hedonisticfeedee
The Transport
Published: June 1st 2020, 1:05:02 am
Author’s Note: As a preface, I started writing Deathfeedist stories back in 2012 before the term was coined. Doughtub/Lardfill was one of the only ones writing this stuff back then that I could find, so I decided to get involved in the furry community. Phealgud and I named the furry version back then LifeSupportFatFurs. I was 18 when I wrote this originally, but I was told I should do a bariatric transport story. I’ve remastered this just for here. The original is buried with many older stories only on Furaffinity. I made this more generic for a wider audience, but also tried to include more dialogue and fix a lot of errors. I certainly added and changed more details. It’s the same premise, but it’s almost like a whole new story at this point. I hope you enjoy this, especially if you’ve never read the original.
The Transport
I’m lying in bed on my back finishing yet another meal. The only thing keeping me slightly elevated is my rolls of back fat pressing against a stack of soft, extra-firm pillows. They’ve grown slightly uncomfortable despite Riley’s every attempt to make sure they stay clean and firm. He rotated them daily, but the biggest issue is that I can’t do much to prevent bedsores.
Sure, the pillows are soft, but they really take a toll on expansive flesh day in and day out. It only took a week for a rash to start to form, but we kept going. We had to keep going. After all, when you get this fat, you become bedridden and you have no choice to keep going. Weeks slipped into a month and a month quickly became a year. Throbbing and my condition become worse every day. This is not what I thought immobility would be like. It’s the not so pretty side of being confined to a bed.
I pant in a blissful lust and as a paradox, it also hurts. I’m just lucky enough to have Riley. He shoves the remaining cake and ice-cream into my greedy mouth. He’s been feeding me for over an hour now. First, he made every attempt to fill my stomach with greasy pizza and burgers. Now, the cake swims in a mushy soup in the giant bowl. It’s melting fast from my furnace of a belly. What about nutrition? Never heard of her. Since I’ve been with Riley I only eat greasy, sugary, calorie-loaded junk. I suppose that’s to be expected when you’re over 1,000 pounds of lard.
Honestly, the gross concoction my body heat has created still looks delicious. However, the food and my lover’s attention create a reaction that is just too much for my body to handle under the mass amounts of weight. I know what is about to happen before the friction of my fat pad and the overstuffed feeling makes me cum again all over my underbelly. We both knew it would happen sooner or later, but I try to be calm. I ignore the warning signs while he finishes spooning the rest of the soupy mixture into me.
Riley gets up to take the container back to the kitchen. I feel...weird. The pain I’ve put off telling him moves from a slight, unexpected numbness in my arm to aching in my heart. I rub my massive mound of chest, hoping and praying the pain will subside. I get panicked that the throbbing won’t subside on its own, but I want to hold out. I do my best to message the tissue surrounding my tits with my plump, stubby fingers.
I’ve had a lot of health scares getting to this size, but it’s never been this bad before. I flinch my face as he asks me what’s wrong. I try to be strong for him. We said we’d welcome the consequences. I mean, think about it: obesity-related health issues are the ultimate compliment to the size I’ve become. I’m so big that my body can’t function correctly. I regret saying I’d welcome it. Being this big and unhealthy isn’t just a fantasy anymore. The consequences are getting too real for me at the moment. We both knew the direction this would go. It’s not something we looked forward to, but I’d get there one way or another. Riley only helped me get here sooner. Oh god, what have I done to myself? What has Riley done to me?
My heart thuds faster. It’s not going away. It could be the real deal this time. It’s too much. “R-!...Rye!...” I cry out breathlessly, hoping that he somehow hears my desperate call.
Riley rushes into the room with a box of twinkies to find my breath growing shorter, pain washing over my face, and sweat forming on my forehead.
"What's wrong?" Riley asks trying to remain calm, but I can hear the panic in his voice. “Still hungry? Do you have hunger pangs?”
“N-no... I can’t...” focusing on breathing takes precedent over speech.
"I’ll call 9-1-1 just in case. Try to relax and give it a few minutes. Maybe it’s just a panic attack or indigestion,” Riley tries to soothe me and not fear for the worst. I know he is trying his best, but he drops the box of snack cakes indicating to me that he thinks it’s really that bad. Deep down we both know what it is. This isn’t any indigestion I’ve had before. He lovingly holds my clammy, weak hands while we wait for the ambulance.
I pass out to the lullaby of Riley’s tears. “Stay with me,” he begs. Minutes later sirens interrupt my slumber. I know what’s coming. Secretly, Riley and I always got off on the idea of public humiliation for my obesity. It’s my time to shine. I’m about to be a television star in the cliché, action news on channel 8 stories: Firefighters rescue an obscure and grotesquely obese fat fuck from their house. The type of sensationalized story where all the neighbors get interviewed about the scene as if they were a part of it when in fact, they had no idea they even had a neighbor. It’s the kind of story Riley and I mutually masturbated to back when I could still reach. We role-played the possibility multiple times in bed.
The next thing I know ten buff firefighters and two paramedics bust down the front door. I try to turn my head, but it’s not much use with the thick slope of chins that obstruct my view. I thought professionals had sensitivity training. I discovered I am far from correct, or maybe they are choosing to be assholes just because they are the ones in control of my life right now.
“Fuck, this house looks like a hoarder lives here with all the boxes,” I hear one man say. They make their way to the bedroom when they hear Riley shout “back here!” The men disperse from the doorway to my room. “Holy Hell. I thought he was just obese. We have to move this fat shit!? Is that possible?” I hear one say making me blush.
My heart still aches a little. I am informed that getting me out of the house will be a cumbersome process for all involved. Two operations are done at the same time to get me out of our home. One team will create an opening for me to get out and the other will work on moving me onto a bariatric stretcher.
One of the men tries to push my belly to the side thinking it’s the best way to move me before he gags. Moving my belly so much causes a stench to waft into the air. The sweaty, sore covered folds buried deep show signs of festering.
“S-sorry” I whimper from my bloated cheeks. The smell is incredibly strong for everyone, but Riley and I are immune. I suppose we are just used to the smells of my body by now.
I didn’t realize how puffy the lower half of my body had gotten. I knew my body retained water in places like my thighs, but I didn’t expect to be in so much pain with the crew folding me up like a taco; My thighs are essentially swollen bags of fluid on top of fat because of my lymphedema.
“It’s not working,” I cry out in pain.
“Damn, right it’s not working. You're a fucking disgusting mess! You’ve wasted your entire life by overindulging.” He’s right, but nothing felt as good as being filled with whatever I wanted. I didn’t have to worry about responsibility or waste my time exercising. I got to indulge in the life I wanted despite paying for it dearly now. I’d probably do it again if I could.
The workers won’t tell me what they are doing on the other side, but I know I’m a burden on this side. Riley watches and I’m sure it’s taking everything for him to stay with me instead of going to the bathroom to jerk off. The firemen notice my bariatric hoyer Riley once used to love me from the wheelchair to the bed.
“Can we use that crane?” a man points toward the corner.
The paramedics are more familiar with the device being in a medical profession. The firemen have no idea how to use such machinery. Riley offers his expertise with using the bariatric crane to get me on the yellow stretcher. “Okay, everyone needs to get around me on his left and push him onto his side so we can put him on the…erm…let’s just call it the cargo net,” says Riley.
“The count of three: One…two….three. Heave!”
I feel 16 hands pressing into my flab, but my stubborn body doesn’t budge. Instead, the fat just jiggles, but it’s not going to be nearly enough to push me over enough. It’s because they haven’t reached far enough into my fat. The fire fighter’s hands are completely buried, but they don’t have a grip on my frame. The group stops for a moment, but then resumes, pushing much harder and going into my fat elbow deep. I tip onto my side for a moment before falling on my back flab again. The bed creaks under my shifting weight, but the mission is a success. The timing was just right for Riley and the crew to put part of the crane fabric underneath me.
Everyone moves to the other side to finish the job. Once again, the cold hands dig into my fat. The entire group of professionals is winded and doesn’t have the strength as it’s too much weight and it’s too hot. “Damn, you fat fuck,” exclaimed an irritated muscular man.
The only way this could get more pornographic is if the firemen stripped down for me. This has always been my fantasy. Unfortunately, the thought stays a fantasy. By now I am finally onto the sling and I’m ready to be lifted onto the stretcher. The firefighters were breathing heavy, but I was panting, breathless from the event. I trust Riley with my hoyer, so I’m not too nervous about him. I am, however, nervous when I am put on the stretcher. I think I hear a creaking sound coming from the stretcher, and I suddenly start to panic. I hope I’m just paranoid. Riley holds my hand again to calm my nerves.
Finally, after a good extra five minutes of waiting in the confining blue bedroom walls, my ears perk as I hear a crash. For a second, I think I am falling and started whimpering. A sparkling light shining into my prison disproves my theory. My eyes need a moment to adjust to the glistening sun. When I become less dazed, I begin to make out figures. The shadows become clear and suddenly, a sense of panic and excitement runs through my nerves. Neighbors are gawking at my girth and I can feel their taunts as if they are slapping me in the face.
The many muscled men start rolling the stretcher to the ambulance, which read Bariatric Transport of Brookhaven; the same name of the famous “Half-Ton Hospital.” The men move me to the giant swinging white doors of the ambulance.
“Why do we always have to accommodate the biggest slobs? This one is by far the biggest we’ve had in a while.”
The crew attempts to get the stretcher into the ambulance. They try to elevate the stretcher up and push me in. I’m lying flat on my back fat and suddenly I have a fear at the words of the next person helping me in: “You better hope we don’t drop you tubby. One fall would shatter every bone in your body with that weight.” I panic and slightly flail my heavy arms, but they are too thick to do much. Moving my arms causes me to tire within seconds. My heart rate speeds again, my heart hurting worse than before as they shove me in for the final time.
I have been too worried about potentially falling and dying that I’ve completely forgotten to worry about the fact I can’t fill my weak lungs with oxygen. It’s surprising I never even thought about lying on my back like this, but it’s clear why I can’t stay like this. My moobs crush my lungs and my neck rolls press against my trachea. I’m suffocating; I’m drowning in my own lard and I can’t mutter a word to anyone.
My eyes grow heavy from the traumatic situation, or maybe it’s because my brain isn’t receiving the oxygen it needs to thrive. I hear a comforting voice, but I have no idea who speaks the words “we’re going to get you to the hospital. Hang in there.” I feel the person strap on an oxygen mask as my vision blurs. My eyes close from exhaustion, but the last thing I feel is Riley’s hand squeezing mine tightly. For the second time, I lose consciousness.