oct 18th 2025
NOTE: this story frankly discusses themes including anxiety, consent, death, depression, immobility, kink, trauma, and weight. there are no depictions of death, or of emotional or physical abuse, but these themes are discussed. reader discretion is advised.It seemed pretty weird at first. Once I signed, I'd be handsomely paid, luxuriously fêted, and contractually bound to do whatever he told me. Except for sex, which wouldn't happen unless we both consented. Weird arrangement for a sugar daddy, but I figured it was better than being one sickday away from the street.
Then his wife found out.
Well, that's not precisely what happened. She already knew, or at least knew enough. And she tolerated it for a while, because apparently that's just what people at this level of wealth do. You marry someone you might hate because she's of the proper social standing, and then you have a mistress who you might actually like - or at least, like fucking. Or feeding. Or both, as the case may be.
Anyway, she got the regular staff sent away, and proceeded to fill me with more than I could hold. I guess that's technically what her husband was doing, too, only he was a gentleman about it. It got his dick hard to see the number go up, but he was always careful to make sure I was... healthy? As healthy as I could be when I weighed as much as four or five regular people put together, anyway.
She... was not so considerate. Instead of a balanced diet (with frankly obscene proportions, but 5,000 calories on both sides is still balanced), I was force-fed more or less pure sugar. The goal was to fatten me up, pancreas be damned, blood pressure be damned. It felt then, and still feels now, like she was trying to kill me. And considering some of the comments I've heard him make about her psychiatric history, she might have succeeded if not for dumb luck.
I guess in one sense, it's a good thing that I was too heavy to be moved, or else she would have spirited me away to God knows where. In another sense... well, we'll get to that.
When he and his team finally found me, I wasn't conscious, not really. He was sick with something and couldn't see me right away; in my state, I was even more fragile than I felt. It was at least a few days before he was well enough, and I was stable enough, for us to be face to face again.
"How are you?"
I look at his face, his impossibly good looks tinted only slightly by worry. For a long moment, I want to reassure him, maybe even crack a joke just to see that playboy smile again. But I can't.
"I... want to... renegotiate."
His face falls. I'm not sure if he loves me, in the way that 'normal' people understand love... but it breaks my heart to see him so crestfallen.
"You..." He sighs, heavily. "You're having second thoughts?"
"Don't misunderstand..." I inhale deeply through my nose, letting the pure oxygen fill my lungs. "I've really enjoyed our time together. You've been wonderful. But..." Tears start to roll down my puffy cheeks, pooling in the folds of what used to be my neck. "I couldn't... I couldn't defend myself. Couldn't run away. Couldn't do anything to stop her."
"I know," he replies, almost desperately. It's the first time I've ever seen him not in total control of himself, of the situation. "But she's never going to hurt you again. Or anyone else."
Blinking through tears, I do my best to smile at him. If I could move my arms, I'd probably stroke his hair, or touch his cheek, or something, anything to try and soften the blow. "I like being taken care of by you. And Graciela, and Newton. But... I signed on thinking I could work more on my art, have a career." My hands tilt upward, struggling to lift my immobile arms; I might as well be trying to lift twin boulders. It's obvious that I can't really paint when I'm this far out of shape.
He's silent for almost a full minute. Ordinarily he'd be rubbing and squeezing me, hands eagerly feeling the results of his efforts. But even if the situation were happier than this, I still feel like I could pop at any second. I momentarily remember his wife poking me as if she was trying to pop me, and I sob before getting my breathing back under control.
Finally, he looks at me. "You realize, of course, that your contract puts you under my authority in perpetuity."
"Yes." I swallow the lump in my throat. "I know I don't have any standing, legally, to alter the deal. But I'm hoping you'd be willing to discuss it out of respect for me. I've done... pretty much everything you asked me to."
He stands up, straightening his shirt, every bit the cool, confident professional once again. "So you intend to cash out and walk away? Is that it?"
"Not necessarily. I... mainly just want to be able to walk again." If I'm being honest with myself, I would take the money and run, not walk. But as accommodating as he's been, it's probably not a good idea to get on his bad side.
Maybe I could even be his again, someday, so long as I got to feel like a person again.
"All right." His voice is distant, but polite. "I don't want to keep you here against your will. Once you're a little more stable - physiologically, I mean - we can bring in an attorney. Would you want someone to represent you, too?"
I do my best to shrug, not that it's very apparent from the outside. "Couldn't hurt."
"In the meantime," he continues, "I'll have your attendants keep your calorie intake at a pretty neutral level. Give you some more time to readjust."
"Sounds good."
He walks out, his shoulders bowed only the tiniest bit. As vulnerable as I am, totally helpless if he decided to deny my request, I can't help feeling a little bad.
But the stronger feeling by far, the one that fills me with a mix of nausea and anger after all that's happened, is how fucking hungry I still am.