You lie in your bed, the soft hospital sheets barely stretching across your vast body. Every breath requires effort — the oxygen mask lightly pressing against your nose and mouth reminds you how precious each inhale is. Your arms, heavy and thick, rest alongside the deep folds of flesh cascading over your chest and stomach. You shift slightly, a slow, deliberate movement, feeling the gentle pull of skin rubbing against skin. The cool air brushes over your damp folds, where moisture collects despite your caregiver’s constant vigilance.

Your legs, enormous and swollen, seem like distant islands beneath the mountains of flesh above. Movement is a luxury you haven’t enjoyed for years.

Your body feels like an immovable mountain, every shift a monumental task. The weight of your own flesh pins you to the bed, pressing relentlessly against your skin, cutting off circulation in places you can’t even reach. The ache is constant — deep, burning soreness where nerves strain beneath layers of fat. You long to scratch an itch or stretch a cramped limb, but movement is slow, painful, and exhausting.

You sit propped up as best you can, eyes slowly tracing the vast landscape of your own body. Where do you even begin? Your belly—massive, round, and spilling over itself like soft hills of flesh—dominates your view. It stretches wide and deep, its surface dimpled and creased, skin taut in places, folding in others, an endless expanse of softness. You notice the stretch marks tracing pale scars like rivers across your skin, telling stories of growth and strain.

Your arms rest heavy at your sides, thick and padded, the softness spilling into multiple folds. Even your hands seem swallowed by flesh, fingers barely visible beneath plump, rounded palms. The skin here glistens faintly, warm and moist from the careful care you require.

Turning your gaze lower, your thighs press tightly against one another, their cellulite-dimpled surfaces merging in a continuous sea of flesh. The sheer circumference of them seems impossible, thick columns that wobble slightly even in stillness. Your hips and rear are equally vast, wide and cushioned, spreading beneath you like a plush throne that holds your immense weight.

Your breasts rest heavily atop your belly, their soft curves flattened and spread, nipples barely visible in the gentle folds. Your neck and face are softer now too, your chin melting into a plush double fold, cheeks round and flushed with a gentle warmth.

The pressure sores are a persistent torment, raw patches that sting whenever you try to adjust. Your muscles have weakened from disuse, trembling even at the smallest effort. Breathing grows harder when you lie flat; the heaviness on your chest suffocates with every breath. Still, you push on, battling the frustration of dependence, longing for even a moment’s relief.

You notice the crane in the corner, its mechanical arm silent but ever-present. It’s a constant reminder of how much your body depends on help—how every movement, every turn, requires that cold sling to lift you from the bed. You think about the awkward, slow rotations, the aching joints and raw skin that come with being shifted this way.

The crane isn’t just for moving you—it’s for the most intimate parts of your daily routine. Bathing, toileting—all done with this device, stripping away any shred of privacy or independence. The thought weighs on you, heavy and persistent, as real as the immobility that holds you captive.

There’s always a gnawing hunger inside you—deep, endless, never quite sated. It lingers beneath every thought, a constant pulse that drives you forward. No matter how much you eat, how full you feel, it never truly fades. The thought of being stuffed once more, of your belly swelling even bigger, floods your mind with a fierce longing. It’s a craving that’s part comfort, part obsession—an unbreakable hunger that defines you.