April Prompt: Min-Ji's Experiment (Part 1) (Patreon)

Tags: Health issues, mobility issues, extreme weight gain, immobility, sex

Breaking this prompt up into 2 parts just so the people that are currently subscribed can see it! Sorry I was a little slow on this one. The second part will see Min complete her journey, becoming the largest and unhealthiest woman in the world. I will try to have it done next month!

--- First Dose ---

I’m taking the serum now. My body is giddy and overflowing with excitement as I hold the test tube. Within is a small amount of liquid, hardly over a third of a cup. From a glance it is little more than water or saline solution. Yet it has the power to alter my body beyond recognition. Further, it will destroy any trace of the woman that came before. Min-Ji Park will cease to exist, replaced with another woman entirely. Even though it’s not very scientific to say, I will be changed in spirit as well as body. I slosh the liquid around in the tube, thinking about the prospect of radical change. Friends, family, and coworkers will see me change. In their eyes I will degrade, become something intensely strange and unknowable. My thin hands uncork the serum. There is a little rubber squeak and then the top has been opened. The liquid inside is free. Free to enter me, pollute my perfect body. I feel a thrill running through my body. I’m only a little ashamed to say I feel it most in my small breasts and pussy. With that thrill running through my body I tip the glass up and put it to my mouth. 

The serum is tasteless. It’s funny how benign mad science is.

--- Second Dose ---

“You really did it? Jeeze, you’re unbelievable.” Ashka says, holding her thin elbow with her hand. She’s tall and has sun kissed skin. I’m not entirely sure where she is from, but I know that it’s Arabic in origin. Her bangs are as flat as her tone, hanging just above her eyes. Her eyes are thickly outlined with makeup and an ankh pendant dangles between exposed breasts. It’s hard to believe she’s a researcher, but people used to say the same about me. Now, however, I look a lot more like one would expect. 

“Yes. . .are you upset?” I ask before shoving the burger into my mouth. It’s my third of the day. I’ve been eating non stop since I’ve awoken, which has been the case since I first took the serum a month ago. My figure bears all the hallmarks of a woman on a crash course with future health problems. A gut protrudes into my silk blouse and black pants. Magically, my pants never seem to stay buttoned anymore, nor do my shirts stay tucked in. My belly has become rather adept in undoing my clothing. It’s a rather cute trait, one that I plan on encouraging in the future. By the way that my breasts have been growing, the trick will be repeated on the buttons on the upper parts of my blouses. I started this wonderful, terrible journey as a 90 lb stick, but after a month I am already close to 180. I’m growing at a pace that far exceeds my expectation. Rather than fear or worry, this only provokes me further. I’m ready to drench myself in fat and the condemnation of those around me.

“Not really. It’s weird, but what else am I going to say?” Ashka, sighs and sits down at the table with me. She watches me shove the burger into my mouth. I open my mouth wide, trying to fit as much as I can in at a time. My meals could lightly be considered caloric downpours. I will eat until I can no longer fit anything into my stomach. There will be pain and pleasure from the stuffing. Most of all, however, there will be weight gain. The now chubby Korean woman sitting across from her Arabic model friend will grow. Growth is almost the wrong word for what my body does now. It is a little short of a mutation. Sometimes, late at night after I’ve forced myself through several tubs of ice cream, it feels as if my body is growing in real time. The way that Ashka looks at me makes me think that I might actually be fattening noticeably. What a wonderful fantasy. “I guess it’s always a little surprising to find out your coworker is kind of a freak bitch.” Ashka says in her flat tone, doused with vocal fry. She has an unusual way of showing care and interest, almost imperceptible to the naked eye.

“BBBBLLUUUURRRAAAAP!” I send a belch back and laugh after. She rolls her eyes and stands up. I can see the trace smile on her face as she leaves. I’m a little disappointed that she didn’t have anything truly judgemental to say. Instead, I have to create the feelings of shame in a different way: eating like a pig. I finish the burger in three gulps, my body heaving with each bite. Chubby arms tickle sensitive breasts as I eat with exaggerated bites. I can’t wait for the time when these little exaggerations will be the norm. Further, I can’t wait until even that norm is surpassed. The world will have to look on me and despair. People will condemn the sickness I’ve pumped through my veins and the state of modern pharmacology. I will have become a victim of science and the various neuroses of the modern age. To speed this all along, I move to the next course in my meal. A second vial of the serum. 

--- Third Dose ---

“Ooooooh, my baby is such a piggie!” My mother, Soo Park, crouches down to pinch at my cheeks. Her garishly painted nails are nearly lost as her fingers sink into my thick cheeks. I try my best to ignore her and continue shoveling food in at the family meal. However, she is a hard person to ignore. “I can’t believe this, you really did it!” She shifts around my corpulent form, to pinch, poke, and prod whatever fat she can get a hold of. Even without the constant barrage of physical contact, my mother is a hard woman to ignore. She has a penchant for big cat printed leggings and tube tops. Further, her hair fans out in a poofy but well maintained mass. She is one of that rare breed of women where the 80’s never truly ended. She is as much stuck in that decade as I am stuck in the two chairs. “Dear, dear! Just think how big she is going to get!” She calls to my father. 

“Always a top competitor!” My father folds down his newspaper to give me a thumbs up. My father is as lodged in time as my mother, still wearing a thick mustache and large glasses. His muscles strain at the shirt he is wearing. People have said that he is the Korean Mike Mentzer, though the comparison is lost on me. Though my parents immigrated at the same time, my father gives the impression of better acclimation. He lost much of his accent, while my mother has retained much of hers. “Minnie, you’ve always excelled at whatever you’ve put your mind to. I’m sure this will be no different.” He gives me a thumbs up and disappears back into his newspaper. My mother squeals, emboldened by my father’s approval. She hugs me, hands lost amongst 400 lbs worth of fat. 

Truth be told, I’m a little let down by their responses to my decisions. I’ve returned to them utterly changed. I eat and belch throughout the day, inventing meals and dishes to satisfy mounting cravings. I have wrapped every meal in bacon and then slathered it in syrup, yet my parents only glow with pride. My rotund body has broken at least one chair in my visit, yet that only earned me hugs and kisses. This was hardly the disapproval that I was hoping for. Thankfully, the weight gain has remained intense and exponential. I am a hog wrapped in the remnants of clothing. My butt is currently eating the leggings I forced around it. Every dimple and warped angle of my ass is visible when I stand. Now, as it blooms out across two chairs, my butt bubbles out of the top of my leggings. Pale buttcheeks envelop the backs of my chairs. With a loud grunt, hoping to elicit some sort of chastisement, I reach for the remaining part of my meal. Just as I reach it, my gut rips through the front of my leggings. A swinging sack of fat drains between my legs. 

  What I grab is a horrific abomination of food. It’s a dumpling with a core of fried chicken. It was deep fried and then wrapped in bacon and drenched in a spicy honey. Food like this shouldn’t exist. It has enough carbs and sugar to put a normal person into a diabetic coma. One could probably kill a small animal, and I’ve had four or five of them. I grab the dumpling with my bare hand. My fat fingers trade grease for honey with the dumpling. It floats back to me, a mortar of fat and bodily destruction. My heart thumps against my chest with excitement and physical strain. I’ve been weakening lately, I can feel it. This will only hasten the decline, ensure that I turn into a medical atrocity sooner rather than later. Yet, when I bite in, I taste heaven. I smash the dumpling into my mouth, eating with all the grace of a boar. I grunt and groan, rubbing my butt against the chairs that support it. Crumbs rain down upon my chest, falling upon the tight sweatshirt I’m wearing. I wish I were naked so the crumbs, hunks of meat, and drips of honey would stain my very flesh. I gorge until it is gone and I’m forced to lean against my chair. 

“Oooooh what a display!” My mother’s thick accent manages to cut through the blood sugar haze I’m in. She claps and bounces on her high heels. She clip-clops over to me, once again invading my personal bubble. Again I’m disappointed in her support for me. However, it is useful in some ways. “Time for the cherry on top!” She says ecstatically. Without question I open my mouth, though I’m seconds away from a forced nap. To my surprise, I find the little test tube I stored away in my purse against my lips. I drink, suckling on it like it’s a teat. “Goooooood. Gooood.” My mother strokes my hair as I take the next dosage. “Keep going, let’s see how big we can make you.” Her words are soft and I am soon lulled into sleep. Even through that rest, I can feel my stomach gurgling and churning. The deep, swampy noises only promise further growth to come. Eventually, I will grow big enough to earn the scorn of my parents. The world will hate what I become. A human blob, a medical abomination. 

--- Fourth Dosage ---

“Heeey, Big Booty Judy wobbling down the hall.” Ashka slides next to me. Her small hips tap my gigantic, wobbling mess of cellulite and dimples. “Surprised you can still make it in.” She says in a sardonic tone.

“Haaaa. . .UUURRRRRRPP. . .haaaa.” I say back, licking my lips. It’s hard for me to breathe, let alone speak. 700 lbs of well lubricated Korean woman lumbers down the hallways of the research institute. My hands clutch a cane. It is my only border between me being upright and my flabby mass spreading about the floor. I waddle down the hallway slowly, each heavy step precipitated by the thunk of my cane. Then come the uneven pounds of my heavy feet. All throughout the process there is the pitter pat of sweat droplets upon the floor. By all rights I should not be mobile. I’m too short and far too fat. My ass bubbles out behind me, a veritable wall of fat. There is enough weight on my butt alone to make another person. Buttcheeks that better resemble bags of loosely packed bird suet shuffle back and forth. There is no end to the hypnotic quakes they produce, those ripples cascading out and around my pillar like thighs and drooping

 calves. “Guh-laaad. . .to. . .be. . .huh-in. . .for now.” I wheeze, chest burning with the effort. I turn to look at Ashka, peering through tendrils of sweaty and disorderly hair. What hair is not waving in front of my face is plastered about my thick neck rolls. 

Ashka smiles, walking just a little bit faster to subtly tease me. I know it is done for my benefit. My life is a constant set of comparisons to healthier, more fit people. “Glad to have you in, Butter-Tits.” The tan woman’s smile and words are sharp as knives. My heart skips a beat, though I’m not sure if that is impending cardiac arrest. I like my lips, knowing some of the excess sweat and slobber will eventually trickle down onto my breasts. Butter-Tits. I’ve never heard such a lovely moniker. They are greasy and ill kept, dotted with food. I can no longer adequately clean or wash myself. I wear one of the few shirts that still pretends to fit me. My breasts take up most of the room with my bifurcated gut leaking out nakedly below. My heavy tits have forced a deep cleavage line into the shirt, warping and stretching the fabric to near uselessness. It is easy for Ashka’s thin hands to massage the sides. Her hands sink into the gigantic mammaries, somehow finding the most tender portions. A deep moan flies from my undulating chins as I am felt up.

“Jesus, you even talk like a cow now.” Ashka eyes stare at me from the deep wells of her black eye shadow. Her bangs shift as she studies my breasts with her eyes and hand. She seems to instinctively know where my most tender bits are. A shudder rolls through my sodden mass. Again I feel the irregular thumping of my heart. Excitement has now become as dangerous as food to me. Ashka continues groping me. “How are you even going to work? These will knock over anything on your desk.” She’s right, which makes the comment even more hot. My hand starts to raise, needing to force space between us. As much as I love Ashka’s patronizing and body shaming, my joints cannot handle being upright for so long. And, if the trist continues, I will never make it to my office. However, I cannot easily remove Ashka. My ponderous body moves so slowly now that she could caress my breasts and run around to slap my ass before I even raise an arm. The realization of how utterly useless I have become brings me close to climax. A shudder deeper than before rolls through me. I trip, my cane knocking against my fat foot.

“Haaaa. . .aaaah. . .loooog. . .ooouuuhhtt.” Speech is as tortured as movement for me. My lungs are heavy and my lips clumsy. I teeter and wheel in different directions, bending to the whims of my fat. The horrors of gravity are at play upon my body, always wanting to drag me down. I shall eventually be forced to submit permanently, though that is not today. I have Ashka with me.

The wall of the hallway is soon plastered with sweaty fat. I am pinned, with Ashka pushing her hands into my chest. Her head is tilted, causing her thick bangs to tilt to one side. I breathe rapidly, sucking air into tired lungs. My mouth is open, plump lips folding outward stupidly. Runners have finished marathons in better condition than my short trip down the hallway. My vision is blurry. Lack of oxygen combined with sweat dripping into my eyes turns the world into a haze. I gather more through my other senses. My cane is pinned under a buttcheek. It pokes upwards, bending but unbroken. Ashka is rummaging around my folds again. This time, however, she is searching for something. She finds it pressed between two gut rolls. Her hand retracts, bringing with it the prize as well as sweat and grease. Through the haze of my vision I see another tube of serum coming towards me. More than accepting it, I make oral love to the tube as it comes between my fat lips. I suckle and lick its contents down, knowing it will only hasten my collapse. 

“Let’s make you huge.” Ashka says, her words and body lodge within my fat. 

--- Fifth Dose ---

I’m in the supermarket, my hands clasped around a walker. It’s truly the last vestiges of my mobility now. My hands are white from how tightly they have to clasp the handles of the machine. The wheels grind as much as they roll, their delicate mechanisms unable to keep up with my monstrous weight. My body is a testament to the limits of medical advancement. An oxygen tank is in seat of the walker. The patrons of the supermarket are spared the clanking and rattling of the tank thanks to my gut. It has grown so large and floppy that it fills the seat of the walker, pinning the oxygen tank to the supports. Tubing and a mask wind their way up from the light green metal. The mask is buried deep in my face, snugged against the avalanche that is my face. Hot breath stains in the inside of the mask, dotting it with specks of condensation steam. I’m panting, my body lowering with every step. Yet, I’m happy. Today I will finally earn the condemnation I so eagerly seek. 

“Minnie!” My mother cries over the noise of the crowded grocery as well as my own pants. She trots over, kicking up her heels playfully. I wince as I see how happy she is. In spite of my ragged condition she still loves me. Not only that, she adores me. Her poofy hair bounces as much as her breasts as she runs. Her arms are crooked upwards and holding tubs of ice cream. “They have aaaaaalll your favorite flavors!” She exclaims. My mother was once crowned “The Queen of Loud Talking” by her classmates and she retains the title. A loud voice, thick accent, and obnoxious clothes go a long way towards attracting unwanted attention. The entire grocery isle is staring at us. Well, to my dismay, they are staring at her. I’m little more than a boulder obscuring the obnoxious woman disturbing other people’s shopping. To add further insult to injury, my mother is entirely oblivious to the attention she has garnered. She continues babbling as she stacks the ice cream tubs in my walker’s cart. How frustrating. 

“This will be quite the ice cream picnic!” She sidles up beside me and grabs my arm. My arm is now bigger than a well muscled man’s leg. The only definition comes from how puffy my fat is. It all burst outward, seeking to dominate any open air. My mother squishes in, unafraid of my sloppy bulk. Her curves pale in comparison to my own. Now approaching 900 lbs, she is obscured by even one of my buttcheeks. She hugs my arm, clutching closer with each tortured step. I can’t support my own weight, her added pounds increase the challenge tenfold. The walker shakes in my hands, fat fingers hardly able to maintain their hold. “You’ve been growing soooooo much lately. Be honest, sweetie, these aren’t going to even last the car ride home!” The praises are practically shouted. Yet, I squirm. She shouldn’t be praising what I’m turning into. I’m a ball of unhealthy, diabetic fat. How could anyone even see me as a person? Much less a woman accomplishing something. She tickles one side and part of my back rolls, unable to spread her arms wide enough to reach across my blubber. “My BIIIIIIIIIIIG girl! Aaaah, you have to be proud of what you are doing! The fattest woman in all of history!” She gloats, shooting a glance at plump woman passing us. 

“Mother. . .uuuugggh. . .hooooo. . .aaaah. . .” I try to speak, but end up only choking on the oxygen pumping into my mouth from the mask. My lungs almost don’t know how to handle the rich purity entering them. “Pleeeasssccch. . .aaaahhhuuu. . .no. . .” I’m trying to summon the words, even in that I fail. I want to tell her no compliments, that she cannot be proud of me. Instead, I only sound bashful and shy. She hugs me tighter and I hang my head. My actual chin has long been buried in a swamp of facial fat. Four chins dangle about my face, spilling down to the place where tiny breasts once rested. 

“You are too modest!” My mother gives me praise I’m not looking for. She massages folds, obscured by the tent-like dress I’m snugged into. Even though it could be use as a boat sail, My body stretches it to its limits. Pooling sweat stains dribble down, showing just where I leak the most grease. Mother catches my fat in her small hands, losing them within a cavernous roll. “Why did you wear this? We only get to see some of you. We want to see it AAAAALLLL!” She continues to lather on praise, tugging at my dress. I’m growing lightheaded from thinking about her suggestion. My body, exposed naked to the world. Me, showing off my naked corruption. Pains hit my heart and I lurch. Any change in my blood pressure has become a danger. Heart pains or fainting spells, there is no inbetween. I weaken and slump over. My joints pop on the way down. My mother lets me drop. It’s not callousness, she lacks the necessary strength to keep me up. It would be like trying to keep a motorcycle from falling. I slump over, my ass hitting the row of food next to me. I’m soon showered in chips. 

My face burns from embarrassment. I’m making a scene in the market. Surely, someone now will judge me. Popped and crushed bags are mashed under my buttcheeks. Other bags rain down on me. The metal ledge I sit on is bent beyond repair. I take surprised breaths, unable to fill my lungs enough. The oxygen mask has been wrenched away from me in the fall and I’m forced to take in normal air. Oddly, I notice the rolling tub of ice cream more than anything else. It has come to my arm. I feel its cooling presence and sense the sugar within. It calls to me. No matter my surroundings, no matter how damaged I am, I long for food. I move with glacial slowness to grab the tub. My fingers are fat enough they lack much of their articulation. It is a struggle for me to grasp the handle. Weakened, bloated arms strain to reach the ice cream tub. My dress is ripped in several places and only grows more so as I struggle for the ice cream. I want to make the scene worse. A horribly fat woman rolling about in her own blubber as she gorges on more poison. I will show them what rampant gluttony does to youth and beauty, how it decays a soul. Maybe this time my mother will join the crowd and condemn what I am. My fingers pop the plastic top off. Soon I am reveling in the sugary delight. 

My face is soon smeared with blue. Sugar pumps first into my stomach and then into my bloodstream. My already catastrophically high blood sugar levels careen further out of control. The world is wobbly and unfocused. I’m only able to eat because of constant practice. I could probably eat through a heart attack at this point, assuming I haven’t already done so. I hear people gathering around me, murmuring. They look down upon a 24 year old woman who is addicted to her vices to the point of self-sabotage. “Mggghmmpggh! Moooorre!” I moan between sloppy bites and smacks of my lips. My hands are stained with the ice cream whilst my chins run with streams of uneaten sugar. “Mggghhhgg. . .sssscchhhlluurrrup. . .BBBOOORRUUUP.” I resort to animalistic gorging, dropping into the lowest state possible. The murmurs continue. My heart squeezes with anticipation. There has to be something coming. Hate and disdain will be heaped upon me. 

“Shouldn’t she be paid for such a good endorsement!” The queen of loud talking, my mother, burst into the scene. The crowd laughs, but not at me. Rather, they are swept into my mother’s natural, bizarre charisma. “You all better not sneak off to buy more, my daughter needs all she can get.” More laughs. Worse, I hear genuine praise and understanding. People leave, entertained enough to pick up their own ice cream. I continue eating, hoping that I can attract something. The only thing I get is my mother kneeling down and putting a hand on my puffy shoulder. “Giving us all a little treat today? I LOVE watching you eat.” She manages to pinch my cheek before I bury it in the ice cream tub. I suck the ice cream down, eating ever more frantically and mesily. I slobber the food down my face, more of it landing on my chins and breasts than into my gullet. As one might imagine, I get only more rewards. The only consolation is that it’s a reward I genuinely want. “Here, sweetie, time for your medicine!” My mother pokes another dose of the serum into my mouth. I take it.

--- Sixth dosage ---

I spread across several bariatric beds, my bulk undulating wildly. A mask with two oxygen hoses feeds air to me, but even that isn’t enough to support my mass. My vision includes the mask, my moon face, my breasts, and the far side of my room. I’ve had to move back in with my family, unable to support myself in any capacity. My bedroom has been partially converted into something resembling a hospital. Clean, sterile walls and floors house medical equipment. Tubing from ivs and sensors doctorate my pale bulk. Monitors behind me beep out cautious warnings. They are for my nurses and doctors to care about though. I face away from the medical instruments. Instead, I see the dark corners of my room; the place where it still bears vestiges of the life I used to live. Within those shadows wriggles a nubile body. She is stepping out of her clothes, joining me in nocturnal nakedness. For the first time in months, Ashka has come to visit me.

She strolls out of the darkness, looking more like a goddess than ever before. Her breasts are pierced and her ankh symbol dangles on a chain between them. Her skin is tanned and luscious. I can see every detail of her body, that is, until my own bulk starts to obscure it. After three steps her lower body is hidden behind the horizon of my gut. I can see her sardonic, gloating eyes though. Her tone is always flat and dry, but her eyes hold her real feelings. “Pig.” She says. I can see that she has recently gotten her tongue pierced. I long to feel that little ball running across my nipples. My heart monitors start to beep louder as the erotic tension builds. I’m not healthy enough for small walks, there is little chance I can handle any sexual encounter. Yet, Ashka has designs that I will not put aside. She is soon at my side, melting out of the darkness to be illuminated by the light of the health monitors. “Been missing you at work. I want to see that fat ass of yours struggling down the hallway.” She flicks one of my nipples. “Or one of these breaking a desk.”

“I. . .whoooosssh. . .can’t. . .oooosschhh. . .walk.” I heave, sucking as much air into my lungs between words. I will need all that I can get. “Sccchtuuuck. . .here.” I raise my arms a little. They are only able to come off of my body by inches. The slap back down, splattering sweat in all directions. I’m wiped down multiple times a day, but it does little good. 

“No shit.” Ashka rolls her eyes. “You’re like. . .the opposite of invisible, you know.” She trails a hand down the length of my corpulence. Her fingers never linger in one place more than a second, testing to find my most sensitive spots. I have some to suggest, but cannot waste the words. Everything takes energy now and talking is usually a waste. What a shame.” Ashka puffs her cheeks out in frustration. “Now I have to come to you. Such a pain.” I smile, proud to be an inconvenience. The smile only grows wider as Ashka starts to mount my gut. The beds underneath me rock and scream. My gut alone is wider than a bull’s torso. Spreads her legs, my fat taking all the space between. I feel another pang in my heart, a stabbing knife of cholesterol induced torture. At the same time, my legs flood with wetness. I’m as excited for the impending heart attack as I am the sex. Part of me wonders if Ashka has a similar debate in her mind. She is slipping her pussy below my gut, trying to push the glacier of fat upwards. Every last fold of mine has turned into a folded carpet. 

“Get in. . .ooouussscch. . .deep.” I say before suckling more lifegiving air into my lungs. My breasts are nearly person sized at this point. They lay atop my gut, squeezing the life out of me. I cannot lay flat, lest my own body strangle me. Even with my back angle a quarter of the way up, talking is hardly possible. It is, however, optimal for fucking. “Make. . .me. . .OOOUUUSSH. . .huuuuggggaah. . .cum.” 

“Pff, virgin.” Ashka spits back at me before starting to gyrate. Her pussy rubs against nameless folds of mine, sending tremors to my buried sex. Waves of pleasure and fat crash against me as she starts to grind. She is covered by my stomach flaps and further hidden by my breasts. She struggles her way further under my gut, exposed to the gathered sweat and grease. Her mouth plants kisses on my belly. I can feel her tongue and nipple piercings caressing different parts of my body at the same time. I’m too shocked to even moan. I gasp, hands clenching in a desperate attempt to keep me connected to the mortal world. Ashka keeps going. If she is struggling or unsure of what she is doing, I cannot tell. I can hear her talking only barely. I’m blessed with her unique praises. “God, I really will fuck anything.” Tiredness is entering her voice after a few pumps of her hips, though it compares little to my own. 

Sweat is now running down my face. My breaths become shorter and shorter. I mewl and whimper my compliments to Ashka as she gyrates harder and harder. Her tiny body squirms under my immense bulk. She is a diamond hidden under a pile of human garbage. Monitors behind us provide the music of cardiac endangerment. My blood pressure creeps up, my heart rate soars, and my blood oxygen level drops. My neck has long disappeared into a series of humped rolls, into which my head relaxes. I am my own pillow, blankets, and mattress. For all the work I can provide, Ashka might as well have fucked the sofa at her house. Though, doubtless, it is smaller than I am. It would have been sturdier too. With each move of Ashka’s hips, I crumple more. There is a growing pain in my arm, spreading fire to my chest. Sex is beyond me. Anything that is not eating is beyond me. I’m quite literally being fucked into an early grave. 

“Come on, you fat, fat. . .pig!” Ashka’s voice is commanding, it’s strength alone working to forestall the impending disaster. “It’s too. . .ooooh. . .early to have a. . .heart attack!” She berates me. My pussy gushes at the thought of what is happening. All this work and sacrifice just to bring me sexual satisfaction. Ashka only had to feed me if she wanted to see me orgasm. However, this is much more entertaining. I only hope I can stay conscious through it. My stomach is now sliding back and forth, churning my thighs as well. My pussy is thoroughly massaged by my own fat, egged on towards climax. Ashka puts two fingers in my belly button, or the cavernous roll she thinks is my belly button. She plunges them in and out, fingering my fat. I want to praise her, but my throat is closing. My lungs are burning and my arm is riddled with unbearable pain. Whatever encouragement she was able to give earlier, Ashka cannot totally forestall my impending cardiac arrest. She can, however, make herself cum. 

With a loud scream, the two of us reach orgasm together. Ashka’s is louder, but mine is more real. I’m not in the throes of a true heart attack. My chest has ceased to function and my lungs no longer provide air. I’m sinking into unconsciousness as much as my own succulent fat. Ashka has begun to notice, but is till gyrating and fingering my bellybutton. She wants to let me linger on the brink. My orgasm came quickly, but this will be dealt with slowly. The Arabic woman treats my heart attack with the same casual annoyance that a bount of indigestion would be treated with. She rolls her eyes, sliding her wet and shaking body out from under mine. She comes out from between my thighs wet and glistening, as if born anew. She was accustomed to certain acts of rebellion, but not my particular brand. The mingling of danger, obesity, and lurid sex breeding something wholly new within us both. However, only Ashka has the ability to react to it. I, instead, am feeling my lack of heartbeat. Waves of pain now trade off and on with waves of pleasure. 

Ashka fumbles off of me and onto the floor. She moves slowly, her usual confidence and grace taken by whatever new thoughts she is having. The woman studies my fat anew, eyes still sharp. She licks her way across my side, acquainting my blubber with her newest piercing. I wish my heart was beating just so this new feeling could arrest its rhythms again. She finds and fumbles the defibrillator paddles. It takes another try before the lustful woman is able to turn them on and calibrate their charge. The electricity builds quickly, ready to save my useless ass. “Kiss for good luck?” Ashka manages a little joke. She taps the paddles to my oxygen mask. I would have kissed back, except I was almost unconscious. Suddenly, the charged metal is plunged down between my gigantic breasts. I am brought screaming back to reality. My heart pumps. Drugs are immediately administered to further sedate its rhythms. Ashka dances on her feet, horny beyond measure. The defibrillator paddles are tossed away. I cannot turn my head, but I hear Ashka rummaging around in one of the medical stands near my bed. I, meanwhile, try to summon any energy at all. I’m truly held prisoner as she mounts me again. 

Ignoring my heart attack, my dusky lover lays on my chest. She is sandwiched between breasts bigger than she is. Amber eyes shine and look into my hazy almond irises. “Finally you decide to be a little fun.” Ashka’s voice is uncharacteristically exuberant. One hand grasps what she can reach of my breast whilst the other sloshes a liquid. I need little explanation of what it is. The serum, my guiding ethos, is in her hand. I prepare to have my mask removed so that I can sup on it once more. My body is weak and needs the cursed medicine. Drool comes from my lips as I work at the mask. She uncorks the vial, once again freeing the liquid to run. I cannot move my arms, thus I trust Ashka to remove the mask. However, instead, she downs the serum. I whimper, watching it slide down into her throat. She grins at me. “Not this time, Butter-Tits.”