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The Follower

By Setz
June 25, 2019

Part 1: Monday

The noise of feet stomping around upstairs awoke Jen from her sleep. She was in bed early last night on account of being right tuckered ahead of schedule. She rubbed her eyes, stretched and came to realize that the older she got, the better stretching felt. She flung off her quilt and lay there naked in bed a while before heaving a heavy sigh. Her eyes drifted back closed and she enjoyed one last moment of peace and laziness before she had to begin the terrible process of attempting to move. She could have laid there all day, but she knew she couldn’t. Or at least shouldn’t. One more deep sigh, all the way to her toes.

She braced herself with a strong black paw against the mattress, lifted a leg in the air and gave a kick and a push. Up she heaved a few inches. Her thighs were so thick and overgrown with fat and neglect that kicking them up as high as she could still left them smooshed together at the hip. Another push, another kick, another wobble and another couple of inches. The waves from her legs kicking rolled all the way from the top of her thigh down her buried knee and swollen calf all the way to the gentle wobbling of the fat on top of her foot. It was like a very fat raccoon second hand ticking from 45 seconds to the top of the clock. Violently. Stretched springs and broken bedframe squeaked and groaned as her bulk gradually shifted and worked its way upwards. When finally sitting upright, she pulled back a curl of her wavy black hair out of her face and panted. It never seemed to get any easier at all.

Rays of light crept in through the blinds and around the curtain of her basement window. Her favourite crow outside was very talkative this morning. “’Auck!’ to you, too,” she muttered. The buzz of a weedwhacker hummed off in the distance. Once she had caught her breath, she leaned over for her cell phone. “9:04 am” with a background she had drawn of Mr. Wrench.

Monday:
- New Mastercook Canada
- New Fox Force Five
- New Jerquisition
- 8BitBob is probably streaming something stupid tonight
- Avril’s Art Stream at 10:00
- Laundry was yesterday
- Flamewar has erupted on Crugeon Doll forum. Nice.
- Blah blah blah
- Don’t forget: Galaxy’s Edge comes out on Friday
* Gotcha.

She set her phone back down and stretched once more. There just ahead of her within reach was her walker. She was big, very big, but she was never a quitter. It took a massive effort, rocking back and forth while she counted to three in her head, mouthing the words with greater intensity as she counted, before she sprung up from bed and braced herself on the arms of her walker. She steadied herself a moment before taking her first lumbering step of the day. The carpet was soft on her swollen feet as her thighs and knees brushed past one another until she reached her dresser. She pulled out a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and some underwear, tossed them onto the bed and made her way to the basement bathroom.

She was clean. She needed to be clean. She had to be clean. It was who she was. Every morning meant crawling out of bed and having a shower. It got tighter and trickier every day, but it was never impossible and never would be impossible. She had an old wooden backless chair that she rested her fuzzy grey shelf of a butt on, a cracked wooden scrub brush that got everywhere that needed getting and a couple of huge bath towels. If not her favourite part of her day, it was the most necessary.

Back to the bedroom Jen cautiously maneuvered her wet bulk as slipping and falling meant calling the fire department, and as sexy as the thought may have been, it was better in theory than in practice. She crashed back down in bed on a towel to took her time catching her breath. It was a mildly restrained crash, however. The bed frame was cracked in several places and outright broken in others. It was in no way adequate to deal with the amount of weight she burdened it with. Still, she received a small jolt of pleasure from pouncing it further to death. If she had a new bed waiting for her and an aforementioned fire crew in full calendar mode to help her back up again, she’d enjoy ending her poor abused bed. However, she too was broke and therefore needed it and therefore moderated the severity of her glorious butt drops.

She poked away at her phone for a few minutes until her mother called from the top of the stairs. “Jenny! Are you up? It’s 10:30.” Jen's mom was a nurse, a good and tough, leathery veteran of the long-term care ward. She loved and cared deeply for her daughter and helped when Jen needed help, but their relationship was never terribly chummy. Generally, a fight would start anytime Jen's mom began a conversation with “Jennifer, I'm not trying to be a bitch, but could you please X the goddamn Y already?” Normally, no reasonable request would be refused, but if it didn’t strike Jen as particularly fair, she had no problem digging in her heels and going into berserk mode. Screaming matches were rare because generally Jen's mom just didn’t have it in her to fight.

“Yeah. Just getting dressed,” was her half-hearted reply. She covered her front up with her towel in case her mother decided to descent without warning – or permission. Her breasts were really just rolls that rested upon her stomach. They flowed sideways forming one smooth roll up to her armpits. They jiggled from a giggle and crashed when she laughed uproariously.

“O.k. How’re you doing today? Need any help?” A touch of concern in the mother raccoon’s voice was always present, whether it was her eldest daughter downstairs, her patients, or the weather or, you know, anything.

“Naw, I think I got it today. Thanks.” She started drying off under her breasts with a heave as the big roll rocked back and forth. She held them up tight for a moment, as though she was wearing a bra large enough to meet her circumference, which she didn’t own and didn’t care to research if such a machine existed. She had a lovely chest when she wanted to. She let it go and it all sagged back into place. She did this once in a while and each time she gave her chest a frown that was more confused than disappointed afterwards.

“Alright, then. I snuck down and refilled your fridge while you were still sleeping. Dad’s making sausage and perogies for supper tonight.”

“Sweet,” Jen replied flatly as she worked her way down her side-rolls to her stomach. She called her stomach flat, but it was really only flat when she stood straight up. It came out a ways under her breasts and was straight down to a little bit past the bottom over her knees. Laying down and looking at it was like looking at a great, grey rolling hill of fur that started gurgling for the first time this morning at the thought of food which she had successfully avoided so far. She could sort of mostly lift it all. Kind of. Well, she used to be able to.

There was a pause for a moment, a pause of concern no doubt that was either real or feigned, before her mother asked, “Are you sure you’re O.k.?”

“I’m great!” Jen grunted while struggling to dry under her stomach with her thick black paws. This is where she got the bulk of her exercise in any given day. She was nimble enough to reach everything, but everything got a little further out, a little heavier and a little more restricted with each passing day.

“O.k., then. Have a good day! See you tonight!” She was off to start a first of three twelve-hour shifts this week.

“Bye, Mom! Have a good day!” And with that the door closed to the basement and she was alone again. The basement was her home. Not her prison – she didn’t think of it that way. If she ever did, she knew that she would be sunk. She also knew, however, that she couldn’t get up three stairs, maximum, let alone the whole flight. She continued drying her legs, thick and rolled and massively strong from even being able to hold all of her up from any length of time at all. On one paw, she dreamt of going to the pool where she could be weightless and float and jump and just... Just relax. One the other, she had an edge. She liked the grinding of the broken wooden bedframe, the creaking of the walker. She liked the idea of a fire crew being needed. She liked being bigger than anyone she knew, by far, and when she did see someone bigger on TV or online, she had a conceit about it. They were ugly, misshapen, sick, gross and, worst of all, bedridden.

After a second of regaining her wind once more, she muttered, “Not me.” In a violent struggle against herself she heaved upwards sitting on the edge of the bed. “Not today.” She began her 1-2-3 rocking and gave a mighty heave at 3, but nothing much happened beyond the creaking and crackling of the bed. “Nope. Try again.” She 1-2-3'd out loud this time in a growl and sprung up this time, slowly and shakily but indomitably. Steadying herself and catching her ever-elusive breath a wash of relief flowed over her, ears to tail, which bobbed back and forth lazily. Off to the desk.

Her main space that she occupied was a practical little world. She had a desk, a big old industrial office desk that her Dad’s office was got rid of years ago. It was a big old wood-topped, metal framed desk that weighed as much as a loaded cement truck and was built as a double-cubicle with space for two not thin paper pushers. It had several deep metal drawers and could probably withstand practically any non-nuclear blast with little more than a couple more scratches to its distressed surface. This was good, though. Sturdy was good. Off to the left end of her desk was an equally antique fridge that kept her sustained. One her desk from left to right was: a microwave, a Tina Belcher doll, the hard copy of the sketch she scribbled on night of Mr. Wrench that “spoke to her” and acted also as her cell phone wallpaper, a big ole monitor/gaming keyboard/gaming mouse, an 11 x 14 commissioned drawing of herself that was a decade old, and around the corner to her drawing tablet, her stylus, an also decade old photo of Jen with her little brother Jack and her littler sister Vi making goofy faces in front of a waterfall, a television, a sketch pad, pencils, an eraser, a lamp and off the end of the desk was a garbage can. And that was her world.

Oh yes, and her chair. She had tried, a while back, one of those double-wide, reinforced, armless office chairs, but even the most boastful office chairs were disposable to her, and although it would be fun to crush them and send the wheels ricocheting off the walls as they explode, it just wasn’t practical. A double-wide wheelchair wasn’t wide enough. It’d just pinch her thighs, and besides, a wheelchair would just be begging to wave the white flag. What was practical was a sturdy old loveseat. The floor was smooth painted cement, so the carpeted old legs slid nicely. On top of the broken springs was a bent but unbroken board, and on top of that was a squashed old mattress, and on top of that was a towel. Not perfect, but as good and as functional as it got. Setting her walker within easy reach off the end of the seat, all of the broken parts caved in harmoniously as she sat down in her spot. There was something luxurious about sinking into an old busted chair as if resting on a throne comprised of defeated foes. Ultimately, though, furniture in general would bend to her will until broken. Weight limits were usually fraudulent taunts that never lived up to the hype. Plastic warped. Wood snapped. Steel bent. The peasantry begged for mercy. Queen- no, Empress Jennifer offered none.

Anyways, the Empress’s days comprised of the following: game on the computer, TV on the TV, and Twitch on the phone. And that’s about it. On the computer today: Dungeon Crawl: Levels 31-33. On the TV the highlight was Mastercook Canada:

“We hope that tonight’s Mystery Crate surprise inspires you. Open your crate... NOOOOOOOOOW!"

“OMG! Surprise! It’s a picture of Auntie Gertie! Auntie Gertie was my inspiration for everything I’ve accomplished in the kitchen.”

“Now that you’ve opened your Mystery Crates, we have one more inspirational surprise in store for you. Right... NOOOOOOOOOOW!”

“OMG! It’s Auntie Gertie! What an inspirational surprise!”

“That’s right. We’ve surprised you by flying Aunt Gertie all the way out from Moose Jaw to inspire you.”

“I’m so inspired! In surprising ways! Thank you, Auntie Gertie!”

It was good, but not great. Dad’s perogies and small talk looked and sounded better than anything she saw this night. If Dad wasn’t her best friend, he was probably the closest person to her. He listened. Mom didn’t really listen. Mom told, Dad asked. Mom was practical, Dad was big-picture. Dad hugged. Dad had Twitch! He didn’t follow her though because, a) he didn’t want to be uncool and b) her stuff is her business and c) he was more of a strategy gamer anyhow.

On Twitch this afternoon was her favourite art stream and this evening Jen, aka. Jennihilate, begged, wished and pled for 8BitBob to get over this recent fixation with Goat Simulator. “Eff. Your. Subscription,” she groaned listening absently to Bob’s giggling as she compared the pros and cons of various helmets in her game. “Right. The. Hell. Outta. Town.” It was the day of the month where Bob thanked Jennihilate for her 52 month subscription. Jen replied in chat that she hit subscribe instead of block by accident and was stuck with him ever since. Chat loved it.

And so the day continued, alternating between snacking and eating until she heard her Mom come home.

Part 2

Description

The Follower

By Setz
June 25, 2019

Part 1: Monday

The noise of feet stomping around upstairs awoke Jen from her sleep. She was in bed early last night on account of being right tuckered ahead of schedule. She rubbed her eyes, stretched and came to realize that the older she got, the better stretching felt. She flung off her quilt and lay there naked in bed a while before heaving a heavy sigh. Her eyes drifted back closed and she enjoyed one last moment of peace and laziness before she had to begin the terrible process of attempting to move. She could have laid there all day, but she knew she couldn’t. Or at least shouldn’t. One more deep sigh, all the way to her toes.

She braced herself with a strong black paw against the mattress, lifted a leg in the air and gave a kick and a push. Up she heaved a few inches. Her thighs were so thick and overgrown with fat and neglect that kicking them up as high as she could still left them smooshed together at the hip. Another push, another kick, another wobble and another couple of inches. The waves from her legs kicking rolled all the way from the top of her thigh down her buried knee and swollen calf all the way to the gentle wobbling of the fat on top of her foot. It was like a very fat raccoon second hand ticking from 45 seconds to the top of the clock. Violently. Stretched springs and broken bedframe squeaked and groaned as her bulk gradually shifted and worked its way upwards. When finally sitting upright, she pulled back a curl of her wavy black hair out of her face and panted. It never seemed to get any easier at all.

Rays of light crept in through the blinds and around the curtain of her basement window. Her favourite crow outside was very talkative this morning. “’Auck!’ to you, too,” she muttered. The buzz of a weedwhacker hummed off in the distance. Once she had caught her breath, she leaned over for her cell phone. “9:04 am” with a background she had drawn of Mr. Wrench.

Monday:
- New Mastercook Canada
- New Fox Force Five
- New Jerquisition
- 8BitBob is probably streaming something stupid tonight
- Avril’s Art Stream at 10:00
- Laundry was yesterday
- Flamewar has erupted on Crugeon Doll forum. Nice.
- Blah blah blah
- Don’t forget: Galaxy’s Edge comes out on Friday
* Gotcha.

She set her phone back down and stretched once more. There just ahead of her within reach was her walker. She was big, very big, but she was never a quitter. It took a massive effort, rocking back and forth while she counted to three in her head, mouthing the words with greater intensity as she counted, before she sprung up from bed and braced herself on the arms of her walker. She steadied herself a moment before taking her first lumbering step of the day. The carpet was soft on her swollen feet as her thighs and knees brushed past one another until she reached her dresser. She pulled out a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and some underwear, tossed them onto the bed and made her way to the basement bathroom.

She was clean. She needed to be clean. She had to be clean. It was who she was. Every morning meant crawling out of bed and having a shower. It got tighter and trickier every day, but it was never impossible and never would be impossible. She had an old wooden backless chair that she rested her fuzzy grey shelf of a butt on, a cracked wooden scrub brush that got everywhere that needed getting and a couple of huge bath towels. If not her favourite part of her day, it was the most necessary.

Back to the bedroom Jen cautiously maneuvered her wet bulk as slipping and falling meant calling the fire department, and as sexy as the thought may have been, it was better in theory than in practice. She crashed back down in bed on a towel to took her time catching her breath. It was a mildly restrained crash, however. The bed frame was cracked in several places and outright broken in others. It was in no way adequate to deal with the amount of weight she burdened it with. Still, she received a small jolt of pleasure from pouncing it further to death. If she had a new bed waiting for her and an aforementioned fire crew in full calendar mode to help her back up again, she’d enjoy ending her poor abused bed. However, she too was broke and therefore needed it and therefore moderated the severity of her glorious butt drops.

She poked away at her phone for a few minutes until her mother called from the top of the stairs. “Jenny! Are you up? It’s 10:30.” Jen's mom was a nurse, a good and tough, leathery veteran of the long-term care ward. She loved and cared deeply for her daughter and helped when Jen needed help, but their relationship was never terribly chummy. Generally, a fight would start anytime Jen's mom began a conversation with “Jennifer, I'm not trying to be a bitch, but could you please X the goddamn Y already?” Normally, no reasonable request would be refused, but if it didn’t strike Jen as particularly fair, she had no problem digging in her heels and going into berserk mode. Screaming matches were rare because generally Jen's mom just didn’t have it in her to fight.

“Yeah. Just getting dressed,” was her half-hearted reply. She covered her front up with her towel in case her mother decided to descent without warning – or permission. Her breasts were really just rolls that rested upon her stomach. They flowed sideways forming one smooth roll up to her armpits. They jiggled from a giggle and crashed when she laughed uproariously.

“O.k. How’re you doing today? Need any help?” A touch of concern in the mother raccoon’s voice was always present, whether it was her eldest daughter downstairs, her patients, or the weather or, you know, anything.

“Naw, I think I got it today. Thanks.” She started drying off under her breasts with a heave as the big roll rocked back and forth. She held them up tight for a moment, as though she was wearing a bra large enough to meet her circumference, which she didn’t own and didn’t care to research if such a machine existed. She had a lovely chest when she wanted to. She let it go and it all sagged back into place. She did this once in a while and each time she gave her chest a frown that was more confused than disappointed afterwards.

“Alright, then. I snuck down and refilled your fridge while you were still sleeping. Dad’s making sausage and perogies for supper tonight.”

“Sweet,” Jen replied flatly as she worked her way down her side-rolls to her stomach. She called her stomach flat, but it was really only flat when she stood straight up. It came out a ways under her breasts and was straight down to a little bit past the bottom over her knees. Laying down and looking at it was like looking at a great, grey rolling hill of fur that started gurgling for the first time this morning at the thought of food which she had successfully avoided so far. She could sort of mostly lift it all. Kind of. Well, she used to be able to.

There was a pause for a moment, a pause of concern no doubt that was either real or feigned, before her mother asked, “Are you sure you’re O.k.?”

“I’m great!” Jen grunted while struggling to dry under her stomach with her thick black paws. This is where she got the bulk of her exercise in any given day. She was nimble enough to reach everything, but everything got a little further out, a little heavier and a little more restricted with each passing day.

“O.k., then. Have a good day! See you tonight!” She was off to start a first of three twelve-hour shifts this week.

“Bye, Mom! Have a good day!” And with that the door closed to the basement and she was alone again. The basement was her home. Not her prison – she didn’t think of it that way. If she ever did, she knew that she would be sunk. She also knew, however, that she couldn’t get up three stairs, maximum, let alone the whole flight. She continued drying her legs, thick and rolled and massively strong from even being able to hold all of her up from any length of time at all. On one paw, she dreamt of going to the pool where she could be weightless and float and jump and just... Just relax. One the other, she had an edge. She liked the grinding of the broken wooden bedframe, the creaking of the walker. She liked the idea of a fire crew being needed. She liked being bigger than anyone she knew, by far, and when she did see someone bigger on TV or online, she had a conceit about it. They were ugly, misshapen, sick, gross and, worst of all, bedridden.

After a second of regaining her wind once more, she muttered, “Not me.” In a violent struggle against herself she heaved upwards sitting on the edge of the bed. “Not today.” She began her 1-2-3 rocking and gave a mighty heave at 3, but nothing much happened beyond the creaking and crackling of the bed. “Nope. Try again.” She 1-2-3'd out loud this time in a growl and sprung up this time, slowly and shakily but indomitably. Steadying herself and catching her ever-elusive breath a wash of relief flowed over her, ears to tail, which bobbed back and forth lazily. Off to the desk.

Her main space that she occupied was a practical little world. She had a desk, a big old industrial office desk that her Dad’s office was got rid of years ago. It was a big old wood-topped, metal framed desk that weighed as much as a loaded cement truck and was built as a double-cubicle with space for two not thin paper pushers. It had several deep metal drawers and could probably withstand practically any non-nuclear blast with little more than a couple more scratches to its distressed surface. This was good, though. Sturdy was good. Off to the left end of her desk was an equally antique fridge that kept her sustained. One her desk from left to right was: a microwave, a Tina Belcher doll, the hard copy of the sketch she scribbled on night of Mr. Wrench that “spoke to her” and acted also as her cell phone wallpaper, a big ole monitor/gaming keyboard/gaming mouse, an 11 x 14 commissioned drawing of herself that was a decade old, and around the corner to her drawing tablet, her stylus, an also decade old photo of Jen with her little brother Jack and her littler sister Vi making goofy faces in front of a waterfall, a television, a sketch pad, pencils, an eraser, a lamp and off the end of the desk was a garbage can. And that was her world.

Oh yes, and her chair. She had tried, a while back, one of those double-wide, reinforced, armless office chairs, but even the most boastful office chairs were disposable to her, and although it would be fun to crush them and send the wheels ricocheting off the walls as they explode, it just wasn’t practical. A double-wide wheelchair wasn’t wide enough. It’d just pinch her thighs, and besides, a wheelchair would just be begging to wave the white flag. What was practical was a sturdy old loveseat. The floor was smooth painted cement, so the carpeted old legs slid nicely. On top of the broken springs was a bent but unbroken board, and on top of that was a squashed old mattress, and on top of that was a towel. Not perfect, but as good and as functional as it got. Setting her walker within easy reach off the end of the seat, all of the broken parts caved in harmoniously as she sat down in her spot. There was something luxurious about sinking into an old busted chair as if resting on a throne comprised of defeated foes. Ultimately, though, furniture in general would bend to her will until broken. Weight limits were usually fraudulent taunts that never lived up to the hype. Plastic warped. Wood snapped. Steel bent. The peasantry begged for mercy. Queen- no, Empress Jennifer offered none.

Anyways, the Empress’s days comprised of the following: game on the computer, TV on the TV, and Twitch on the phone. And that’s about it. On the computer today: Dungeon Crawl: Levels 31-33. On the TV the highlight was Mastercook Canada:

“We hope that tonight’s Mystery Crate surprise inspires you. Open your crate... NOOOOOOOOOW!"

“OMG! Surprise! It’s a picture of Auntie Gertie! Auntie Gertie was my inspiration for everything I’ve accomplished in the kitchen.”

“Now that you’ve opened your Mystery Crates, we have one more inspirational surprise in store for you. Right... NOOOOOOOOOOW!”

“OMG! It’s Auntie Gertie! What an inspirational surprise!”

“That’s right. We’ve surprised you by flying Aunt Gertie all the way out from Moose Jaw to inspire you.”

“I’m so inspired! In surprising ways! Thank you, Auntie Gertie!”

It was good, but not great. Dad’s perogies and small talk looked and sounded better than anything she saw this night. If Dad wasn’t her best friend, he was probably the closest person to her. He listened. Mom didn’t really listen. Mom told, Dad asked. Mom was practical, Dad was big-picture. Dad hugged. Dad had Twitch! He didn’t follow her though because, a) he didn’t want to be uncool and b) her stuff is her business and c) he was more of a strategy gamer anyhow.

On Twitch this afternoon was her favourite art stream and this evening Jen, aka. Jennihilate, begged, wished and pled for 8BitBob to get over this recent fixation with Goat Simulator. “Eff. Your. Subscription,” she groaned listening absently to Bob’s giggling as she compared the pros and cons of various helmets in her game. “Right. The. Hell. Outta. Town.” It was the day of the month where Bob thanked Jennihilate for her 52 month subscription. Jen replied in chat that she hit subscribe instead of block by accident and was stuck with him ever since. Chat loved it.

And so the day continued, alternating between snacking and eating until she heard her Mom come home.

Part 2