An Hour of Daydream




Floorboards moan under her weight.  A button did not exist that was not unfastened by her belly.  No brassiere resting in her armoire is fully intact.  Her thighs demolish through jeans as a wrecking ball through a condemned tenement.  Panties snap at her hips, rip at her crotch, and tear at her backside.

These statements all sum up to one immutable fact: she is fat.

And getting fatter.

Breakfasts, brunches, lunches, dinners, suppers, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh helpings – these are the means to her end, day in and day out.  With reckless relish, she eats her weight in sugary treats and savory snacks.  She fills herself beyond capacity, eating and eating until her tortured stomach is bloated to bursting, then, like a balloon slowly leaking away pressure, she digests and lets the empty calories fill her; her arms grow plumper, her breasts heavier, her hips wider, her belly softer, her ass rounder.

The more she eats, the more she craves, the larger she grows, the more she eats, the more she craves, the larger she grows, the more she eats, the more she craves, the larger she grows, the more she eats, the more she craves, the larger she grows, the more she eats, the more she craves, the larger she grows.

The fear of the last bite being literal, the culled morsel ushering off the mortal coil, the ultimate swallow being her ultimate oblivion, never entered her mind.  She was the wide and wild ocean and knew not of dread, only hunger and fulfillment, taste and smell, pressure and release.

She not only is fat, she is fat: personified.

She is a gluttonette hell-bent on world domination through sheer mass; a gorging giantess stuffing, cramming, swirling, tasting, licking, sucking, slurping, snarfing, swelling, blimping, bulging, expanding, inflating, and exploding.

As a consciousness beyond the conventions and trappings of reality, she became reality.  The world no longer fit her, for it fit into her.

Without form, she was beyond gravity, beyond science, and beyond calculation.  She was the mistress of all, drinking the exoticness of starlight and imagining the cosmos to exist.

And so went an hour of daydream.  Her work was through and it was time to go home; time for her to fasten the buttons of her jacket, and pull the knit hat over her raven hair.  It was time for her to wobble to her car and wedge herself behind the wheel.  It was time for her to kick off her shoes, unzip her jeans, and curl up on the couch.  It was time for her to, as best as she could, make fantasy a reality, one bite at a time.