Min-Ji’s Experiment 2 (Patreon)

Wow! Part 2 is here. I hope you all enjoy. I'm going to do a couple chapters next month to finish the tale off and provide some closure!

As always, I'd love to hear your feedback!

Tags: Hyper-blob, health issues, messy eating, mention of sex,

--- Seventh Dosage --- 

Hands are pushing into what used to be functional arms. They are now little more than hanging gardens of fat, too thick to even be compared to curtains. Another pair of hands push into my other side. Ashka and my mother push and shove at my body in an attempt to circulate my system. The process began when I was first immobilized and doctors realized I would need help. My quickly weakening heart could not transport blood around my body. I would be massaged fully multiple times a day. We’ve long passed that point though. I’m too big for only two women to cover. I need a team or a small army of nurses to even hope to cover my mass. As it stands now, my two helpers are fighting a losing battle until another strategy can be thought up. Taking care of me is a chess battle against inevitability. The peices and strategies fall away one by one, leaving only a stalemate. However, it’s not for me to be concerned with. I only have to care about making sure I grow. It is now the world’s problem to deal with me. I recline into a field of my own fat and enjoy the downward spiral. Of course, I do not do this silently. “Get. . .hoooossh. . .deeper.” I wheeze through my breathing mask.

“Of course dear!” My mother responses like the trooper she is. I am treated to a hug. She spreads her arms wide and is greeted with fat. Any given part of me could be used as a body pillow, rearranging to best be hugged and cuddled. The hug is over and my mother returns to working on trying to motivate blood through my arms. She stops only to try and assess what areas she has worked on. “I need a little road map to figure you out anymore, Minnie!” Her hands tap various spots on me as she tries to mentally recall the path that she was taken around my blubber.  My arms are little more than caves for my fingers to hide in. They, much like the rest of me, are trapped in a cozy, warm, sweaty prison. Prison is the wrong word. Retreat, garden, or preserve might suit better. Even now, so fat that I’m taking up half of my bedroom, I relish what I have become. 

 “Oooooh. . .Assscccchhkaa. . .lick. . .me.” I mumble, a sexually charged ghost-tremor coming from my buried pussy. Hunger is not the only need that I’m content to revel in. I lick my lips under my breath mask. I taste the sweetness of my own blood sugar enriched breath. I’m close to needing another dosage of insulin, anything to keep my levels from peaking. Under these conditions is when I get the horninest. My attachment to the world fades under the haze of a diabetic coma. “I could. . .ussche. . .scchooome. . .sugar.” I say, happier to receive physical intimacy or literally refined sugar.   

“You fat bitch.” Ashka’s annoyed voice comes back to me through vibrations in my bulk. My senses slowly hone in on her, the other parts of my wondrous body falling away. I can feel everything, always, but have become better at sorting through the noise of perpetual jiggling. With clarity, I can feel her pumping against me. She’s grown. A large gut pushes back against the merger of my breast and under arm roll. It’s the size of a rolled up carpet and has the consistency of jello. It will swamp Ashka in time, weakening her own blubbery mass. Though, her 300lbs has been putting up a valiant fight against it. I can tell she enjoys the struggle. “I’m supposed to keep you alive and make you cum now?” Ashka’s torrent of playful insults and abuse is as endless as my own gluttony and lust. She plays it off like she hates me, but I rarely have to ask her twice for special favors. “Just don’t have a heart attack.” Ashka says before smothering her face into what might have been my bicep at some point. The feeling of her mouth suckling my fat is as treasured as her warnings about heart failure. She’s so good at reminding me about the state I’m in. 

“OOOOSSSSCCCCHH. . .no. . .promisccheesscch.” I wheeze through the mask cutting into my face. I have enough cheek blubber to bury the mask. Elastic straps have become pointless, my own face folds will hold it in place. I suck another mouthful down, settling into yet another bout of sexual gratification. Ashka sucks and bites my curtains of fat, hands pinching and kneading. It’s chaotic and random, physical love without a roadmap to climax. A mouth made for soft kisses, but recently turned into an eating machine finds my most tender areas. Ashka reads my blubber like she would the motion of any lover. I’m not sure what she looks like anymore, it’s hard for her to scale my fat and she has more pressing jobs, but I know what she feels like. She’s heavy and tired. Her gyrations against my fat start strong, but slow quickly. She’s fighting her own weight. Ashka is becoming like me, a creature that needs to be fucked rather than do the fucking. However, for the time being, she is more than capable of working on me. 

“My goodness! You two are such lovebirds.” My mother claps her hands. She treats Ashka and I like we are holding hands at the beach, instead of sucking each other’s sweaty rolls. I can never figure out her indulgence of me. It’s ceased to bother me, as I realize I will never get the condemnation I sought so fiercely. I’m content to just live with a mother that will unconditionally love and support me, even to the razor’s edge of life. “Let me. . .get things. . .set up!” She drops the series of flabby inner tubes she was massaging and begins to scale my bulk. She moves through a tether of monitoring chords. Blood pressure, blood oxygen level, blood sugar, pulse, and hydration are all taken in and fed to a cadre of machines aligned at the back of the room. They are the chorus that hymns of my grandeur. Mother moves through them carefully, not wanting to unplug or dislodge the suction cups. I cannot see her, but I feel her moving against my seething mass. The car sized portion of fat that is my torso rises and falls with semi-tortured breaths. She stops about midway up and begins to search under my breasts.

“We really need to do a better job of keeping you neat and tidy.” I’m too enthralled with what Ashka is doing to respond. My roly-poly lover has found the deepest part of my underarm and is using her tongue to keep me clean. She was always lightly promiscuous, but I think my body has provided her the ability to push her own limits. Whatever flights of fancy she invents can be tested upon me. Her head nurses further in, licking and sucking at rolls without name. Two trembles run through my vastness. The first is centered in the deepest pits between my thighs. I feel the beginnings of sexual release building. Fat rubs against my pussy, stroking that which I can no longer hope to reach. The second is a pain in my left arm. I sense it just before the monitors go off. There is a sharp, stabbing pain that lances through fat and whatever shreds of muscle are left. I gasp, eyes widening and stirring from their half-lidded daze. My bedroom lights, my pussy, and the pain in my arm all synchronize. I gurgle and foam little calls for help. Ashka is too busy searching through my arm blubber for the most erogenous places. Luckily, my mother anticipated this. 

“This is what happens when you too get started without protection!” My mother offers timeless advice and timely assistance. She is partially under one of my breasts, now grown to the point it could fill two wheelbarrows. I can only see the hint of it from around my cheeks. The flabby peak shakes back and forth as she moves. I gasp and cough, further driven into the depths of a heart attack by the feeling of my sweaty breast sloshing about. Foam colors my plump lips, obscuring their crimson hue. My mother pulls out from under my breast slowly, fighting against the soggy mass. I’m really sweating now, my body discharging any weight it can to balance me out. At the same time, IVs begin to pump saline and other nutrients in to balance me out. In addition to the war of my heart against my fat, a second battle of hydration and dehydration begins. One will be solved. My mother slaps down the pads. A burning jolt is sent through me, shaking me awake. The sudden awareness makes me all the hornier. What might be a scream or a moan bursts from my clammy lips. “Good girl! Stay with us here!” My mother teases before starting to slide down my fat. 

“Did you really have a heart attack?” Ashka stops for a moment. I don’t know if she heard the paddles go off or if maybe the current of electricity reached her. “You’re such a wimp now. I BARELY started to fuck you.” I’m not sure how a person can roll their eyes with their entire body, but Ashka is well practiced at it. Her naked gut slaps against a pocket of fat larger than her entire body. She rubs it back and forth, grinding her own sweat and grease into mine. This is one of the few times that I wish I could see anything other than my blubber. The sight of her tan, degraded body rubbing against mine has to be spectacular. She’s on the same path as I am now. She will deny it,say that she only took one dosage of my synthesized poison. The truth is apparent. “Try to stay alive at least until I get off.” She says, returning to her play. Her mouth finds a deep pocket of fat and goes in. I’m left to contemplate the likelihood of another heart attack. I hope it comes soon. I’m accumulating heart incidents like paper cuts. 

“No worries there, sweetheart!” My mother pops back into the conversation. She has wiggled her tight, pert butt down my grease slop-trough body. I only guess her location in the room as the lights turn off. “I set your defibrillation machine to automatic! You little love bunnies can have all the fun in the world.” The door closes, but reopens shortly after. “Oh poo! Forgot to turn your medicine dispenser on!” Mother’s feet pad across the room, then a pump chugs to life. My serum starts to flow into my network of IVs, promising yet more growth in the future. Her task complete, my mother turns to leave. I hear her blowing several sets of kisses, wishing Ashka and I well. With my mother gone, the room is filled only with the sound of my wheezing and the sounds of fat slapping fat. The world quickly grows dark and humid. My corruption seethes outward in a way beyond the obvious wall of adipose. Still recovering from the heart attack, my pores have opened up and flood the room with sweat. Torrents rush down me, forming first trickles and then rushing streams. Some of it evaporates, sending a mist about the room. Under the cloak of this mist, Ashka pleasures me.  

--- Eighth Dosage --

“Well aren’t you just blowing up like a little balloon!” My mother addresses me like I’ve put on twenty pounds, instead of knocking down an entire wall of the house. I tilt my head to look up at her, though I move only a couple centimeters. My head is held stuck by neck rolls on one side and my smallest chin roll on another. I can see my mother’s feet sinking into my chest and her multicolored leggings, but her face is hidden from me. “I swear I just turn around and POOF! You’re even bigger.” Judging by the movements of her legs and knees, she was spreading her arms. It’s a pitiful gesture. Her arms could triple in length and not be enough to capture my immensity. Her downplaying of it is sweet and lewd in equal measure. She strokes my ego at every turn, making sure that it grows in tandem with my body. “What are we going to do with you, Minnie?” her hands find her slim hips. She’s always more animated talking to me. I know she does it to remind me of everything that I’ve lost. She can move and talk at the same time. I can barely do one of those things anymore. “Should I bill you for the wall? Or are you just going to beg for more food?” Soo Park wants her daughter to achieve all her goals, becoming a monster in every way possible. 

“Not. . .BBOOOOOORORRRRUUUP. . .gonna. . .OOOOOUSSSH. . .beg.” My voice is quiet, besides the bleches and wheezes of enriched oxygen, but the point is made. “Feed. . .BBBBBBBBBRRRRUUUUUP. . .me.” I speak as strongly as I can, but it still comes out like a pathetic wheeze. Yet, the intention behind it is picked up. 

“Oh! You are so grumpy these days.” My mother works at getting things ready for me. Suspended above my head is a crane containing a crate of food. She slowly brings it down, revealing the most recent in a string of what could only be called culinary mutations. “I made these fresh for you! My own invention” She claps as the crate touches down on a shoulder which could flatten a large motorcycle. In short order, my mother is trying to skip across my blubber and get on her tiptoes to reach inside. I try again to incline my head, wanting to grab even the barest shred of a guess as to what will feed me. I am met with resounding failure. My cheeks drag me down and my neck rolls accept my head back into the swampy mass. I try again and several of my heart monitors start to beep. I now have backups for backups of medical equipment. Flowcharts have been drawn up to help diagram the pathways to keeping me alive in the event of a crisis. In another month, they will probably have to update those plans. It all matters little to me. I think only as far ahead as the meal resting in my mother’s hands. “I call them sugar bombs!” 

She’s holding a melon layered in hardened chocolate and coated with powdered sugar. The orb fills her hands, obviously heavier than a normal melon would be. She lugs it like a cannonball, waddling with it swinging between her thighs. I feel the added weight by how much lower her feet sink into my fat. I begin to drool, eager to sample whatever she’s brought. It doesn’t even have to taste good, so long as it keeps me growing. Thanks to the abuse of my own serum, my gut has become a vortex of hunger. Min-Ji is powered by lust and gluttony, with only shreds left for her ego. Though, with the way our mother-daughter bondings have been going, ego might become a more motivating factor. “I know we talked about cutting your sugar intake, but I can’t say no to you.” She winks, dropping down onto her knees. With the chocolate covered melon between her thighs, she reaches forward to lift up my oxygen mask. I gasp as one of my lifelines is taken away. Almost instantly the room darkens a shade as my lungs struggle to fill. The press of industrial quantities of fat removes any trace of air from me. My cheeks have grown to pinch my nose. I breathe with my mouth open, tongue hanging out. “Shoot! Sorry Minnie!” Mother hops up, struggling a bit against my fat. “I forgot!” 

“Quiiissssh. . .whoooo. . .pleeeasschee. . .tired.” I whine. My face is changing color, though I can’t tell if it’s blue or red. I only know that I’m in a crisis. My mother, treats it like I’ve stubbed a toe. She trots around my face and atop my largest neck roll. Her tiny feet play with the flabby hump as her hands seek through a thicket of wires and tubes. Defibrillator paddles, IVs, feeding tubes, and all manner of other devices hang above me; ready to be pulled down in an instant. My mother hums to herself, patiently taking her time to find the right chord. I, meanwhile, gasp and wheeze. My body does not shudder much when I struggle to breathe. There are so many ambient undulations to my body that the rapid jiggles are drowned out. The same is true for my actual pants. I can hear the wall crumbling under the pressure of my butt more than my own attempts to stay alive. Those attempts grow more feeble as time passes. Seconds of time reduce me to near silence. A bit of saliva trickles out of my mouth. I hardly hear or feel my mother’s return. Her hands caress my face, working their way towards my nose.

“Come on, sleepy.” Her delicate thumbs push a nasal tube into my nose. She then slaps my cheeks. “You have food to eat!” The rhythmic taps on my face surprise me into breathing again. Cool and oxygen rich air floods in through my nose. I have to reteach myself how to breathe through my nose again, overly used to relying on the oxygen mask. My mother toys with my face as we wait for me to be healthy enough for food again. “You should have said something! I forget about your respiratory issues sometimes.” Minor allergies and acute asthma are on the same level as complete failures to her now. Her hands squeeze my face, toying with my puffy cheeks and drool covered chins. I’m sunken into my own fat so she has to reach down to get to me. I can tell color is returning to my face by the growth of her smile. The feeding is approaching. She’s nearly as excited as I am to get started. Afterall, she has a growing girl to take care of. 

--- Ninth Dosage ---

The house is starting to crumble around me. My fat seethes ever up and outward, testing the limits of every wall and foundation it comes across. A large, two story house has been reduced to little more than a shell containing my soft, white blubber. I’m a crustacean bursting out of its shell. The house creaks around me nervously. I sway with the breeze or maybe the movements of the earth, my butt now big enough to be dragged along to the whims of gravity. Shingles pop and scatter down the lumpy, misshapen remnants of the roof. I’m only treated to the vista thanks to my head popping out of a sun roof. My glorious neck fat is suppressed for the time being, though it waits below the cracking surface. There will come a tipping point where the roof’s integrity will fail, at which point my fat will resurface again and block my vision. I have maybe hours or days to enjoy the limited view of my childhood home being destroyed by my own immensity. Likewise, I enjoy watching my mother and the news reporter walking across the roof towards me. 

“There she iiiisssss!” My mother squeals, leading the reporter with an iron grip and excited footsteps. She skips across the warped shingles, her feet tapping on all the bubbles were my fat is billowing the most. “I’m so glad you could come out! My Minnie needs exposure, her work is far too valuable.” She turns back to give a big smile to the cameras, which have now started to hover around the top of the house. Cranes rise like ancient sauropods, camera crews on their heads. Cameras and lights point at me, warming me even further. Knowing that I’m being filmed, I take a deep breath and try to puff my cheeks out. I want to be as big as possible, to show the world just what has become of a scientist with a warped dream. My breath is not held for long. I exhale within several seconds, lungs begging for any scrap of oxygen. Multiple tons bear down on circulatory and respiratory systems exerted far past their limits. Even the added weight of my mother and the reporter is a painful strain. My breathing becomes more ragged and I gasp. “She’s already gasping! You all are in for such a treat today!” My mother gushes verbally whilst thick streams of drool come from my mouth. 

“I’m, ah, not really sure how we can film this.” The reporter says, nervously walking forward. She takes careful steps, tiptoeing around the rising bumps on the roof. My fat moves in almost tidal rhythms. One section of the house will move upwards and create new hills, whilst another will move down. The roof is a sea of convex and concave shapes, my bulk underpinning it all. No matter where the reporter steps, she’s only bare inches away from my nakedness. I can feel the little points of her heels just as much as I feel the thudding of my heart. “Mrs. Park, shouldn’t your daughter be taken to specialized care? She might die.” The reporter holds the mic limply. Hers is the first voice of concern that I have heard since my experiment began. Would that my eyes were not weighed down by eyebrow fat and that my cheeks were squishing my face, then I could roll my eyes. Her concern is so banal and short minded. This isn’t a matter of life or death, it’s a matter of progress. I’m taking the human body further than it has ever gone before. Enlarged heart, potentially collapsed lung, fingers that have been sucked into wells of fat. It was all worth it for this. Whatever comes next will be worth it. I’m the spirit of human ingenuity. 

“Come on, you’ve made it this far. Just stay for Minnie’s lunch.” My mother kneels down next to where my head is sprouting from the house. Fat is bunched and warping out of the makeshift hole. It’s like dough escaping from a tube. My rupture from the house is slow and glacial, though more signs are present every day. The boards around my neck curve upwards, bent and warped by the constant pressure. I grow like an oak tree, bending the frail creations of man along the way.  My mother’s kneeling sends a shiver through my body. I come close to orgasm with the pressure of the boards tickling my neck. I wheeze, even less able to breathe than before. She pats my face, teasing my oxygen mask a little. She has to remove it to feed me, but even that switch could be fatal. It will take a few seconds to make the switch, but in that time I will have not even a shred of oxygen. The pumps and pistons nestled within my fat that work to pump my body will be moving nothing. It’s a beautiful, horrible gamble. The best part is that the prize is just more of what will kill me: food. “She’s been so excited to show off her progress to someone!” Mother jiggles my cheeks, her hands lost in sweaty folds. A deep moan shakes the house.

The reporter looks back at her team and shrugs. She has little alternative. This is the kind of raw exploitation of human tragedy that will make or break a career. She receives timid nods and waves of agreement. The crew sense the same thing that she does. Their greed pushes through their sense of justice. The woman adjusts herself, framing herself against my mother and me. Her entire bearing changes as the cameras begin to set up. She turns off her concerned facade, allowing a broad smile to crawl across her face. No matter the tragedy, she will present it with a happy face. The crew begins a countdown. I’m readying myself as much as they are, preparing to show the world the true face of human progress and indulgence. The final numbers are counted down in silence. My irregular and erratic heartbeat manages to sync with the countdown for the final few numbers. The reporter nods and begins. “Hello, I’m Natasha Friez, and I’m here today to bring you a story about one woman’s experiment. Meet local scientist, Min-Ji.” The reporter walks over, each step making my heart thud louder. Below me medical sirens are sounding. “Min, could you tell us a little about your experiment?” 

The reporter is now mere inches away from me. She and the cameras are treated to every exquisite detail of my body. Sweat that pours from wells between every rolls, lips fat enough to fill my breath mask, and the ever present smell of sugar. At this point, I’m so diabetic that I’ve started to vent out excess insulin and sugar through my pores. She holds a wavering mic in front of my mouth, picking up the husky wheezes that are my breaths. I breathe for seconds unobstructed, having to work up the strength to do anything but try to keep my lungs moving. Next is lip smacking, my crimson and thick lips smack against each other as I try to remember what speaking feels like. The reporter’s smile is wavering, struggling between a false grin and very real disgust. She knows my academic pedigree, that I was a real and very brilliant researcher. However, all that spreads before her is a debased and lecherous pig. To her, I’ve wasted my talents on an experiment gone horribly wrong, one that has warped my psyche as well as those around me. I’d like to prove her correct. Opening my mouth, I respond to the question. “BBBBBLLUUURURRRRUUUPP. . .huuuugggh. . .uuuggh. . .HUUURRRLLLUUUUUPPP!”

I summon the belch from the most buried pits of my stomach. A wave of fruity smelling air is cannoned out of me, rocking the house which the two women stand on. The alarms of my sensors are going off, with every possible medication flowing into me from a thicket of tubes. The reporter stands, pats her skirt in an attempt to regain her composure. The roof crumbles a bit under her as she sits back down. My fat starts to appear between her feet. It’s like the crust of the Earth is breaking away to expose the core underneath. Unidentifiable blubber seeps upward, pushing the roof further towards collapse. She swallows, doubtlessly wondering if she will end up part of my heaving mass. There would be little guarantee of finding her if she dropped into my rolls. She would swim in an abyss of soft, sweaty folds. She glances down but then back at my face. This time the mic comes so close to my breath mask that it catches some of the condensation on the outside. “You were once an esteemed research fellow of the institute, can you tell us if your experiment has changed your relationship with your peers.” 

I chortle, an answer coming to mind. I struggle for several seconds, working the remaining muscles in my neck. I do little more than snuggle into one of the back rolls overtaking my head. “Uuuggh. . .yesscch. . .Ascchka. . .my. . .coworker. . .MMMLLLRRRUUP. . .” I can’t say how much of this is hammed up for the camera or symptoms of a serious diabetic coma coming. Confusion reigns in my head outside of the clarity that eating, sexual fulfillment, and heart attacks bring. “Scchhhee. . .took scchoome. . .now. . .fuuuscckssh. . .me.” I pause, worn thin by the effort those two sentences took. Sweat starts to roll off me. The part of the roof that had come dislodged between the reporter’s feet is now filling with perspiration. Puddles form across the roof, my fatness sending my bodily fluids upward. “Scchee. . .stealssscch. . .my. . .formula.” I finally speak again before slumping down. I seem to melt into myself, letting my mask sink into the bunched up neck rolls. The entire house delfates. Groans and creaks feel the air as my body decompresses. Oozing rolls knock out some of the final bits of walls left. I am both the only thing that holds the house together, as well as what will spell its ultimate end.

“She just means that one of her friends has become a tiny bit enamored with her project!” My mother pops into the conversation, cutting off any response from the reporter. “Ashka helps us out, makes sure Min is getting all the love and attention she needs.” A thin hand reaches under my mask to fondle and pet my face. “She would probably love to do an interview!” The hand retreats, but my mother’s presence within the interview does not. She speaks as she works, readying for the grand finale. “During one of their little romps in the hay, Ashka had an eccentric idea! She would take some of the formula!” My mother beams as she reaches into one of the pockets of my flab, her hand fishes around as she looks for the contents. She has created little stashes around my body, places where supplies can be stored. From within she pulled out my nasal plug. “I was hoping she could be here today for this, but I’m sure she’s off doing something important.” My mother turned to one of the cameras and pretended to eat. She quickly returned to me, switching my mask for the nasal plugs. It was time to be fed. 

“Any other questions?” My mother asked, hopping back up quickly. The house and I both groan as she moves. Tiles press into what might be a section of shoulder or maybe even breast fat. I’ve ceased to be able to differentiate my body. With it all packed into the house, I feel pressure across the whole of my body. “Minnie gets a little. . .involved in her meals these days!” My mother looks back down at me, sun framed behind her head like a corona of light. “It’s SUPER cute, she won’t stop until she’s had every last drop.” Mother talks with her hands and her hips, constantly shimmying and shaking both. She’s getting excited to the point of almost dancing on the roof. Somehow, her heels never stumble across the unevenness. The woman manages to float a couple inches above everything. “I’ll go get set up. You just chat with her in the meantime!” Mother doesn’t even wait for the reporter to respond. She hops and skips towards the end of the roof where the preselected food for this interview is. She moves like a deer, fleet footed and prancing. I can’t even remember how I used to walk, even the waddling from my later stages of the experiment are forgotten. I think only about my growth.

The reporter crouches down next to me. “Min-Ji, clearly your experiment has bred success!” The fake smile has come back, though there is an obvious nervous energy behind it. “In today’s world, so many women are afraid of getting into STEM, do you have any words of encouragement for them?” 

I’m freed of the mask so I know that the cameras are able to see every minute detail of my mouth. No longer hidden behind a haze of perspiration and condensation, my lips are revealed in their full and pouty glory. They are made even puffier by my cheeks, which press their bulk in all directions. The gobs of facial blubber are now bigger than most people’s heads, seemingly only loosely connected to my face. They jiggle and shake in the slight breeze. I test my mouth, sloppily opening and closing it. Talking is a surprisingly tender and delicate act. There are a myriad of nuance and specific forms that your lips take on in a short space of time to form even the most simple sounds. These are largely beyond me. My mouth “waddles” like my body used to. “Mhhgggm. . .HHEEELLLRRRUUUP. . .I scchaaaay. . .” I start to speak. The belches are part theatrical and part to warm my moth to movement again.

“. . .BBBLLEERRUUP!” I burp and then fall to panting. My tongue lolls out as obvious sexual thrill and fulfillment is written across my face. The expressive parts of my face are now hidden and obscured by blubber, but it is still possible to glean what I am feeling. Right now, I’m lusting over my answer. Lusting over the thought of what I want to impart on the world. “Geeht big. . .BBBBUURRUP. . .geeeht faaat. . .eeaatsccch until. . .you can’t. . .move.” I finish and slump down into myself, licking at fruity sweat rolling past my tongue. I dream of a world where women slurp my serum, each trying to outdo me. They never will, I am the god queen of hyper-obesity. STEM and science and higher learning were all just stepping stones to this. I care little for anything that is not food, fat, or something crushed beneath my mass. 

“Isn’t she. . .so funny!” My mother returns, lugging two 50 pound gunny sacks over her shoulder. My obesity has done more for her health than thrice weekly zumba classes ever have. She has managed to lose weight and tone her figure all through tending my slide into diabetic insanity. She drops one sack, the top splitting open. A puff of pure white crystals is sent into the air. Sugar. Raw, refined sugar is what I will be taking as my afternoon snack today. We have dropped the pretense around cooking and dietary considerations. The second sack is set down more carefully and she begins to pull it open. “Such an inspiration!” Mother pats and squeezes my face. “Listen to her, ladies!” Mother then stands up and lifts one of the sacks of sugar. “Just have a little fun with life!” She then starts to dump the sugar into my mouth. 

I’m caught off guard. From my vantage point I can see only up to the hips of either woman. At best, I watched the sack being hauled up and my mother shifting. It was only when the first downpour of sugar crystals hit me that I understood what was happening. My face was blanketed with the pile. The soft grains of sweetness and calories filtered their way between every roll, absorbing any droplet of sweat or drool they came across. I almost could not move under the pile. Surprise took sugar into my lungs, a problem to be sorted out later. I heaved and hacked and coughed, shaking and dispersing the pile more. Then I began to eat. My instinct to eat has become stronger than even my natural programming to breathe. My tongue lashed out, licking and slurping the pure grains of sugar in. I coughed and sputtered through it, my mouth coated uncomfortably by the sugar. However, I am nothing if not determined. The burst of energy from the sugar powered me, animating my tongue and lips. Large and cumbersome lips scooped sugar whilst my tongue drew it into my gullet. I grazed like a horse might. The pile began to shrink rapidly, a tunnel forming. 

“Is she alright?” I heard the reporter’s voice, though it was muffled. The concern only provoked me further. I would show her my condition, she could judge whether anything I did was “alright” or not. My tongue whirls about, moving in no discernable pattern. I take entire mouthfuls, filling even my bountiful cheeks with the bright grains, but there is always more. The calorically intense dune shifts, moving like a pile of sand. For every mouthful I take, it shifts down. Slowly, my humped back fat is revealed, then my hair, and then the beginnings of my cheeks. Fully ignorant of the heart monitors, I eat without pause. My face is gradually revealed. The reporter and cameras see a wild but exhausted looking woman, madly licking and suckling at any trial of sweet goodness she can find. Deep under the collapsing house, fingers that can barely move stretch out of some vestigial instinct. They are no longer tools for eating, though. Only man made instruments like funnels and tubes can aid me now. However, I do not need them. Mother will send the sugar straight to the goal. 

“Oh she’s fine! It's a little game we play.” She hikes the bag up over a shoulder, there is plenty of the meal to go. “Minnie always wants a challenge.” She winks and then starts to pour the sugar again. It comes out like a misty waterfall, falling in an unbroken line towards my open maw. Wind makes some of the sugar streak off into the distance, but most of it is given to me. I gulp what I can, unconcerned with what is pooling off to either side of my face. The sugar mixes with my spittle and saliva, forming lightly packed pebbles of sugar. Whenever there is a gap in the steam I try to chase these nuggets down. Many bounce down, smeared on my lower chins or lost in the cracks on the roof. The sugar enters my body one way or another, filling my aching stomach with the treats. “Now, Minnie is just a teensy bit diabetic, so we have to be careful!” Mother says, upending the remainder of the bag onto my face. “Some girls just can’t handle their sugar!” She laughs, fighting the urge to pose and hug me. Meanwhile, I feel the onset of an emergency building. 

The world spins and my brain is chugging to a halt. My already ponderous eyelids grow heavy and droop. Drool thickens about my lips, sweeter smelling than the sugar I’m ingesting. There is the sensation of swirling or listing back and forth, but I know that it is little more than a hallucination. My body cannot move with such speed anymore, especially not filling the house as it is. “Mooom. . .BBBBLLLUUURRRP. . .issccch. . .I’m. . .getting. . .scchleepy.” I moan, afraid that my meal might be cut short by a the forthcoming coma. All the same, I continue to eat. It’s not my job to solve my issues, it’s my job to eat. My flabby face is now caked with wet sugar, forming something of a crust. I try to lick at it, but cannot get the pieces to detach. The chitinous, delicious armor has been bonded to me. I moan, saddened that my meal is being interrupted from so many little annoyances. 

“No problem!” Mother is kneeling down beside me again. “You know those wonderful little machines are all working right now to keep you going!” She taps my nose, keeping my ailing and worried mind on track. Below me, I can feel the thrumming chug of various pumps. Gallons of expensive medical fluids are now being emptied into my system. Medicines to combat my diabetes, blood sugar reducers, and even stimulants to keep my mind awake and functioning. Mother smiles at me knowingly and then turns to the reporter. “See, one track mind! As if we would ever let a meal be interrupted by a little sugar attack!” Mother rolls her eyes and pats her forehead, playfully mocking me. She then starts to massage my face. Slowly the casing of sugar is broken apart. The pieces are pushed towards my lips. I sloppily devour them, not caring how much drool ends up on my face or mother’s hands. She then scoops and cleans my rolls out, looking for any other traces of missed sustenance. By the end, she is toying with my lips. Her small fingers are outmatched by them. I can tell she has to work to lift them. They might be the only part of me that’s able to be lifted by hand anymore. 

“Ok! Ready for bag number 2?” Mother asks. I try to speak or nod, but only a guttural groan of hunger comes out. I think I feel the reporter fainting. Mother ignores her. She takes a little vial from her pocket and holds it up to my lips.