IT. IS. DONE--I'm kidding. This was yet another request I'd taken on in an attempt to keep myself busy. This one coming from  smallergod it was actually something new for me. I don't usually hit on the struggle of a fatty; at least not socially. SO this was my go at it.

At any rate, this story contains:
Shaming!(Watch for this, if you trigger on bullying, that kind of thing--back it up.)
Weight gain. (Durr)
Blatant gorging!
...AND WORDS.
>_>
<_<
DOn't you judge me.
I can have words in my story.

---

“Georgia! Eat up, girl! Bones and bloody crows, you’re all ribs girl!”

Georgia wasn’t all ribs. In fact, Georgia wasn’t at all “ribs.” She was more like pudding if you looked close enough. See, the bat-girl was not what you would call skinny. That wasn’t to say she was fat! No. If anyone was ever to say that, it would likely be because of her curly fluff-ball fur. Fine like silk, and just as supple, the girl was often compared to clouds and cotton candy by her fellow high-school peers. And there was “Nothing wrong with that!”, she told herself. Georgia wasn’t skinny, but nor was she fat. A growing young woman of middling height, and similar weight, she was just average, her meager pot belly included.

Her pot belly.... Georgia frowned, looking away from one of many new cozy meals that she and her mother had recently come into. Having just recently moved, both into the country, and one of its thousands of cozy little suburbs. Hailing from a rustic little country of mountains and rustic towns, it was a new life for Georgia. One that didn’t involve hiking through miles of treacherous terrain on a day to day basis for water and wood; but instead one that involved A.) Schoolwork, and B.) Pie. Whether she liked it or not, people in this bright, new country, seemed to have an abundance of friendliness and food on their hands, something her mother would never allow to go to waste. Better in your stomach than the worm’s, she always said.

Well, plenty of it was certainly going to her stomach, she thought.

At this point, it would do well to describe our young heroine. Not someone you would think of as overly chubby, at a hundred-and-forty pounds, her figure was just beginning to round out. Budding hips were tucked inside a pair of slowly tightening jeans that wrapped ‘round her bouncing rear, and a burgeoning belly that might have found itself bulging outwards against the curve of a shirt were it not for her more prodigious breasts--Georgia was more curvaceous than anything. Still....

It wasn’t normal, eating all that food. Granted, Georgia didn’t eat a whole lot of anything. As a matter of fact, until recently, where she’d found herself with more free time and snacks than she knew what to do with, the girl had stuck with some modest proportions concerning her meal plan. Yet as of late, it seemed that nothing would really satisfy her. There was always this faint rumbling in the bottom of her stomach,pulsing quietly, as if begging of her. “More.” And Georgia wasn’t sure if she liked the way that was turning out these days.

It was probably just the local food agreeing with her, some distant part of her brain rationalized. Who could say no to things like fried...what did they call them? “Doughnuts.” Fried doughnuts, and cakes...Georgia’s stomach rumbled, catching her off guard, as she rubbed her budding mid-section. All this sitting around thinking about food wasn’t doing anyone good. Ah, well, she told herself. How bad could it be really? Besides. Why worry about putting on a few pounds here and there anyways? There was barbecue downstairs.

---

As it turned out, the food really agreed with her, a fact to which Georgia’s mother celebrated. Having grown up in a time when there was never enough food to be had, she was glad to see her daughter enjoying so many delectable treats. Georgia just wished she could say the same. The reason for that was the same cause of trouble for every teenager. Universally, it was a known fact: Highschool caused drama. Oh, there was nothing truly terrifying. There were no boyfriends stolen. There were no fights to be had. No. The problem seemed to lay in everyone’s favorite game of He-Said-She-Said, and he said that she said the new girl in town ate like a pig. Whenever she was in the lunch room, she was always up for seconds, and then thirds! ...Even on the dreaded Meatloaf Monday. (One does shudder to think of how they get away with calling that meat.)

But....there was nothing she could do.

Georgia fell into something of a crossroads. Each day, when she arrived to her heavily proportioned meals, she knew very well that she shouldn’t be eating so much. No, she shouldn’t have that fourth pizza slice. And no, she shouldn’t have had that third order of fries. But she couldn’t help herself. She had tried. Cutting back on her food only left her stomach gurgling impatiently throughout her classes for the day, and heaven help her if she tried to cut back at home--trying to sleep, as her stomach screamed at her to fill it with something. It got to the point where Georgia was forced to sit all by her lonesome in one of the many secluded corners of her cafeteria. Where she lunched alone, munched alone, and then left alone, back to one of her classes, with her shirt riding the curve of her belly. Damn thing. Her mother must have done the famous “Shrinking of the laundry” that she heard sprouted all over the television. (Coincidentally, such a phrase seemed to be coined by men and women of a considerable girth. Funny that.) No sense in sweating it she told herself. She honestly hadn’t put on that much weight.

And that was the story she was sticking with.

---

Granted, it wasn’t a very good story. No matter how much Georgia would wish and wave it away, the more time passed, the more her figure swelled. It was a fact that she was forced to contend with--brought about in the worst and most dreaded way: a form of torture brought about by a most insidious mind. He who had designed it was cunning, sly. So witty, so brilliant that its very nature had persisted, unchecked and unrestrained for almost a hundred years, its reach and rampancy only being checked very recently. Yes, of course. All know well of this...the fearful. The dreaded. THE VILE!

....Gym class.

Georgia herself had, once upon a time, enjoyed the rigors of testing herself. Now?

Well, now she was doughy.

It wasn’t right that, her being doughy. Over time, her constant indulgence, and inability to put down a fork for any reason had led to her expanding on all terms. Where once her stomach had been negligible, it was now impossible to miss. Heavy and jutting forward, it was a stomach encumberanced with the possession of love-handles, thick and ever-forming on all turns, as her shirt--a white tee she’d bought only weeks ago-- struggled to contain its mass. And whereas she was expected to have an hourglass figure, it was more curved outwards than inwards. Her thighs were soft, creamy like butter and currently stuffed inside a pair of shorts that didn’t seem happy with the load they were being forced to deal with--riding against her doughy flesh in protest, and only then to be brought to heel by her jutting backside.

Outfits aside, Georgia wasn’t happy customer. The gym her school had been provided with was not a place for those who lived on the heftier side of life. Brightly painted orange floors and lacquer marked the basketball courts. Yes, courts. Several of them simply linked to one another, spanning the very length of the already considerable two story building. There was nothing inherently anti-”chubby” as her mother called her corpulent daughter. It was instead in the fact that their coach drove them to work their bodies. Today Georgia, along with the rest of the class had been called out to run laps. It shouldn’t have been a problem; Georgia had loved to run in her home country! The feeling of her paws pounding against the barren rocky roads blazed by generations and generations before her gave her some connection to ancestors past. She’d loved it and loved and loved it.

Key word: Loved.

Georgia hadn’t done any running in ages though. All of the time she would have spent climbing, hiking, and doing other such activities had been switched over to the consumption of foods in some vain attempt to fill her ever-grumbling stomach. So when she started running with the rest of the class, she simply wasn’t prepared for her --well, everything-- to go a jiggling. She wasn’t prepared for the added poundage that had all climbed onto her frame. And she certainly wasn’t prepared when, after completing her first lap, she was tired, out of breath and needing to take a seat...as the rest of the class finished what was their fourth and fifth laps. Her gym teachers had noticed as much, and sneers on the face of teacher and student alike seemed to meet Georgia’s bloated and tired body with disdain.

All she wanted to do was curl up and die.

And later? When Georgia came home, tears in her eyes, as she woefully told her mother the story; about the looks, the teasing, the name-calling. Her elder bat, a woman who had held nothing but love and passion in her eyes whenever she looked upon her daughter said something that would stick with her for the rest of her days.

“Little one. You are fat.”

Georgia, still practically oozing out of her clothes stared up at her mother in tear-streaked awe.

Completely unphased by the look, her mother continued onwards. “You’re big, period. Look at you!” She leaned over, taking a hold of a thick and juicy love-handle and giving it a good shake in the process. “I’ve seen you. Every day you eat and eat and eat. Look, I love you. You’re the sun and stars for me. But I raised you better than this!”

Georgia reared back, chagrined at her mother’s chastisement. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Her mother was supposed to be her rock. And even if she wasn’t...she was the one who was always offering her so much freakin’ food in the first place! The bat looked up, fat tears welling up in her eyes.
“..Lytlying. I love you.” She said quietly. “If you want to shed some weight. Put the fork down. If not? Enjoy your cake. But whatever you do? Don’t cry about it.” The woman, sweet as could be, leaned over and kissed her little one on the forehead. “You’re better than that. Dinner will be in a few hours, love. The mice next door said they were bringing over ‘Pizza’. Strange thing, Pizza...”

And like that, Georgia was left to sit alone. She...she wasn’t supposed to cry about it? Why shouldn’t she cry? Ever since she’d come to this country, she’d done nothing but eat and grow fatter. The worst part about it being that no matter what, there never seemed to be a way for her to stop. There was always a pounding sensation in her gut these days. Eat, eat, eat, it screamed. Even now it was screaming at her despite the humiliation from before.

“But whatever you do. Don’t cry about it.”

Georgia didn’t know why but something called to her in the kitchen of her humble abode. Something that was large, and made of steel. Intimidating with a vibrant hum. Slowly calling her, forcing her to slide her feet forward. On and on. Before she knew it, Georgia was standing in front of the refrigerator, stomach grumbling.

“But whatever you do. Don’t cry about it.”The words that rang over and over again inside her head.

Well okay then. If Georgia was going to be a fat-ass, she was going to at least do it on a full stomach. She threw open the cold stainless steel doors and bent over, stomach drooping and jiggling as she rooted around. She was going to need some ice cream to tide her over until dinner...
----

Georgia never did get that full stomach she was hoping for. Seemed that no matter what she did, what she ate, when she ate, or how much, she always found herself wanting for more. A visit with several of her school’s physicians and psychologists had pegged her with “Binge eating disorder.” For reasons none of them really understood, Georgia was compelled to eat. She’d eat when she was hungry, when she wasn’t, when she was bored, sad, lonely, happy, angry, sullen, slightly peckish, and mildly irritated. They told her it had something to do with her psyche, which was all well and good, except it didn’t actually help her stop. She would have to do it underneath her own willpower, they said.

Fat chance.

No matter the reason, at the end of the day, the only time when Georgia ever felt like she had some tiny amount of peace in her life was when she had a burger in one hand, a milkshake in the other, and a bellyful of snacks to keep her cozy. And if people weren’t going to stop laughing at her? Calling her names: Fatty, Fluffy, Iglesias....(The last one she’d never understood. Apparently he was some superstar Chinchilla? Or a donkey? Whatever.) Well. The could all rot. She hadn’t come to this country to be laughed at by a sweep of immature brats who hadn’t starved a day in their lives. This was the attitude our young heroine had adopted, and repeated to herself. There were days where there tears, where there was shouting. And most importantly? Days where there was more food than she knew what to do with, a fact that showed.

Especially at home. Georgia lay in her room, with its soothing violet walls, and its understandably dim lighting, lounging against her newly queen-sized bed; an up-sizing from her old one to deal with her own up-sizing. There she lay, stuffed into clothes that frankly,were being tortured at the seams from all flanks. Through thick and thicker, Georgia had managed to swell into yet another new size. At this point she must have doubled in size from when she’d first arrived in this country. Her stomach had transformed; looking as though someone had stuffed an over-inflated basketball down her throat, only this one jiggled, this one sagged, this one swelled. And currently? This one lay hanging out of the poor tank-top she was wearing, which frankly had been turned into more of a bra, simply unable to contain all the ever-expanding flesh. Sadly, the rest of her wardrobe wasn’t in a better position. HEr legs had finally achieved their sinister goals of meeting with one another. Now, whenever Georgia walked--assuming she bothered to walk anywhere aside from her kitchen-- her thighs brushed up against one another, soft, pliable--yet unyielding as they continued their daily expansion. Currently they were fighting a pitched battle against her sweats; black lycra-like pants with the word “Juicy” plastered across a rear that had joined its lower half in fighting against the tyranny of her clothes. Had anyone from her old home come into contact with Georgia, they hardly would have recognized her. And how could they? Even her face had joined the rest of her body in fattening up. Georgia’s face had always been petite. But now? Now, her cheeks had swollen in tandem with her neck, giving her the impression of someone with an adverse, if not pretty, reaction to some food or some other such foreign substance. The only thing to differentiate the two from each other was the fact that allergic reactions had never inspired a double chin

To make a bad situation worse, Georgia was still indulging herself, even now. Currently she lay on her plump backside, snacking away with a family-sized bag of chips to the side, a package of cookies added to that, and god only knows how many candies--mainly gummy bears--in conjunction with a litre of soda; all to add to her luscious fat. She’d been at this for a solid hour now, a fact which her firmer than usual gut could attest to it, as it rumbled and churned, letting slip the occasional “Booorgh” as it processed and dealt with an entire day’s worth of snacking and gorging. For the moment, the bat was comfortable with herself, snacking away aimlessly with nothing better to do with her time. Her hands simply moved through the assortment of treats, picking them out with hardly any caution or thought to it but to fill her mouth with more food. If her cheeks were empty, they were stuffed full with cookies. If her lips were dry, she’d chug her litre, and move on to another one. Before all was said and done, she was leaning back on her bed; a messy gourmand filled to the brim and still craving more. Her food depleted, there was nothing to do now but to sit back, rub her engorged stomach, and try to sift through the wreckage of a young woman’s feelings.

Why was she doing this, she wondered? Was it because she wanted to rebel? Out to prove that she didn’t care what anyone said? No, that wasn’t it. That was part of it, but if that had been the only reason, Georgia would have dropped the weight, taken up kick-boxing classes, and started “Snatching weave”, as the American vernacular would have it. Did she miss home? ...No. In spite of some of the cruelty she’d found here, it was still better than climbing through the mountains, wondering if you would be able to hunt down some game, or if it would be another night of starving. So what was it then? She always felt so...warm, when she gorged like this. She was a bloated whale, panting as she lay there. And why was she panting? Because she’d eaten so much she could feel her stomach pressing up against her lungs. For grief’s sake, this wasn’t even healthy! But....she couldn’t. No, she couldn’t. Oh, but she did.

She loved it. She loved that feeling of being so stuffed...and still craved it.

Suddenly, she was struggling, panting and wheezing as she forced herself to sit up. When that seemed like it would be too much effort,s he collapsed back on her bed, rubbing her gut before deciding to just swing her legs over the bed and get up that way. One mission accomplished, she got up; lard-laden stomach falling over her lap and hanging there as she began the waddle out of her room.

“Mom?” She called across the house. “When’s dinner?”

---

These days it seemed her life revolved around rituals. As strange as that sounded, it was true enough after a fashion. Every day proceeded in a relatively similar manner, with a few changes and variations along the way to keep things interesting. It began with Georgia waking up in the morning. Something that was its own process, and demanded a solid hour at the minimum if Georgia wanted to be on time for anything that day. This was attributed not to the usual reasons one would expect. Things like doing one’s make-up, hair, that sort of thing. It was actually attributed to another problem; one that was slowly becoming more problematic as more time passed, and one that would have to be dealt with soon, if it was to be dealt with at all.

It was her stomach.

Just simply put: The bat was massive. She woke up every morning, much the same, with her mountain of a stomach blocking her view. It seemed that over the past few months, most of the food she had dedicated to the temple of her stomach had stayed there, swelling it well past ordinary standards--even for the morbidly obese. So it was that it stood there, a collection of fat so profuse that it threw her breasts back into her face, leaving her to sit there and rub at what parts of herself she could actually reach, seeing as the forefront of her stomach had long since swollen out of her reach. She would wake up, slowly at first, as a pile of blubber that thick was loathe to move. Through grit, pain, and sweat, she would find herself--some fifteen minutes later--out of her bed, panting and wheezing as every day, it grew more and more difficult for her to get out of bed. She didn’t remember when that had exactly started, her struggling to get out of bed, but there it was. After that, it would be another struggle--her showering, dressing, struggling to find clothes that fit. It all went as it normally did, down to the jeans that she could button, but were unable to contain the vast amounts of blubber that jutted out and bunched up over the backside of the poor, over-sized and stretched-out denim-- and the shirt that just couldn’t hope to hold in all f her--fat coated arms, and whale like belly which was slowly stretching over her knees, and was so accompanied by a hoodie that didn’t do her many more favors. Thus, that was the first hour of her day. All that food, while at one time serving no other purpose than to push away the pain of being mocked and rejected, had now served to make her fat and heavy. At 500lbs, Georgia’s management of her life was needless to say, difficult. The bat-girl didn’t really recall when she’d gotten so heavy. Maybe it was after that weekend binge, spending six hours inside of an all-you-can eat buffet, maybe it was all the grease-laden pizzas she’d come to start ordering. Or maybe it was all the time she spent on a day-to-day basis indulging herself, snacking at home, eating out at fast food restaurants, where she ordered pound upon pound of fatty burger meat, and salty delicious fries. Who could say?

It hardly mattered, one way or another. Georgia had become what she’d resigned herself to being all those months ago at the gym: Fat. More than that, she was fat and hungry, which of course brought her to the second ritual of her day. Today was a saturday. So where she would normally leave her room, squeezing tightly past any and every door with much wonted huffing and puffing, as it was something of a pain to move her bloated bulk, just to have some meager breakfast before repeating the process of squeezing onto a bus to get to school. However, that was not the case. She was free to take her time today, and that meant breakfast. A real breakfast. Her mother, having not cared one way or the other how much her daughter ate, just so long as she was confident with the decision, had spent the past few months learning how to cook the way only a mother could. So when Georgia showed up, all out of breath, as even navigating down the steps these days seemed to be an extravagant task, she was greeted with a sight that sent her gut’s rumbling into a furious overdrive.

It was just a feast. Enough food to feed a family of nine, Georgia knew that all of this would be going into her: Pancakes--large floppy pieces of fried batter, coated in what looked like tubs of butter and syrup by the stack, next to bowls upon bowls of cereals, met with several platters of bacon and eggs, all to be accompanied by a full pitcher of milk. Ah, the weight of routine. Soon enough, after hugging and nearly crushing her mother for making such a delicious looking meal, Georgia seated herself at the table, pulling a copse of chairs to handle the mass of her backside. After all, over the past months, little weight had found itself seated in her chest; no, most of it had settled back in her gut and lower-half, making her pear shaped. Well, pear shaped if you were willing to exclude the obvious” Round” shape, most seemed keen to remind her she had. Back to the point, the food. Oh, the food. It all smelled so good. The smell of syrup and butter intertwined, rich and wafting up into her nose....Georgia couldn’t hold back anymore. She dipped into her meal like a rabid animal, taking a fork and turning three pancakes at a time into nothing more than skewers of sweet, delectable fluffy goodness. Her mouth found itself being stuffed full by pancake, washed down by sweet, gushing half-and-half milk, and then stuffed again by bacon, while the cycle repeated itself, over and over again. A sort of heated pattern emerged, with her switching between her foods, with pounds of it settling down in her stomach, swelling it even further against her lap and the tower. Every now and again, Georgia would lean back, adjusting her pants and shirt, as as they were letting out ominous groans and creaks, as more food settled around her belly. Her feast stretched onwards, with more of the food heading inwards. There were times where Georgia stepped away from almost all of it all-together; instead switching over to the cereals, and simply taking the bowls up to her lips--greedily slurping down their contents one after another. Time and time again, this cycle was repeated, her stomach groaning noisily too. Why did its owner insist on putting so much into it!? It screamed. Meanwhile a voice in the back of her head also did some screaming. Why didn’t she put more food into it!? Her breakfast disappeared at a steady, if not insane, rate, more of it being shoveled into her greedy, maw.

Nearly an hour later, she was still going when the two chairs she was sitting upon gave out.


It had barely registered for a moment. All the creaking and groaning from furniture was a sound Georgia had been forced to become well acquainted with. It wasn’t until she had fell, bacon in her mouth, as she came crashing down; fat flapping and falling around her as she landed with a shriek of her own helplessness.
---

So that was the story of Georgia. Feasting, and crashing down upon furniture. At the end of the day, when georgia went to bed, with a stomach bloated beyond all reasons, she had to wonder. How had it come to that? When had she gotten so fat? In the end, the voice in her head--the one that led her to eat and eat and eat, had decided that it didn’t matter. Just as long as she kept eating. She could live with that. After all. Those donuts by her bedside weren’t going to eat themselves....