You had never quite figured out how to deny Tara of anything. You had tried, genuinely tried, to teach her to be independent. But she was used to a certain level of comfort, and it turned out to be more effort than it was worth to change that. She had managed to do without her designer clothes, expensive vacations, and weekly salon trips, but she needed to replace them with something. And that something was food, and copious amounts. Without the budget to give her the high class wining and dining experience, she had sated herself with piles of fast food, all-you-can-eat buffets, and anything she could find that was laden with sugar. She grew from thicc, to fat, then obese very rapidly. Every time she outgrew an article of clothing she swore to you that she was going to start cutting back, and then went right on to eat a gallon of rocky road.
As Tara got heavier, she got lazier, too. Even the paltry level of household maintenance that she had managed to get her head around when she first moved out dwindled away to nothing as her body became more and more cumbersome to move around. You could[ have told her to do it herself, put your foot down about her spending her free time beached on the couch. But you had absolutely no resistance to Tara’s charms. She had always looked cute when she pouted, and as her face grew rounder and softer, it caused your heart to melt. That, too, lead to even more pounds being added to your wife’s frame. You happily toiled away to make her life as easy as possible, as her belly continued it’s quest to completely cover her thighs.
A year ago, Tara had been reassigned to work from home, following several incidents involving broken chairs and narrow doorways. She had come home that day in tears, flopping onto your groaning couch as she buried her shame in a pair of cakes that you were planning on saving for your two-year anniversary. She had gorged herself until the buttons burst from her blouse, and then gone some more.
There were more than two cakes needed for your anniversary. As you watched her bloated form come towards you, a time when a mere gallon of ice cream would satisfy her was a distant memory. She was well and truly a blimp of a woman, hundreds of pounds of fat that needed a scooter to move around. Her triple-rolled gut hung past her knees, pushing tightly against her dress, and very nearly touching the handlebars. It wobbled as the wheels passed over bumps in the tarmac, not a hint of firmness to it’s gelatinous mass. Her asscheeks hung off of the sides of the seat, twice the width of her meaty shoulders. Her breasts, always big, had swollen into a pair of sagging beachballs, arresting on top of her belly, kept from hanging to the sides by the tightness of her dress. Truly, you had never seen a woman look as fat and spoiled as Tara.
The scooter had come several months ago, just after she broke the big seven hundred. On her arduous journey from the couch to her workstation, she had tripped on a takeout box that you had forgotten to collect after her morning binge, and hurt her ankle. One teary phone call to daddy, and three days laid on your bed glutting herself and sniffling, and she was mobile again. She had sworn it was a temporary thing when she first sat in it, just whilst her ankle healed. Her ass had fit within the confines of the seat then. And the reading on the scale hadn’t started with an eight. As she pulled up alongside you, you could see the tears in the side of her dress where it had been overwhelmed by it’s task. Soft, pale flab bulged out, a testament to Tara’s decadence. In the basket at the front was a bucket of fried chicken, which she was just finishing off with her free hand. A little grease dotted her cheeks and second chin, which you gently wiped away for her. She was sweating, despite being mostly stationary, the harsh sunlight taking it’s toll on her.
“You excited, hun?” You asked, fishing out a bottle of soda for her to chug. One of your bags was packed with snacks and sugary drinks, in order to keep Tara from spending too long with an empty stomach.
“I sure am! I’m sure you’re gonna love Mama and Daddy! And Charlie, too!” She chugged happily, and you took the hint. She had pointedly left out the name of her sister, Nancy. And, honestly, unless she had changed since your phone call with her just before the wedding, you couldn’t blame her. You were however looking forward to meeting her parents and brother for the first time, given how Tara gushed about them. And, of course, you had to thank them for financing a lot of your courtship with their daughter. Not to mention the strings her father had pulled in order to get his precious whale onto a plane.
You chattered idly for a few minutes, whilst Tara finished her “snack”, just in time for a black minivan to pull up in front of you. You breathed a sigh of relief as you saw that it had a tailgate fitted, designed for lifting wheelchairs into the vehicle. You shouldn’t have been surprised, the same man who organised this ride was the one who purchased the scooter with it’s nine hundred pound rating. The driver’s door opened, and out came a familiar, though significantly rounder, face. Roberta looked to have put on about two hundred pounds since she showed up at your door, most of it settling in a pair of wide hips, which strained at the seat of her tracksuit. She waddled towards you, her belly wobbling under the inadequate tank top, and curtseyed slightly to the blonde blimp. “Miss Tara. I’m glad to see you’re doing well. If you’d like to - *UMPF!*” She was cut off by Tara rolled up to her and wrapping a meaty arm around her shoulder, pulling her into her overinflated bosom. Luckily for Roberta, she didn’t have the energy to hold for long, quickly releasing the young maid. Roberta blushed a little as she straightened up. “Please, Miss Tara, I’m trying to stay professional.”
“I saw. But don’t you forget that we went to school together, so I can hug you whenever I damn well please.” Tara giggled to herself. “Good to see you, Roberta. How’s your mom?”
“She’s well, but you know she had to retire from full time duties. Hip and all.” She turned to look at you. “I see you’ve been treating Miss Tara well, Mister. Maybe I’ve got some competition as a maid.” You didn’t quite think that was a compliment, judging by the glint in her eyes. But you weren’t here to start trouble, so you began loading the bags into the car, whilst Roberta busied herself with Tara.
You hadn’t been on the road ten minutes before Tara asked |Roberta to pull through the Wendy’s drive thru.
Tara’s house wasn’t a house. It was a mansion. No, a palace. For you, who had grown up in a poorer area, it was like you had ventured onto a movie set. You gazed at it in stunned wonder, it’s pure white walls, the countless windows, the beautiful flora tastefully surrounding it. It wasn’t until Roberta elbowed you that you noticed that you had stopped moving. You hurriedly got yourself busy unloading your bags onto a cart handily left out front. Tara was impatiently waiting to come down from the lift. You could tell that she was more than a little embarrassed by the necessity of the device. You expected that you would get another promise to diet that night.
“Miss Braxtynne should be in the lounge with Miss Nancy.” Roberta informed your wife as she rolled off of the ramp. Tara pulled a face at the prospect of having to meet her sister, but nonetheless began riding towards the ramp that looked to have been recently installed at the front. You followed, at Roberta’s insistence that she could handle the bags. You soon caught up, and heard the whine of Tara’s scooter escalate slightly as it pulled her up the ramp.
In the lounge, Tara excitedly rolled towards her mother, Braxtynne, which was handy for you, because the two women in there looked almost identical. They were both…...
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