Despite living a three hour car ride apart, the pandemic has put months between you. When the doorbell rang, it was the fastest you moved in weeks — not that you were able to speed around the house anymore. You were big, and with over a year of isolation and fast food: you've gotten much much bigger.
Your wardrobe is in the 15XLs, your queen-size bed just manages to contain you, doorways are your natural enemy, and you have to eat meals either squeezed into the loveseat or squashed around the kitchen table with two or more chairs for your butt to rest on.
Your family and friends watched as you eagerly ate your way to obesity, piling on the pounds as your already overweight body became laden with swathes and rolls of soft blubbery fat.
You waddle to the porch, your partner's figure already visible through the dimples of the frosted glass, their silhouette glancing through the pane in equal joy.
You struggle to reach across the slopes of your belly, spread further than your arms reach. You lean forward, rolls stack against each other as you plump fingertips fumble over the edge of the door handle.
Your soft digits finally press down against the latch and release the door, but being this size has even a simple task like opening a door riddled with problems.
With the door ajar you now must move your massive body to ensure it can open fully. Your belly rests against the wood as you shuffle back; still leaning forward, fighting to keep the door open against the force of your elephantine weight pressing up against it - urging it to close.
You whimper as finally the threshold opens, the heavy wooden door pushes against your fat as you manage to hinge the gate around your swollen circumference.
"Hey Skinny," they joke, smiling across the threshold. Your partner leans against the doorframe, their short stubby arm freely falls up against your belly and ruffles the light cotton shirt, pressing down against your soft paunch.
"You ought to be careful or pretty soon you're going to get fat," they tease further. Climbing the doorstep their frame presses right up against you, leaning over the mountain of lard their lips scale your body to find your red chubby cheeks. Their arms can barely wrap around your thigh, let alone your whole body - but still they try. Sliding their arms into your deepest rolls, the warmth of your body envelopes them.
You share a kiss, both of you heavily flustered already.
"How many tape measures do you think I'm gonna need to measure all this ?" They say, shaking your body. You look like a big bowl of jelly, every inch of your enormous body wobbling and jiggling to the rhythm of your partner's whim.
You have to express that you've already been standing up too long. The full weight of your body presses down on your feeble ankles. It grows too much to bear if you're on your feet for even a short amount of time.
"Aw, don't worry, hippo, go back to your muddy lair. I'll follow after you," they kiss your cheek again, the sweat and warmth sticky against their lips as you awkwardly wade around your own mass, turning to face the right way as you lumber towards your room.
The layout of the house had changed with your gains. Originally your family had hoped they could shame you away from this gluttonous path, but quickly found out that nothing was going to stop you gorge yourself into obesity.
Originally your room was on the first floor, the flight of stairs becoming a challenge as your body grew. But everyone knew that as you continued to spiral towards blobhood, soon enough you might become too heavy for the house. The stairs already creaked when you were three-hundred pounds, at six-hundred they were begging for mercy.
As your girth expanded further it became a serious worry; not only were you getting too big for doors, but it was a frequent talking point that you were getting to a weight where no one could be certain how long it would be before the stairs or floor collapsed under you - or they’d have to break down a wall and crane you out of your room.
Hiding your excitement at the idea, you reluctantly agreed to move to the ground level. In the first few months you were on display amid the open-plan of the downstairs, with no cordoned off room for you to sleep in, though your parents quickly became averse to the idea of having their half-tonne baby elephant on display every time they wanted guests over.
You moved into the lounge for a time while the back of the house was refurbished. A wall was set up between the kitchen and your soon-to-be bedroom, with the toilet door widened and some much-needed bariatric equipment purchased to help with your increasing encumbrance.
Your partner was there through it all. From the late-night snacking to the mid-day binging, they’d watch quite contently as you greedily sought to gain weight. Now, several years later, with a belly covered in stretch marks and an appetite that could drive buffets out of business, you were both happier than ever. You’d been beside them as they transitioned, and they’d been pressed up against you as you bulked up.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” they say, as you plop down on the bed, “And it’s not food, greedy guts!” They add as they take a small pinch of your supple abdomen, looking at your dejected expression.
They sit down on your heavy duty office chair, the seat wide enough to take two or three skinnier people, and begin to shuffle through their overnight bag. Your partner pulls out what looks at first like a blanket, but unfurling the fabric reveals a massive t-shirt. Heavily stained with barbeque sauce and covered in wrinkles, you recognise the tee as one you left up North last time you’d visited.
“I didn’t want to clean it because it smells like you,” they smile, “grease, sweat, sauce, and all,” hugging the shirt like a blankie, they nuzzle against it before tossing the shirt in your direction.
“Put it on, hippo. Let’s see just how fat you’ve gotten since we last got together, huh?”
You blush heavily, not able to meet their eyes as they size up your pudge. They lean forward, their elbows against their knees as they rest their chin against their knuckles. You look back and are instantly hit with a sly wink. Flustered, you stammer out about needing some help taking your shirt off. Only too happy to oblige, they set about lifting your shirt - your squishy midsection exposed for all the world to see. It’s no time at all before they’ve lifted your belly out of your pants, letting your colossal gut hang out. It covers your thighs like a heavy winter blanket, pinning your legs down while eagerly reaching towards the bedroom floor. They pat your stomach thricely, “Big baby,” they mumble, dreamily staring towards your cavernous belly button.
You struggle to get the shirt off, your big beefy biceps sagging down around your shoulders as your fat-laden forearms tug at the loose and excess fabric, trying to hoist the tent-like garment from your body. Your partner levies the additional fabric up and over your head, meeting you with their round beaming face.
“Hey, hippo,” they tease, kissing you gently, their body once again angled over the hillside of your tummy.
They love calling you “Hippo.” Of all the pet names they’ve given you over the course of your expansive journey, “Hippo,” had been the one they stuck with. It was cute; that you both agreed. Not as shameful as “Pig,” or as specific as “Cow;” it had the best ring to it. Even as you became a whale, “Hippo,” still stuck firmer than your gut in a restaurant booth.
It’s accurate as well. You certainly look like one with your wide, wide figure. Maybe your belly isn’t the roundest, or your ass isn’t the most curvaceous, but one thing is for sure: you are wide as ‘wide’ can be.
The tee grips your body, tilting your head several times over until the shirt sits across your shoulders - your arms being puppeteered by your partner as they stuff your doughy wings into the sleeves. It had that ‘worn’ quality to it, the fabric wasn’t moist and yet somehow it had retained the feeling of cool dampness. The smell is as described, following the history since its last wash: laundered with flowery detergent, dried on the washing line - looking like a ship’s sail caught in the wind - then it had been pulled tight over your obese body on a summer’s day over a year ago. How your sweat had soaked into the pits, the valleys of your rolls entrapping the fabric; how you both had lay on the grass in the park and grilled burgers on a throw-away barbeque - how the sauce ran down your chin and dribbled across this shirt.
The smell is as described: it smells like you.
A tight fit then, drawing it over your belly now proved to be more of a challenge than anticipated. Expecting some pudge to hang from below, or the shirt to tightly wrap around you and maybe split a seam; the fabric ran short before it reached your belly button. Your lower roll and underbelly spill out over your lap, as you glance at their face - biting their lip to the point where you’re certain if they bite any harder they’ll be drawing blood.
Quarantine has done a number on you and your waistline. You can see the anticipation on their face, looking forward to getting you on the scales and seeing just how greedy you’ve been.
“When did you last weigh yourself, hippo?” They ask, failing to hide their excitement.
You affirm their suspicion, “Not for a year now.”
“Wow, I’m amazed,” they say, grabbing the tyre of fat that the tight, stained tee fails to encompass, “Haven’t your family tried to put you on a diet lately, fatass?”
“You know they stopped trying a while ago…”
“Can I… can I weigh you now , then? I wanna see how much you’ve grown. I’m honestly surprised you can still walk - if you can call it that, porkie,” they lean in and kiss you again, their hands playing with your belly fat, tracing over your new stretch marks as their lips trace yours.
After some complaining and rearrangement of cellulite you manage to heave your big ass back onto your feet. The scales don’t have much use while they’re not with you. You haven’t been able to read them and are too interested in buying fast food than a set which reads the output aloud. Now with a second pair of eyes, the number was within sight.
You step onto the cool metal plate, feeling the dust around your chubby toes as your calves sag around your ankles - thighs sagging around your calves - and your belly sagging everywhere else. You hear a faint beep and your partner looks down. They gasp and crawl down onto the floor, lying still they exhale sharply. Unable to see them from atop your mountain of fat, you call down to ask them what was wrong. The next thing you feel is two clammy hands massage their way up from your underbelly til your partner is once again lying across your belly - their hands ravenously squeeze your love handles.
“Oh, you naughty, greedy butterball. You have been gluttonous, huh? What a whopper!” Their eyes sparkle, as they look at you - their iris’ wide as lips curl, continuing to squish and play with your abundance of flesh. Obviously you’ve gained weight given their supportive reaction, but the question is on your lips…
“How much?!” Your partner echoes enthusiastically, “I don’t know!”
You stammer a response, “You don’t know?”
“Hippo!” They jump at you without thinking, loudly yelling the pet name that surely carries through the house.
You feel their weight against yours and you stumble back as they sink into you. Your ass slaps against the bed thankfully, sliding down, you lie diagonally across the sheets as your partner giddily mounts your belly. Grinding their body against you as you begin to wobble like a waterbed.
“You broke the scale, baby!” They say between steamy lunges - making out with different parts of your body. “The weight limit was five-hundred kilograms; you weigh more than five-hundred kilos! That’s over eleven-hundred pounds!”
“You’re not going to fit in my car,” they whisper softly - breaking away from their ecstasy. “Good thing that I bought a van,” you hear as their lips push against your blushing cheek.
“Now, let’s get this hungry hippo something to eat…”