Part XXXVI

He awoke in the dark hours of the morning to moonlight shining through his window, and gazed at the silvery smudge through the sheer curtains as his thoughts came into focus. He'd been dreaming, though he wasn't sure precisely about what, and a calm contentment enveloped him like a warm blanket. It didn't even budge when he realized his hands were softly kneading his belly, his shirt pulled up to his chest to grant access to his expansive torso. I can't do this anymore, the simple thought came. I can't let everyone else dictate how I feel and how I think. I can't let my fear control my happiness. He loved being fat. He loved the soft heaviness of his round body, jiggling in his hands. He loved the warm expanse of flesh that gushed out into his lap when he sat, loved feeling his belly bounce on the tops of his thighs when he walked. He loved his wideness, and the feeling of squeezing his ass into a space that was almost too small. And he loved to eat, loved to feel his stomach fill up and swell out in front of him. And he'd known it for a long time. But a lifetime of being told that he was wrong, disgusting, and shameful had built up a carapace of self-loathing so thick and black around his heart that he hadn't been able to see what lay at the center. He loved being fat.

The joyous wonder he felt at the simplicity of that acceptance gave way to sadness. He glanced at his phone, still dark and silent on the nightstand, knowing that dozens of messages from his parents awaited him when he decided to power it back on. Weak, echoes of the nasty voice replayed, pathetic, disgusting freak, eating yourself to death...we can't be seen with you like this...why can't you just be normal... Anger momentarily burned white-hot through the sadness, and he felt the full weight of every comment, every raised eyebrow, every scheduled doctor appointment, every withheld meal, every awful thing his parents had ever done to him in the name of his size, and he finally knew that the people who had brought him into this world were not capable of giving him the love and acceptance he'd so desperately craved from them.

And he mourned. He mourned the death of the hope he'd held fast to all these years, the hope that someday, somehow, his parents would be what he'd needed. He mourned the time he had lost hating the way he looked, hating himself for enjoying food, hating his supposed weakness for not being able to be "normal" like everyone else. He mourned the acceptance he'd wanted, the social ease he'd craved for so long. He mourned his hopes for love. He knew that accepting his desire to be fat effectively steamrolled the possibility of any of those things ever happening for him. But I can't go back, he thought. I can't go back to spending every waking second wishing I didn't exist because I can't be what everyone else wants me to be. I don't want to be what everyone else wants me to be. I just want to be what I am. And maybe...maybe more, too.

Not quite ready to confront the implications of that yet, he rose from the bed and stretched, relishing the feeling of the smooth, cool wood under his warm, bare feet. He flicked on the bedside lamp and fished a clean shirt, a pair of shorts, and a pair of boxers out of his bag and inched the bedroom door open. The hallway was dark and quiet as he padded softly down the hall to the bathroom. His last dose of Ling's full-strength medicine had been about ten hours ago, and he was finally feeling up to standing for a shower. While the tea had cleared his mind and calmed him immensely, it also knocked him out cold. Most of his last two days had been spent sleeping, and he was eager to feel clean again. So he retrieved a towel and turned the water to lukewarm - he hated hot showers - then peeled off his clothes and stepped into the tub.

He sighed happily, feeling the last traces of tension in his muscles dissipate as the temperate water rushed over his skin. He shampooed his hair and began soaping up his body, acutely aware of every jiggle. Grasping the gush of his belly to lift it up so he could wash underneath the thick roll, he felt that familiar warm tingle below it as he grew hard. So...this is more than just preferring being fat, he admitted silently. He squeezed his soft fat harder, then with two hands, and a small shudder shook his entire body as his fingers dug in. He let go with a small gasp, but the resulting bounce of his gut made him shudder again.

His parents had never had "the talk" with him, probably figuring that, as he was already close to 200 pounds at thirteen, he'd never need to know about sex. As a result, the process of taking care of his own needs had always been rushed, somewhat timid, and drenched in guilt. When he was younger his guilt was simple - "I don't know if this is an okay thing to be doing" - but as he grew older layers of complexity formed around his feelings. He started to realize that, no matter what he thought about when his hand was pumping away, the feeling of his belly jogging up and down, his love handles sliding from side to side, and his ass quivering all increased the intensity of the experience. Once he had experimentally grasped a roll of flab on his side during the act and exploded. His shame was so profound afterwards that he'd cried, and he'd made an unspoken pact with himself to never allow it to happen again.

He put all of it aside now and slid his right hand under the soft overhang of his belly again. Lifting slightly caused his blubber to ooze between his fingers, and his left hand automatically sought the epicenter of his arousal. Rhythmically kneading and jiggling the dough of his soft, slick belly brought him to the edge fast, and he bit his lip as he roughly grabbed the biggest handful of fat he could manage and orgasmed. Indigo waves crashed behind his eyelids as he gasped, the reverberations of energy so powerful he could barely remain upright. He forced his eyes open a few moments later after he started to sink down to sit but remembered there was no way his ass would fit in the tub, and pulled the shower curtain aside so he could plop on the edge to catch his breath. Well, he thought, that's...I guess that settles that.

His breathing soon returned to normal, though a pleasant tingling still coursed through his body, and he stood and finished his shower. Drying himself almost sent him over the edge again as his flesh shook beneath the towel, and he reasoned that he must now be so sensitive to these feelings because he'd been suppressing them for so long.

He managed to reign in his reactions enough that by the time he shaved and got dressed he was more focused on the empty feeling in his belly. The little silver clock over the door told him it was 3:32am, but hunger prevailed, so he deposited his dirty clothes back in the bedroom and snuck down the stairs as quietly as he could. A few minutes and some rummaging later, he found the stash of new groceries and a box of the chocolate peanut butter cakes he loved. After a moment's hesitation - surely they hadn't been purchased with the intent of allowing him to eat the entire box - he shrugged, telling himself he'd just go buy more to replace them, and grabbed the box. He carried it upstairs, crawled back into bed, settled the box on his belly, and proceeded to devour the delicious morsels one by one, sleep creeping closer with each bite.

A cool draft tickled his skin, and he felt the mattress sink down next to him. His eyes flew open and he looked around wildly, deep blue energy automatically pooling in his palms as he tried to place the scent in the air.

"Pudge! Pudge, it's only me!"

Fire, and rosemary.

His heart thudded in his throat as he reigned in his energy and his vision adjusted. A slight form was crawling into bed next to him.