to overtake his facial structure. His stomach oozes with folds, so much dropping in his lap, I can’t see his fat pad, but there isn’t much to see anymore anyway. His tits are enormous and saggy with puffy nipples.

I wonder how much closer he is to 1,000 pounds now. I have a morbid curiosity, but honestly, I just don’t know anymore. The success of my influence and sabotage over the years show on his body. He hasn’t gotten out of bed in a week. He could be immobile, but it’s not due to lack of muscle, it’s because he doesn’t have the motivation. However, after this week of atrophy, his mobility very well can be done for when he finally wants to stand up. He’ll fill the entire bed before I’m done with him.

The best part is I’ve finally warped his mind. He doesn’t realize how much he’s gained, oblivious to the consequences because he gets all the food and love he could ever want. McAlister continues to eat himself to oblivion with my help. I put a brownie up to McAlister’s mouth. McAlister knows what to do: He takes a large bite from my hand and chews. I watch on as he takes another bite, and I prepare another brownie. He’s greedy, but even he groans in pain from being full as this is the third pan I’m forcing him to eat today. He doesn’t get real nutrition anymore, malnourished by obesity. The groans inform me that he can’t reach his belly, but he needs help digesting the sugary treats. “Good boy,” I purr, putting another brownie up to his bloated, fat face with one hand and rub his mass with the other.

McAlister’s phone buzzes, which is a rare occurrence. At first, I think he’s somehow managed to access his vibrator. He groans, “it’s dad. Shi-URRRRP!” He gulps and gurgles from his vulnerable position. “I told you sending that holiday card was a bad idea. Now he’s all worried.”

“Answer it, fat boy,” I grin.

“H-hello?” he asks nervously.

I barely hear a “hello, son.” I take the phone for a minute and turn on the speakerphone for him, forbidding privacy with his father. Then, I place the phone on his crumb-ridden chest.

“How are you doing?” his father asks, keeping himself as composed as possible.

“I’m doing okay, dad. How about you?” McAlister keeps up the charade.

“I’m fine. So, your mother told me you’re not coming home for the holidays?”

“We just have a lot going on right now. I think it’s best we wait for spring.”

“Mhm. So, is it because your busy or is there something else going on? You have a mobility scooter I see, huh?” His father has a habit of being blunt, dropping the main reason for the call, like his son’s morbid obesity is a casual topic of conversation.

I shove yet another brownie in front of McAlister’s face. He tries to resist the urge to gobble it, but I’ve trained him so well. He takes it with his mouth and tries to speak through bits of brownie “ifts nah ah permanan thing dah,” he attempts to tell Martin. For a moment, Martin hears his son struggling to breathe.

“The thing is, Micky, your mother and I are incredibly worried about your weight problem. Are you too afraid to come home? Can you even get in a car? Out of bed?” Martin asks. Everyone knows his father is lying. Sure, she’s a little worried, but Maria lets anyone live how they want and is a firm believer in autonomy.

“Stop worrying, dad. I’ll be fine. I’m exercising right now. That’s why I’m so out of breath,” McAlister lies to Martin.

“I’m serious. We want to help you get past this. I’m sure it's difficult to talk about it with anyone, especially with me, but there are solutions. Did you know after serving in the guard, I struggled with my weight too? I faced my food addiction like a man, and you can too.” That type of language makes me roll my eyes. McAlister stays silent.

“McAlister, son, we need to discuss getting you help.”

“There’s no need, Dad. My boyfriend helps me: getting me into the scooter, washing me, preparing delicious meals for me, increasing my confidence. What else could I possibly need?”

“Son, you’re using a scooter to get around. You can’t walk around freely anymore.”

“I mean, yeah, I use the scooter. Well, a lot less now. That picture was taken a few months ago. Still, what if this is how it’s meant to be? I have a good life. I don’t care so much anymore about being heavy,” I hear the nervousness in McAlister’s voice.

I can tell Martin is frustrated. He tries to tone down his temper, but he decides to confront the real culprit for his son’s morbid obesity: me.

“He’s put these awful ideas into your head. He is a psychopath. He doesn’t love you, or he’d help you lose weight. This is not who you are. Come back home. We can get you all the help you need: a personal trainer, a dietician, a physical therapist, a bariatric surgeon, whatever it may be. Leave him before he kills you.” The idea of searching for a surgeon prepared to operate on a young man as enormous as McAlister almost seemed comical.

“Stop, Dad,” McAlister sighs heavily.

“Give the phone to him,” Martin tells McAlister, causing him to hand the phone to me.

“Hi, Martin. I’m so glad you could call and talk to us,” I pretend to be pleasant.

“McAlister has had enough junk food,” Martin masks his anger with a calm voice.

“How do you know? Did he say that?”

“No, but I-“ Martin tries to argue, but I cut him off.

“Of course, he didn’t. I’ve been here the whole time.“

“Do you not see the problem? Just look at him on the card you sent us! He’s a whale! He’s practically furniture! He’s...he’s...” Martin shouts over the phone, no doubt getting red with anger.

“Hardly a person? Just a mound of fat, digging his grave with the spoon I push into his hand?” I can’t help but fuel his anger, but it’s true. McAlister is becoming less of a person. He’s losing his humanity to gluttony, and I love him for it. It’s me, and this pile of naked blubber in my bed with a compulsion to feed him, telling him to get bigger. I’ve done such a spectacular job over the years; there’s no way he’s running back to dear old mom and dad. They know it too.

“I give him whatever he wants. I give him whatever makes him feel good. He’s eating brownies and chugging down sodas. I’m not sure how his body handles all that sugar. I think I’d die, but it sounds like he wants more,” I say over the phone, dangling a huge brownie in front of McAlister’s face. McAlister makes helpless grabby hands, but his arms are too swaddled with fat to reach enough to take the brownie from my hands.

“You can’t keep giving a person with diabetes that much sugar! He’s going to keep eating as long as you keep feeding him, you sick fuck!” Martin shouts.

“Tell your dad you want the warm, gooey, decadent brownie,” I grin to McAlister, who has no more shame left, nothing left to lose but his life. I turn the phone back to speaker so Martin can hear his pathetic, lard ball of a son.

“Dad, don’t fight him anymore. I want him to give me the brownie,” McAlister whines like a true food addict.

“Now tell your real daddy how much you want it,” I grin deviously.

“Please, daddy. I need more food. I’ll do anything. I’m hungry. You can do whatever you want to me, just one more brownie, please.”

McAlister’s pleas are music to my ears, sending a shiver down my spine. “You’ve earned it. Eat up for daddy. Daddy won’t let you go hungry.” I have him eating from the palm of my hand, literally. I chuckle, shoving the double fudge concoction into his mouth. McAlister hurriedly swallows the brownie I’ve teased him with, almost choking from the greed. I know his biological dad can hear him struggling to breathe while eating.

“He’s practically bedridden! There is no going hungry at that size,” Martin shouts again.

“Watch your temper,” I tell Martin, turning speakerphone off and putting the phone back to my ear. “I’m just trying to make him happy, Martin. Don’t you want your son to be happy?”

“You’re feeding him to death! You’re making him fatter and fatter!” Martin dramatically and accurately accuses me. Will his son even be alive by the next time they can see him, or will his overworked heart give out? Will his last time seeing his son be on the news when they remove his body?

“I’m not this evil guy you think I am. I love your son so much, which is why I’m taking care of him. Anyone else would leave their partner to starve to death in bed or ship them off to a nursing home when the labor of taking care of an adult elephant gets to be too much. I’m a reasonable guy. If he wants to leave me to lose weight and come crawling back to you, I’ll accept it. Ask him what he wants. I won’t interfere. Just ask him,” I tell Martin. I turn the phone back on speaker for him to talk to his overgrown son.

“Son, please, I beg of you,” Martin cries out in one last plea before facing defeat. “You have a grave choice to make. He sabotaged you from the start of your relationship, but it’s not too late. You can choose happiness, healthiness, and life.” Hearing Martin so helpless after all these years really gets me going. Maybe I am evil. “The other choice is short term rewards, hedonism, and food. We taught you better than this, son. Make the right choice.”

“Happiness, healthiness, and life? What’s left for me? How is leaving the love of my life happiness? I'd be miserable. I’m making the right choice,” McAlister says with a high pitch voice.

“You’re going to be miserable stuck in that bed, taking a cocktail of meds to make it another day until modern medicine isn’t effective enough to keep you from circling the drain. I do understand, son. I told you I was obese.”

“Not this fat! I’m happy the way that I am.”

“You used to always want to lose weight! You used to exercise and attempt to eat right. You’ve given up...because of him!”

“Maybe I just learned that it’s not worth it when I can eat whatever I want whenever I want it without worrying. I’m sorry, dad. You know I love you and mom, but this feels so natural. I can lose weight if it really becomes an issue.”

“It is an issue! Why can’t you see that!?”

“That’s enough. He’s mine,” I interject with a laugh.

“This is not the end! I’ll find a way to save my son from you!” Martin shouts at me.

“I swear to god I’ll move your son to Nauru with the highest obesity rate in the world via chinook helicopter if you try me again, bitch.” I swear I hear his father starting to cry on the other end of the line. “Happy holidays, Martin. Oh, and can you get Maria to send those cookies that are basically nothing but sugar and butter? Big Mac could eat a truckload of them.”